Chapter 4 Kat
KAT
“No,” I huff as I face off with my brother, “we are not adding Amelia to the list of possible suspects. She makes me muffins and—”
“She’s weird…and she makes all those comments.”
“What comments?” Roan and Tom say in unison as I glare at Colt.
“Or what about that other lady, Dahlia something?” Colt continues like no one else has spoken.
He’s seriously dead to me after this. It’s invasive and uncomfortable and I hate feeling like I’m under a microscope. He already added my ex—his former teammate, Brock Trace—to the list even though I haven’t spoken to Brock in forever.
“Dahlia Anderson is an author that was kind of like a mentor when I started writing. We had a falling-out, I guess, but that was years ago.”
“We’ll look into it,” Tom says smoothly. “What about Amelia?”
“I have a friend, Hazel, that also writes children’s books—”
“Is that her real name or her pen name?” Tom asks, his face the same serious mask that he’s worn since he walked into the kitchen. It’s intimidating.
And sexy.
And I hate that my body responds to the latter.
Squeezing my eyelids shut, I rub my fingertips back and forth across my forehead to ease the tension building there. “Her name is Hazel Drake, and she doesn’t use a pen name. Her aunt is her assistant—Amelia—but I’m telling you she’s not the one we’re looking for.”
“Any issues between you and Hazel? I apologize that I’m not familiar with the nuances of publishing children’s books.”
From anyone else, the question would probably come across as patronizing, but from Tom, it’s honest curiosity and I’m thankful for that.
“Like is there a rivalry between us? No. We met at a conference about five years ago and clicked right away. She lives pretty close so we became friends. Her sister did her illustrations, but she passed away in a car accident six months ago.”
“Does Hazel or her family know you write under the name Sloane Daniels?”
“No. Only the four of us in this room and Bailey Crane. She narrates almost all my Sloane books.”
“What?” Colt barks but I ignore him.
“I am allowed to have one friend that knows who I am.” My voice is louder than I anticipate, and both Colt’s and Roan’s eyes widen at my outburst.
But Tom’s gaze is steady as it holds mine.
Reassuring.
It’s like he knows what I need.
That shouldn’t be sexy—I mean hell, I just met the man—but I can’t help the little shiver that races over my skin as he speaks.
“I don’t disagree,” he says, ignoring my brother as Colt paces across the room.
“Does anyone else know you as Sloane Daniels?” I open my mouth to argue, but he just holds up a hand.
“I need you to think about it. Anyone in passing, anyone that could have overheard you having a conversation at all? Think about it, and we can circle back later.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about the events that happened that led you to push your next book release back,” Tom says as my gaze slides to Roan. I have no idea why I need his permission, but I’m thankful when he nods. My brother is all but fuming now as he watches from the other side of the room.
“Things started normally enough, I guess—social media drama, of course, and then there was review bombing—”
“What’s that?” Instead of feeling defensive by Tom’s interruption, I feel myself start to relax.
He’s here to help.
He’s going to figure this out.
“It’s when people flock to a book that’s usually not out yet, or when something happens after the release with the author, groups of readers will rate the book with one star or report it.
It’s incredibly difficult to come back from that.
Your normal hype on release day usually isn’t enough to salvage the damage done. ”
“How did you combat it?”
“I have a very loyal readership,” I tell him with a soft smile, my heart ballooning in my chest. “They’re hungry for what’s next, and they give me the strength to keep going. With success comes the ugliness of any industry, but I wasn’t expecting it, you know?”
Tom nods, his forearm flexing as he leans against the tabletop. “What else?”
“The escalated bullying on social media led me to hire an assistant, but she doesn’t know my name. We strictly communicate through email.”
“Do you talk to anyone on the phone? Does anyone have your personal cell phone?”
“No, just Bailey. My editor and I communicate through email or comments in whatever project I’m working on. If I get stuck, I talk it out with Bailey, or sometimes Roan.”
“What?” Colt asks, surprise and a fair amount of hurt painted across his face.
“I pay him to put up with me,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood. Roan snorts and a ghost of a smile crosses Tom’s lips.
“I’m going to make a phone call. Why don’t you go pack your stuff and we’ll head to your house. Hopefully I’ll have more information, and we can start putting a plan into place.”
Dipping my head at Tom, I skirt around the table and make my way up the stairs. I can hear Colt call my name, but I need a minute.
A lot of minutes.
How long am I going to do this?
The question is one I’ve asked myself nonstop over the last year—the constant worry that I’m sacrificing my health for a book.
Several books.
My eyelids flutter shut as a wave of emotion threatens to overwhelm me, and single tear escapes from the corner of my eye and slides down my cheek.
I’ve worked so hard for my success. I crave the comments and messages from readers that offer a play-by-play of their reading experience. They are the ones that make the isolation bearable. Because when I’m Sloane Daniels, the only connections I can have are the ones that barely break the surface.
But is this life worth it if I can’t be me at all?
Colt never asked me to hide my identity when I told him I wanted to branch out with my writing.
He was supportive, but I’d heard enough chatter when he first got signed about how important his golden-boy image was for his career.
And they were right because years later, he’s still the boy next door with a huge smile and bigger heart.
He’d avoided scandals and public heartbreak, all of it.
And I won’t be the one to tarnish it.
But how will I ever be able to balance this?
I don’t want to give this up.
I don’t want to make myself less.
I don’t want to let this person win.
But maybe, I don’t have a choice.