Chapter 3

I used to get thousands of private messages through my author account every day. Most of them I couldn't be bothered to read.

Sloan's was different.

She wrote, [Your writing style is exactly like Midnight Ember's.]

What she didn't know was that I was Midnight Ember.

Later, she told me she was the CEO of Starlight Media. She complained that the licensing fees for Midnight Ember's work were ridiculously expensive, then asked whether I'd consider selling the screen rights to the stories on my new account.

That was how we ended up exchanging contact information.

Online and offline, I was practically two different people.

Online, I could joke about anything and always had a comeback ready. Sloan said that after a long day at work, talking to me for a few minutes was enough to help her unwind.

And around her, I was happy to let that side of myself loose.

Eventually, she bought the rights to one of my short stories and invited me to help adapt the screenplay.

That was the first time we met in person.

She spent ages laughing at how red my ears had turned.

"How are you so different from the guy I talk to online? You're so shy you can barely speak above a whisper. It's kind of cute, though."

I'd had social anxiety since I was a kid, but somehow, being around her never exhausted me.

On my twenty-seventh birthday, she told me she was in love with me.

When I agreed to date her, Adrian immediately poured cold water on the idea.

"A woman from a family like Sloan's needs a husband who can work a room. You can't even answer the door for a food delivery. You really think you can handle her world?"

I refused to believe I couldn't.

I signed up for public-speaking classes. I forced myself to attend small book signings. I practiced making toasts in front of the mirror hundreds of times.

I forced myself apart and rebuilt myself piece by piece until I could finally squeeze into her world.

And then she turned around and took someone else's hand.

Flynn's laughter drifted in through the window.

I glanced outside.

Sloan had clearly managed to cheer him up. She was walking toward the garage with her arm linked through his, probably taking him shopping.

I looked away and opened my email.

An application to a prestigious writing program in Europe had been sitting in my drafts for six months.

I clicked Send.

The comments appeared again.

[What's he typing now? Is that all in English?]

[He's definitely plotting something. No way he's given up.]

I couldn't be bothered with comments that did nothing but make wild guesses.

I closed my email and opened the manuscript for Dark River.

Three chapters left.

I placed my fingers on the keyboard and started typing.

Two days before the party celebrating my return to the Davidson family, Flynn knocked on my bedroom door.

He held out a suit covered in rhinestones and sequins, in a shade of pink bright enough to hurt my eyes.

The fabric was clearly expensive, and I had no doubt the suit had cost a fortune.

But it couldn't have been further from the simple, understated clothes I normally wore. On me, it would look ridiculous.

I didn't take it.

"I already have something to wear."

I'd told them from the beginning that I didn't want a party to formally introduce me as the Davidsons' biological son, but they'd insisted.

Flynn's eyes reddened again.

"You don't like it, Cullen? I just wanted everyone to see how much the Davidson family values you."

From the couch, Dad slammed down the magazine he'd been reading.

"Flynn skipped a prep meeting for that major literary award just to pick out this suit for you. I don't care whether you like it. You're wearing it. He chose it for you."

I glanced at Flynn.

He wrote web fiction too, and he was fairly well-known.

I'd read a few of his books before. They were mediocre at best, nowhere near good enough to justify his popularity.

Then, at some point, the quality of his work had suddenly improved.

The strange thing was, his writing style had changed several times along the way.

It didn't read as though the same person had written all of it.

I said nothing.

I took the suit and nodded.

Then I turned around and messaged Adrian.

[Get me something to wear to the Davidson party.]

On the day of the party, I crouched outside the hotel entrance with one hand pressed to my stomach, my face pale.

"My stomach hurts. You guys go in. I'll join you once it settles down."

Dad muttered something about me always being a problem before heading inside with Mom, Flynn, and Sloan.

The second they disappeared, I straightened up.

The suit Adrian had arranged to have delivered that morning was waiting in the car.

It was a custom-made charcoal-gray tuxedo, a one-of-a-kind piece worn on the Cannes red carpet the year before by award-winning actor Julian Cross. Silver night-blooming flowers were embroidered around the waist, and the tuxedo had come directly from the actor's private collection.

I changed and walked into the ballroom.

Every conversation in the room seemed to stop at once.

Sloan stood beside the head table, her champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips.

Flynn's fingers tightened around his glass until his knuckles turned white.

Someone nearby recognized the tuxedo and murmured in astonishment,

"Isn't that Dominic Lewis's custom tuxedo? That was a one-of-a-kind piece. You couldn't buy it even if you had the money."