1: I Should've Never Read That Damn Book

Emily's pov

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" I yelled, staring at the last page with my mouth hanging open.

"That's how it ends?" I asked the empty room. Nobody answered. My cold tea sat on the coffee table, a skin of milk wrinkling on top, and I glared at it too.

Zelda Graham, the sweet, innocent, poor girl who could apparently do no wrong, got her happy ending with Edward Bernard, the most oblivious man ever put on a page. She lied, she manipulated, she played the victim the second anyone questioned her, and everyone still treated her like an angel.

Kailani Vincent, the so-called villainess, ended up dead.

My hands were shaking. I snapped the book shut, then opened it again to check the last page one more time, as if the ending might have changed while I wasn't looking. It hadn't.

"Sure, let the lying little saint win and kill the only person with enough sense to be interesting," I muttered, smacking the book against my knee.

Kailani wasn't innocent. She was spoiled, sharp-tongued, and embarrassingly obsessed with Edward. But she was the only one in the whole book who said what she meant, and she was honest about being awful. Zelda smiled sweetly while she set fires, then cried when anyone noticed the smoke. And Edward couldn't spot a red flag if it hit him in the face.

Then Nikolai Bernard, Edward's older brother, wandered in near the end and killed Kailani because he blamed her for his younger sister's death. The book barely explained what had happened. I was supposed to call that satisfying.

"Three days. Three whole days of my life I'll never get back. For this?" I jabbed a finger at the cover, hard enough to bend my nail.

I grabbed my phone from the cushion and called Bianca.

"Emily? What's wrong?" Bianca answered, out of breath. "You sound like the building's on fire."

"You set my brain on fire," I said, sitting up straight. "What kind of book did you give me? Why did I agree to read it?"

Bianca laughed. I pressed my free hand to my forehead.

"Don't laugh," I snapped. "I'm suffering."

"You're being dramatic," she said, and I could hear her grin. "You said you'd read it, and you did. I wanted us to talk about something besides work, bills, and how much we hate our jobs."

"We could've talked about anything," I said, dropping my hand into my lap. "The weather. Bad coffee. People who stand in doorways."

"The book is popular for a reason," Bianca said, in the patient voice she used when I was being unreasonable. "The author is a number one bestseller in New York. It's sold out almost everywhere. Do you know how hard it was to get two copies? I practically had to fight for them."

"So you fought for two copies of a terrible book and decided I should suffer with you?" I asked, flopping back against the cushions.

"I thought you'd enjoy it!" she protested.

"Bianca, the heroine is a professional liar, the male lead has the survival instincts of a spoon, and the villainess gets killed by a man who shows up late like he's delivering a package. What's enjoyable about that?" I counted each point off on my fingers, as if she could see me.

"You're proving my point," she said. "We finally have something to argue about that isn't work."

Annoyingly, she had a point. We'd barely seen each other lately. Our schedules clashed, and every conversation had shrunk to a rushed call between meetings and commutes. Last month she'd cancelled on me twice, and I'd said it was fine both times, then eaten dinner standing at the counter. Still, that didn't give her the right to hand me literary garbage and expect a thank-you.

"You owe me a coffee," I said, pointing at the phone. "A large one."

"Fine," Bianca said at once. "Our usual café, in an hour?"

"You're paying," I said, narrowing my eyes.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said. "I'm paying."

"And something sweet. I need compensation," I added.

"Fine. Bring the book, too," she said. "I want every complaint in person."

"Oh, you'll get them. Prepare yourself," I warned, and hung up before she could answer.

I tossed the phone onto the cushion and sat there a second, grinning at the ceiling. She had probably already ordered the cake.

Our usual café was a small place tucked along a busy street, where the coffee was good and the staff knew us well enough not to ask questions when I looked ready to fight the world.

I showered, then pulled on jeans and a pink top and brushed my long black hair into a ponytail, yanking the brush through the knots harder than I needed to. The book went into my tote bag with my purse, keys, and lip balm. I zipped the bag shut over it and gave it a little pat, like it might behave better in there.

"Coffee, cake, and a public trial for Zelda Graham," I told the cover. "Perfect afternoon."

My phone buzzed with a text from Bianca. *Already here. Already ordered your cake. Don't be mad.* I snorted and typed back one word. *Late.*

The bus was packed. I wedged myself against a pole, the tote clutched to my chest, and rehearsed my complaints under my breath until the woman beside me shifted away and pretended to read her phone. I didn't care. Chapter nineteen alone deserved ten minutes. By the time we reached my stop, I'd worked myself up so much that my ears felt hot.

The bus dropped me at the junction near the café. I stepped onto the pavement, hitching the tote higher on my shoulder, and slid my phone into my bag. Traffic rumbled past. Somewhere nearby, a street vendor was frying onions, and my stomach growled loudly.

Then a horn blared.

My head snapped toward the sound.

A small boy stood in the middle of the road, frozen between lanes. He couldn't have been more than six. A truck was barreling toward him, the driver hammering the horn, and the boy just stared at it, his chin trembling, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Hey!" someone shouted from the pavement.

Brakes screeched, but the truck wasn't slowing fast enough.

My tote slid off my shoulder. I didn't notice.

"Move!" I screamed, already running.

The boy's eyes found mine. His sneakers shuffled against the asphalt, but he didn't go anywhere. My lungs were burning by the time I reached him, and the horn was so loud it rattled in my teeth. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the pavement with everything I had.

He stumbled clear and landed hard on his hands, scraping both palms.

Then the truck hit me.

Pain tore through my body. The ground slammed into my back, and the tote burst open, sending my phone, keys, and purse skidding across the road. My head cracked against the curb. I opened my mouth to breathe and nothing came in. Warm wetness crept down my neck. My fingers twitched against the asphalt, searching for something to hold.

Voices drifted in from far off, shouting, someone screaming for an ambulance, all of it muffled like I was underwater. A woman was sobbing, and I wanted to tell her the kid was fine, but my tongue wouldn't move. *Bianca's going to kill me,* I thought, stupidly. *I'm going to be late.*

Above me, the book spun through the air, its pages flapping. It turned once, twice, and dropped. The cover clipped my cheek before it landed open across my face, the words blurring.

The last thing I saw was that final page, pressed against my skin.

Then everything went black.