Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ember
The high from today’s photoshoot still hums through me. My arms ache from holding my equipment, my knees from crouching for the perfect angles. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and the California sun left my skin warm and tight. I’m probably going to be sore tomorrow, but it’s worth it.
There’s nothing like nailing the perfect shot to remind me why I do this—why I’ve fought so hard to build something that’s mine. It’s the only time I’m untouchable.
And tonight? I’ve got a delicious book waiting for me. I need it after today.
“Hey, Ember!” I look up to see Victoria, one of the other photographers, hurrying across the parking lot with my phone in her hand. “You forgot this!”
“Oh god, thanks!” I take it from her with a grateful smile, though my stomach knots. The phone buzzes in my palm like a live wire.
No one in my real life knows about my side gig.
She hesitates. “Uh… you might want to check it. Your phone’s been buzzing nonstop. You’ve got fans or something?”
Crap. I keep my work and my personal life separate for a reason, and the thought of someone stumbling across the latter? It’s enough to make me sweat.
I laugh it off. “Oh, probably just a group chat exploding. You know how it is.”
“I do. Later!” She grins, waves, and jogs off to her car. Innocent as hell.
I sigh, tucking my phone into my back pocket as I head to my car.
I toss my camera bag onto the passenger seat and glance at my hands.
The scabs on my knuckles from last week’s shoot have just started to heal.
It had been a gritty urban portrait session with a graffiti artist, and I’d spent half the day gripping the sharp edges of scaffolding for the perfect rooftop shot.
It’s worth it though. Every bruise, every ache, every risk. Being a freelance photographer is unpredictable, feast-or-famine, but I love it. I love telling stories with my camera, crafting something permanent out of fleeting moments.
This is what I control, what I can really and truly lean into.
The influencer work? That’s another story. For some reason, that’s taken off, so I’m fully planning on making hay while the sun shines because who knows how long this will last.
I’ve somehow landed myself a super fan, and I can’t get him out of my mind, no matter how hard I try.
I toss my duffel on the passenger seat of my car and peel off my gloves, trying not to wince at the new scrape across my knuckles. How’d I even get that one?
I glance at my phone.
I give myself the brief luxury of scrolling through notifications and reading comments. It’s fun, an escape from reality into the safe bubble of my book world where book boyfriends can do no wrong. Or, no wrong we can’t forgive easily, knowing there’s a happy ending coming.
Sigh.
When I get home, the apartment is quiet, just the way I like it after a day full of coordinated chaos. I kick off my boots, head to the kitchen, and pop open a cold one, already thinking about the video I’ll post tonight.
I kinda wish I had a sweet little fluffy pup to greet me at the door, but my hours are too unpredictable, and if I’m honest—I’m too unpredictable and not ready for the responsibility of another living being to care for.
Doesn’t mean I don’t have a whole folder of puppy videos saved to smile at when I’m stressed. It’s just not time.
I’ve survived too much—no. I won’t let my mind go there. I read romance for a reason, to remember there’s softness in the world. After hours, I step into that role, not to forget, but to reclaim what was taken.
To dream a little.
Sliding onto the couch, I pull my laptop closer and start scrolling for inspiration.
Victoria wasn’t kidding. The notifications are on fire, and it isn’t just the comments and likes on my posts. I have to disable those so I can save my battery during a shoot, but I still get private messages.
Tonight, my timeline is full of familiar faces—friends.
Other girls like me who’ve mastered the art of blending their real lives with their fictional fantasies.
We collectively drool over all of them—mafia men, billionaire bodyguards, forbidden romances, sexy vampires. And then something catches my eye.
I’ve got twenty private messages, and they’re all my friends sending me the video. The guy from last night.
I wondered if my messages scared him off. I had a little fun telling him posers like him were a dime a dozen.
But no.
The thumbnail alone catches my attention: this time, he’s wearing a mask, and his eyes meet mine on-screen. He’s stroking a gun like it’s his personal talisman. I swallow hard. There’s something… sensual about it. It breaks the rules of social media, and he’ll be banned for it… eventually.
He lifts his mask just enough to smirk and stroke his chin. The stubble along his jaw promises a delicious scrape, and the smirk? Not just cocky—it’s predatory, like he’s already imagined exactly what he’d do to you if you got too close.
