Chapter 19 #2
My stomach twisted at the idea of Jeremy and Otis.
Jeremy was sweet, kind, a little goofy. He wore tweed like he was pushing fifty, but his reddish-blond hair and slightly pink cheeks gave him the vibe of a shy poet.
A literary professor in the making. Otis would eat him for breakfast. And the thought of Otis getting involved with a competitor? That bugged me.
Then I noticed something else.
Cosplay.
Not a lot—but enough to make me do a double take. In between the press and the fangirls stood people who looked like…my Captain Caruso. The way I’d described her in the first chapter Haller & Mark had posted online just a week ago. Her long black braid. The gold-and-leather armor. The scar.
She was exactly how I imagined her.
A small group had gathered toward the back—mostly teenage girls, but a few guys in duct-tape corsets too. My heart slammed in my chest. I raised a tentative hand and waved to the nearest one. She saw me. Waved back excitedly. Started talking to the others.
This was...beyond anything I’d ever imagined.
A flash of cameras blurred my vision as a tall blonde in oversized sunglasses strolled through the rows and took the seat clearly reserved for her. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t focus—my heart was still with the Captain Carusos in the back.
“Where’s Elaine?” I asked Charlene, leaning across the chair between us.
“Enjoying the spotlight,” Charlene said, nodding toward the entry doors—where the press had completely cornered John. Elaine had pushed herself right beside him, sparkling in a silver dress that made me instantly feel underdressed.
My leg bounced like I’d downed party drugs.
Then the room erupted. Cameras flashed wildly as John entered the conference room. I mean, Elvis has re-entered the building level of chaos.
He strode past the podium like he wasn’t an anxious mess inside. Like this was easy.
I winced as the camera lenses that had been trained on him suddenly turned to me. Smile and wave, Nora, I reminded myself. Just smile and wave.
After a brief welcome, we were shown a pre-recorded message from Lew Elliot himself, apologizing for not attending in person and expressing his pride in the new generation of writers.
My throat tightened. I wished—God, I wished—Dad could have seen this.
I felt both disappointed and relieved not to be meeting Lew Elliot tonight.
Then it was time for our statements.
Elaine’s sounded like a Miss Canada acceptance speech.
John’s was full of suave smiles and easy charm—his press-face firmly in place.
Mine was rushed and rehearsed. I rambled.
But the Caruso cosplay crew clapped wildly when I finished.
That helped. Even so, I felt dizzy and parched by the time I sat down.
And for the first time, it hit me: this wouldn’t be the last event. There’d be more. In different cities. With different press. Lew Elliot’s story had stretched across decades and touched millions of fans. This really was a big-ass deal.
If I made it to the next round, I’d have to suck it up.
Dad would be so proud, I told myself. Over and over.
A hand pressed down on my bouncing knee, stilling it. I followed the fingers up to their owner—John. He leaned over, whispering in my ear:
“Just imagine them all naked.”
“You trying to calm my nerves or make me horny?” I blurted, before I could stop myself.
He chuckled behind his hand. One of those rare, unrehearsed smiles.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, the fact that he noticed I was nervous—and cared enough to say something—meant more than it should have.
Even with all eyes in the room on him, he still had the bandwidth to see me.
Another flash hit my face.
I slipped my hand beneath the table and clasped his. Holding onto something—even if it was him—was better than losing my shit on camera.
His fingers threaded between mine.
I had no idea how we’d gone from not being able to be in the same room to secretly holding hands under a conference table. I still hated him, of course. Obviously. But it was…disorienting.
“And now,” Charlene said into the mic, “I have the honor of announcing our top three contestants.”
Applause echoed through the room. I straightened in my chair, barely balanced on the edge of my seat.
John’s thumb brushed over the back of my hand, and a bolt of heat shot up my arm.
I knew I wasn’t at the bottom when it came to social media numbers. But that was only half the vote. What if Charlene had told the board I wasn’t a team player? What if she’d said I was a weird recluse? She wouldn’t be wrong.
“The first contestant to make it to the next round…” Charlene smiled, drawing it out, “is Elaine Doffaue. Let’s give her a little applause.”
A chorus of cheers exploded from the front rows—mostly teens holding up their phones, likely livestreaming to the entirety of Elaine’s Army on TikTok. Elaine stood (of course she did) and waved to them like a beauty pageant winner.
I should’ve clapped. But I couldn’t let go of John’s hand. Not yet.
“The second spot goes to… not one, but two writers.”
I must have misheard.
“Jeremy Parson and May Short.”
“What?” The word slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. Several people turned to stare.
A microphone squealed as Jeremy tapped it.
“May and I...” he began, and she patted his arm supportively, “...have decided to co-author.”
A collective ripple of surprise moved through the room.
“Our stories were nearly identical,” he went on, “and we realized we’re stronger together. So from here on, we’ll compete as one.”
Wait—what?
That meant their social media numbers were combined. That meant… oh no.
“Is that allowed?” I asked under my breath. But Charlene heard me.
“There are no rules against it,” she said smoothly, turning just enough for everyone to hear.
My breath came in shallow little puffs. Someone whistled in the back—Otis. Of course. Jeremy blushed crimson and beamed like a schoolboy.
“That leaves us with our last spot.”
Now it was just me and John.
My heart plummeted to somewhere deep in the Mariana Trench.
There was no way. No way in hell I’d beat him. This was it. Game over.
Numbness crept up my limbs. I felt like I was floating. I tried to pull my hand back, but his fingers tightened around mine.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered, leaning in.
He was entirely too relaxed for someone moments away from an announcement that could change his life—but why wouldn’t he be? Everyone knew he had this in the bag.
I exhaled slowly. Controlled. Focused on a random scratch on the table in front of me. I couldn’t look at Otis, couldn’t look at the crowd. I didn’t want to see their faces when I disappointed them.
Charlene’s voice rang out:
“The third person—or party—to enter the competition is…”