He nods, and in that moment he looks less like a philosopher and more like a regular old human, tired and soft and just doing his best.
As I stand to leave, he adds, “Ms. Vreeland?”
I pause, book clutched to my chest.
“If the protagonist really is transformed, he’ll be willing to walk away, too. Even if it hurts.”
I nod, throat tight, and slip out the door. Was Talon ready to walk away? It seems like it. He gave me the profit share papers, and then watched as I took off. He didn’t try to stop me. But what if he’s just putting on an act? What if this was all a means to an end? What end does he want, anyways? He says he wants to be with me, but how do I know he’s being genuine and honest?
The hallway feels different on the way out—still a maze, but now it’s one I can navigate.
I step out into the spring air, blinking hard. I don’t have answers. But for the first time in months, I have better questions.
And that feels like a start.
My apartment isa disaster zone of ambition: three legal pads of half-baked notes on the coffee table, a mug with a film of curdled almond milk, pens leaking blue ink onto the futon, and, dead center, the copy ofAngel’s Sharewith its jacket already coming apart at the corners. I eye it the way you’d eye a box of old love letters from an ex—the kind you want to burn, but can’t stop reading.
Tonight’s plan is self-torture as self-care: I will read the book again, this time as a scholar, not a protagonist. I have my highlighters—yellow for “wow, that hurts,” blue for “wait, is this real?”—and a bag of off-brand Oreos from the bodega. I slide into my fluffiest socks and tangle up in a thrift store afghan. Mylaptop is closed, email notifications off, only the gentle buzz of my phone on silent.
Page one. This time, I’m looking for tells. I want to see the cracks in Talon’s voice, the moments where his mask slips and the real man shows up. I want to know if the ending—his grovel, his apology, his offer to torch his whole career for love—is just the final manipulation, or if it’s the confession Professor Avery said to look for. The one that means something changed, even if it’s just for a minute.
I read. I eat a cookie. I highlight.
First pass, it’s all familiar: the blonde muse, the cabin, the initial roleplay where “Kit” straddles the line between fantasy and humiliation. But then I see it: the way the hero slips, just a little, in chapter two. His sentences get weirdly soft at the end, like he’s afraid of what comes after the climax. There’s a moment where he admits “Even as I used her, I hated myself for wanting her so much.” It’s a throwaway line, easy to miss, but it glows in the margin once I highlight it.
By page seventy, I have crumbs all over my chest and several blue notes: “Does he actually believe this?” “Liar or confessor?” and my personal favorite, “If this is fiction, why does it hurt more than real life?”
My phone vibrates.
I check the notification. Simone: Did you sleep with him again yet? If yes, do NOT TELL ME because I will literally die.
I roll my eyes, then type: You have to stop reading romance novels. He’s not a billionaire werewolf. He’s just a dude.
She fires back: But he is a hottie and you know me around handsome men. I always give them what they want.
I snort, then, almost against my will, think of Talon’s hands, his jawline, the way he could fix me with those eyes and make me want to tear his shirt off and his heart out in the same breath.
I type: He’s hot. But toxic.
Simone sends a string of laughing emojis, followed by: Sweetie, hot and toxic is basically my entire track record!
I go back to the book. By now, I’m in the chapters I skimmed last time. Here, Talon (or his stand-in) describes the aftermath of betrayal with such bleak honesty it almost feels like a dare. “I thought letting her go would be easier,” the hero writes. “But every page I tried to fill with someone else turned to poison in my hands. I kept waiting for the loneliness to wear off, but it only grew teeth.”
I freeze, finger hovering over the passage. For a second I can’t breathe. He’s writing about his loss. About how much he misses me.
I finish the chapter, then check my phone again.
Simone: I just bombed another quiz. I’m going to have to become a Twitch streamer to pay rent. Or marry the first person who agrees to combine bank accounts.
I type back: You’re smart, Sim. You just need to study more. Also, was this the class with the hot professor?
She replies: Omg yes he’s gorgeous, Kat. And single. And young too, not insanely old and cranky like most of the profs at Century.
I giggle, then close the phone and get back to work. The book isn’t going to read itself.
For the next two hours, I’m deep in the story, flipping back and forth, cross-referencing scenes with my own memories. The more I read, the more I see how Talon tried to write himself out of the corner he painted us into. The sex scenes are filthy and intense—God, some are so steamy I have to put the book down—but the scenes that make my heart flip are the moments where he admits he’s afraid. “I never learned to stay. Only to let them go, but this one hurt so much I wanted her to stay.”
I read that three times, then dog-ear the page.
