Chapter 2
Still Thursday morning, but make it jetlaggy.
San Diego, baby!
The California heat hit Emma the moment she stepped out of the airport. Not suffocating or sticky, just warm and bright, salted with ocean air.
The pickup zone pulsed with excitement, full of travelers in Marvel tees, Funko Pop! keychains dangling from their backpacks. Emma tugged her wheeled carry-on behind her, squinting against the sunlight like someone who hadn’t slept much—because she hadn’t—and climbed into the nearest cab.
“The US Grant, please,” she said, voice still rough from the flight.
The driver nodded and merged into traffic.
Emma took her phone out of airplane mode and checked her email. The work one first, the one that still tethered her to her life as a financial controller at Twin City Industrial Components. Very sexy. Former family business, sold off a few years ago, and now in perpetual financial crisis.
That inbox would soon overflow with complex questions about budget performance and inventory valuation. She braced herself, but there were no disasters so far.
That didn’t say much—it was still early in Minneapolis.
She let out a breath, shoulders easing, and opened her other email, her writing one. The one that contained nice things like book signings, and fan mail, and . . .
An email from her publisher.
Her stomach dropped when she saw the subject line. She’d known it would come. She’d just . . . hoped for later.
From: Miranda Henson
Subject: Book 2 progress check-in
Hi Emma,
I know you’re at SDCC, but just checking in on those new chapters for the sequel you promised by the end of last week. Everyone’s dying to see what happens next with Lucen and Catlyn. No pressure (except, well, a little). Let me know if you need anything!
Miranda
Emma sighed. She’d lost count of the times Miranda had emphasized that right now, she had momentum and needed to build on it.
The “otherwise” was always unspoken, but she felt it lurking at the edges. If book two didn’t materialize soon, all that heat around her name could cool down fast.
She had a sinking suspicion that the real reason Miranda had pushed to get her to Comic-Con—with her PR manager in tow, no less—was to keep that spark alive a little longer. To buy her time she wasn’t sure she’d earned.
She closed the email, marking it unread. At least the tone was still light and friendly.
It wasn’t like her to fall behind, whether in her day job or on her writing deadlines. But lately, the cursor kept mocking her on the empty page. Even when she tried forcing herself through, the words came out flat, trite, cliché.
Her synopsis was done, every turn for Catlyn and Lucen mapped out. So why wouldn’t the damn magic just unfold?
Well, it would have to wait a bit longer.
She exhaled and turned her head to the window, watching the city slide by. Glass buildings, palm trees, and wherever she looked, Comic-Con had swallowed the city whole.
Banners stretched across intersections and every single billboard promoted film trailers or upcoming events. Even the cab driver had a Deadpool bobblehead stuck to his dashboard.
Outside a 7-Eleven, a haphazard group of cosplayers sipped their morning coffee: a Sailor Moon, a Wednesday Addams, and the Predator, his helmet tucked under his arm.
Emma couldn’t help it—a silly grin spread over her face.
She was really there.
And the realization hit like a jolt of electricity—so was he.
She instinctively opened Instagram, and there it was again: a fan edit of Darren Cole as Lucen. She’d first seen it last week, less than an hour after the announcement that The Bonds of Light was officially in development at Netflix.
The limited series deal was so fresh that the ink had barely dried, including Emma’s shiny new executive producer title Leah had all but bullied her into demanding.
Nothing was greenlit yet, but still. If all went well, her story might actually be brought to the screen. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
This version of the edit had new audio: a low, haunting cello riff laid over slow-motion footage of Darren turning, shadows catching on his jaw like they worshipped him.
The text overlay read Lucen’s unofficial tagline: He is the villain. He is the love story.
Emma swallowed.
She recognized the clip. It was from Midnight Dominion, Darren’s early breakout role as Sebastian Vale—the cunning, exiled prince of a gothic fantasy kingdom.
The role had turned him into a YA icon and had made Emma swoon through countless late-night study breaks back in her tiny dorm room.
It had also earned him a famously unhinged fandom—the Coleheads—who loudly campaigned for him to play every dark, alluring villain that ever came close to a screen.
Including Lucen.
Emma let the loop play again, feeling pleasantly dazed.
It wasn’t just his appearance, though he looked like he’d been designed by an overzealous god. Beyond his looks, it was the way he moved that got her. All coiled danger and casual grace.
And those eyes . . .
Uncannily close to what she’d written. What she’d imagined. What had kept her going those nights when every sentence fought her and she nearly set the script on fire.
She tapped through to the comments, stifling a chuckle at the screaming all-caps hysteria.
just GIVE HIM THE ROLE ALREADY
@netflix make this happen or we’re coming for you WE ARE LEGION
emma whitehart sweetie i know u based lucen on him don’t lie
The phone buzzed in her hand with a message from Leah. Her PR manager was already here, flown in from New York the day before.
Lobby’s full of influencer wannabes. About to whack someone with their own selfie stick. Come find me. Also, we got upgraded, don’t freak.
Emma gave a low huff. Upgraded? They were already staying at the most exclusive hotel she’d ever set foot in. She’d have been happy with a shoebox, let alone the comfortable double they had booked. But this was Leah—and Leah had her ways.
The ways of a bulldozer on steroids, essentially, but with flair and designer sunglasses.
The cab pulled up in front of the US Grant. It was a massive, humbling structure, all gilded accents and towering columns. A bellhop opened the door for her as soon as the car rolled to a stop.
“I’ll take it,” she said quickly when he retrieved her carry-on from the trunk. Probably breaking at least three unspoken luxury hotel rules in the process, but she preferred it this way. Doing things herself was usually neater.
Emma stepped inside, glancing up. The lobby stretched like a football field—if football fields had coffered ceilings and crystal chandeliers.
Despite its size, the place bustled like a human jungle: noise, bodies, and an impressive number of people in costume.
Blazer-clad travelers scowled at a pair of kids dressed as Loki and Thor, who were loudly chasing each other between the pillars.
An agitated Rapunzel was scolding a patient-looking hotel clerk.
A Darth Vader apologized politely as he shoulder-checked her.
Emma stumbled through the chaos, luggage trailing behind her, feeling lost and lightheaded.
And then she saw Leah.
She was leaning against the check-in desk as if she owned the building, her thick auburn hair swept into a sleek ponytail. The tight one-shoulder top she wore lent her the aura of a modern Greek goddess.
Emma’s face lit up, her steps growing lighter as she crossed the last stretch.
Leah had a rare, mysterious talent for making everything feel like it was probably going to be fine. Like if the world tipped sideways, she’d bark it back into place with a well-placed glare and a killer outfit.
She turned as Emma approached, spreading her arms like a circus ringmaster, an iced coffee in each hand.
“There she is. Welcome to Comic-Con, Whitehart.”