I smile at the grid of eager faces, zeroing in on the podcast host’s bright blue hair. “I really shouldn’t, Sylvie.”
“Okay, but what if I”—a click of a mouse—“unmute everyone and ask them to say ‘please’ in three, two, one…”
“PLEEEASE,” a chorus of voices rings out.
I raise my hands in surrender, laughing. It’s all a show; I’ve already gotten the green light from my editor to drop a small hint to fire up the rumor mills of Bookstagram. “Okay, okay. At the risk of being dropped by my publisher, the word is… ‘Alaska.’?”
The screams are wild, and I quickly lower the volume as Mr. Darcy leaps from Savannah’s lap and takes cover beneath the couch.
“Okay, muting going back on!” Sylvie calls out. “Everyone just try to breathe. Sip some tea. Squeeze a stress ball. I know this is a lot to process. Is Alaska the location? A person? A state of mind? I’m sure we’ll all be desperately unpacking Margot’s clue until her next release date, but just for tonight, I’d like you to focus yourquestions on what wedohave our lucky little mitts on, and that’sWarmest Regards.”
I can no longer hear them, but all across my screen, participants are clapping or waving their dog-eared copies of my book. Seeing such devotion to my writing should feel better than anything in the world. In the early days, it did. But that was before all my stories began to feel only marginally less harmful than lead poisoning.There are no Happily Ever Afters, you sweet, hopeless romantics—
“Let’s start with JennyLin_Librarian. What’s your question for Margot, Jenny?”
“Hi, Margot! Hi, Sylvie! Love the books, love the podcast!”
“Thanks so much, Jenny,” Sylvie and I reply together as a square enlarges to show a young woman clutching a glass of rosé in one hand and a waterlogged copy ofWarmest Regardsin the other. She’s a familiar face at all of my digital book events, and a zing of guilt passes through my chest when I think of the loyalty and money she and so many others have given me to be here.
“Margot, I was wondering if any of your stories are inspired by real life?”
The irony of this question nearly causes an involuntary snort to escape my nose. But I master myself and take a sip of water. Smile warmly. “Great question, and thanks so much for being here, Jenny. Your support means the world.” I deliver my carefully worded answer, and the interview moves on. Question after question comes, and I glance at the clock. Savannah must sense I’m fading because she shoots a double thumbs-up at me and mouths the word “moist” to make me smile.
“Ooooh-kay,” Sylvie chimes. “It looks like our last question is coming from Truth_Seeker98. What truth are you seeking from Margot Bradley tonight?”
As usual, the participant’s square is enlarged, but because they don’t have their camera on, the screen seems to go black for a moment. And then a Word document appears. I blink againstthe sudden brightness of the screen, confused, until panic ricochets through me like a white-hot pinball. It’s my Happily Never After file.No.That’s impossible. But then the document starts slow-scrolling, and all my damning words appear.
“Oh, what’s this?” Sylvie asks, not understanding what she’s looking at. “Truth, is your mic turned on?”
My entire body begins to shake in a fine tremor as I rapidly scan words that were never meant to be seen by another human being.Alimony. Slashed tires. Viagra.This isn’t happening—surely this is some kind of stress hallucination. I try swallowing, but my throat is a rolled-up tube of sandpaper. And then a voice, creepily distorted, speaks into the silence. “My question for Margot is: How dare you?”
My spine goes rigid. “Who is this? How did you get this document?”
“Nothing is truly hidden on the Cloud,” the voice says ominously. “Imagine my surprise when I tried having a peek at your next manuscript and found this instead. Therealendings to all your books. How youreallyfeel about your fans.”
I close out the window in a knee-jerk attempt to rid it from everyone’s screens, but that doesn’t make the document disappear for anyone else. I’m left confronted with a grid of faces, all squinting and clearly reading. Sweet JennyLin_Librarian’s eyebrows make a pinched climb above her crooked glasses. A fresh surge of panic makes me want to slam my laptop shut and pretend it’s not happening, but I have to put out this fire somehow—
“Margot, what’s going on?” Savannah whispers, reminding me of her presence. “You okay?”
Sylvie’s voice is next, slow with awe. “What in the actual hell?”
“Sylvie, please,” I croak. “End the meeting.”
“Margot, what is this? Is this real? It says here that Avery and Caleb… get a divorce? That Caleb…” A sharp gasp. “Gets abeer belly?”
In every square, hands clap over mouths in silent horror.
“Look, Sylvie, I can explain,” I say.
“?‘So fucking naive’?” she reads, pink splotches appearing on her round cheeks as she finds my old journal entry. “Is that how you really feel about this community, Margot?”
“That’s not—Sylvie, justpleaseend the meeting,” I beg.
Digitally distorted laughter interrupts my bargaining. “End the meeting? Do you really think I wouldn’t post this somewhere else?Everywhereelse? Links have already been sent to every participant here tonight.”
I flash hot. Then cold. My vision swims as I fight down a wave of nausea. “H-how could you? Invasion of privacy. Totally illegal—”
“How couldI? I think the real question here, Margot, is how you could lead millions of readers on like this. Raking in their hard-earned money while secretly laughing behind their backs. If this Happily Never After file proves one thing, it’s that you’re a fraud. And that’s why I’m calling on everyone here tonight to cancel Margot Bradley. If you believe in love—in Happily Ever Afters—never buy one of her books again.”