But something about him seems… dangerous.
Too dangerous.
My finger hovers over the play button.
What can it hurt?
I press it.
The video is quick. Like last night, just a few seconds of him adjusting his jacket to show the weapon. Then the caption appears.
You’ve been a bad girl, @dreammafiaqueen.
My breath catches. Somehow, my body’s decided it’s both a thrill and a threat.
Is this a joke?
My stomach twists. The profile name is simple, generic, but it’s the implication that has my heart racing. Does he know me? No. He couldn’t.
I post a comment.
Dreammafiaqueen
This is so staged it isn’t even funny, girls. Let’s stick with the book boyfriends.
Still, my finger trembles as I scroll to his profile. There’s nothing else posted. Just two videos, and somehow, it already has thousands of likes. The comments are a mess of thirsty replies.
Marry me!
Daddy vibes, omg!
Where do I sign up to be kidnapped? Asking for a friend.
Weird way to propose, but I accept.
I swallow hard, my drink forgotten on the table.
Who is this guy?
Is he mocking me?
I’ve had trolls before. It comes with the territory, but this feels different.
My brain tells me it’s probably just some douche trying to cash in on the latest craze.
Plenty of guys do it. They slap on a leather jacket, pull on a mask, post a thirst trap, and suddenly they’re the fantasy du jour and raking it in, especially the guys with the manly voices.
Jesus, some of them are probably still in high school, and yet here we are.
But my gut says this one… this one is different.
Something about his muscles, the way he handles his weapons…seems different. Something about the way he moves, the comfortable look of him with the gun—it feels real.
I laugh to myself for even entertaining the thought that any of these men are any more real than the last, but it’s shaky, the kind of laugh that betrays how tightly wound I am.
I take another sip of my beer and tell myself this is absurd—but some part of me, the part that revels in fantasy and happy endings—wonders.
I have to keep in mind there’s a difference between fantasy and reality, and there’s no reason whatsoever to believe this guy is legit.
I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in this stuff.
Not really. Sure, I love the stories, the tension, the escape they bring, but I know better than to think men like this actually exist. Men like this don’t stalk women online.
They don’t care enough to play games. They’re too… busy… doing… illegal things.
Right?
My phone buzzes, breaking the spell. I glance at the screen. It’s a DM from one of my friends, Bookbabe, who always seems to catch everything before I do.
Bookbabe
Girl. This guy tagged you. He’s insane.
Yeah. What the hell?
Bookbabe
Are you freaking out? Because I’m freaking out FOR you. What if he’s legit? Do you think he’s real??
I pause, staring at her question.
Do I think he’s real?
The videos replay in my head, and I realize I don’t have an answer. Of course he’s real. There’s no telltale watery abs that indicate AI, no whispery hint of a fake. But I know what she means.
Be careful what you wish for.
I open his profile again, my heart in my throat as I watch his follower count climb like a silent army.
Thousands of strangers are seeing my name next to his threat, and every second that passes makes it feel more…
real. My name, dreammafiaqueen, is still in the caption like a goddamn beacon, drawing even more attention.
I note that his likes are all public, and every one of them are all my videos.
And even as his follower numbers soar, who he follows remains…one.
Me.
My chest tightens, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in.
There’s only one way to find out if this is a joke.
I click the message button, and my thumbs hover over the keyboard.
For a moment, I hesitate. My rational brain screams at me to close the app, to forget his smirk and the promise in his words.
But the part of me that craves excitement and the attention of a man just like him—the part that reads the books I do—whispers, just one more message. It’s fiction. It’s harmless.
I type the words before I can stop myself.
But before I can hit send, the app pings with another tag. My breath stalls as another video fills the screen.
No. This can’t be happening.
Oh my god. It’s him again, but this time, there’s no leather jacket, nothing but his bare chest, and what a bare chest it is.
Unlike the other men who cover shit up with leather jackets or hoodies, he’s ripped.
Strong, powerful hands anchored on his hips, jeans just low enough to show the hint of dark hair.
My mouth is dry. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. The other videos hinted at how built he was, but…
I choke on a strangled scream as comment after comment pours in.
Do you need a baby mama? Do we need to keep your line of DNA open for the sake of populating the earth? I’m single.