Chapter 7

• Isabella.
• I don’t know what was in that tea Sienna gave me, but I slept like I didn’t have emotional baggage strapped to my back.
• Still, the moment I woke up, my brain did what it always did; file through everything I hadn’t done, everyone I’d disappointed, and every petty insult Nadia ever threw like it was her full-time job. But I shook it off this time. Mostly. Today, I wanted to write.
• That was the promise I made to myself when I came to Willow Creek. New town, new life, new projects. Even if they were the kind that never saw the light of a publisher’s desk again.
• I pulled my hair into a loose bun and padded barefoot across my creaky floorboards to the tiny kitchen. The whole place still smelled like wood and lemon oil. I brewed coffee and sat cross-legged on the couch with my laptop warming my thighs.
• The cursor blinked on the blank document.
• I stared at it like it for a long while.
• Come on, Isabella. You survived a public meltdown, national humiliation, and a father who wouldn’t know loyalty if it served itself with a silver spoon. You can string a few sentences together.
• I started typing.
• He stood just outside the light like a figure made of shadow. His eyes unraveled her from the inside out. He didn’t move. Neither did she. Breathless. Timeless. Like if one of them spoke, the world would shatter.
• It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. I kept going.
• It was strange how naturally Noah had slipped into my fictional universe. He was now a permanent resident of my mental cast. I didn’t even know the man like that, but something about him made me want to write again. It was like he’d nudged something loose inside me that I hadn’t realized was jammed shut.
• I took a sip of coffee and typed faster.
• She knew he was dangerous the way you know thunder follows lightning. Instinctively. Inevitably. And still, she stepped closer, daring the storm to claim her.
• Cheesy? Maybe. But also kind of hot. I could live with that.
• For hours, I got lost in the rhythm of typing and deleting, of imagining and twisting the tension between two people who were clearly doomed but couldn’t stay away. My words came out smoother now and less self-conscious.
• Until I opened the wrong folder. Or maybe the right one. I hadn’t touched it since the day I left.
• The Original Manuscript.
• It was still titled “Breathless Nights”.
• I clicked the file and there it was.
• The story I’d spent a year writing. I’d poured all my life into writinwhile working night shifts at that horrible bookstore. I remembered staying up till 3 a.m., rewrites and coffee-stained drafts, sending it off to that publisher with trembling fingers and enough hope.
• And then the real twist happened.
• Flashback.
• There was a red carpet with a whole lot of flashbulbs. Nadia was in a slinky white dress like some kind of ghost bride. She stood in front of the cameras with a smug smile like she’d cured cancer instead of robbing her own sister blind.
• “My latest novel, Breathless Nights, is a very personal project,” she purred, tossing her hair.
• The screen behind her flashed a digital image of my cover design. My exact words in the blurb. My world.
• And my name was gone.
• I remember watching that live while holding a mug of tea. I dropped it. It shattered across the tile in a way I wished my heart could have.
• There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t just “inspired by” my story. She hadn’t changed the names or the structure or even the smutty chapter thirteen. She’d taken it whole, added some glitter, and pretended she’d written it herself.
• And the worst part was that people believed her.
• “Talented,” one review said.
• “Bold voice in women’s fiction,” another had said.
• I’d screamed into my pillow that night, knowing my career was over before it had even begun. No one wanted to hear the story of a jealous, spiteful girl who “couldn’t handle her sister’s success.”
• Especially when that story came from someone without money or fame or perfect teeth.
• ***
• I slammed the laptop shut and just sat there, staring at my hands. These heads had written that book, and yet, somehow, I’d become the villain in someone else’s narrative.
• The tears came fast all of a sudden. I curled up on the couch and let them fall.
• It wasn’t just about the plagiarism or the lies. It was also about loosing my father, about the way he’d looked at me like I was a stranger. It was the way Natasha had smiled while Nadia dragged me through the mud the way she always did.
• It was watching everything I’d worked for burn down without even getting a chance to defend myself.
• It was shame. Shame so thick it clung to my bones.
• And now, all I had was this cottage and this quiet town filled with people who didn’t know me at all.
• A knock startled me.
• I wasn’t expecting anyone.
• I sniffed, wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, and walked slowly to the door. Maybe it was the wind again. It had a habit of pretending it was someone important.
• I peeked through the window. There was nothing. Maybe it was Noah?
• No. That was wishful thinking.
• I opened the door and stepped outside.
• The forest rustled. There was no one around. I closed the door slowly and leaned against it, taking in slow, deep breaths to calm myself. There would be no more crying today.
• I opened my laptop agaun and stared at the screen for a while, then I started a new document. I didn’t know what it would become. I didn’t know if it was ever going to become anything, but I would write that least.
• It was the least I could do. I promised myself a fresh start, so I had to get on with it. I owed it to the brilliant author I used to be.