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While I have a respectable following, I’ve never made it onto any of the bestseller lists, none of my books have been celebrity book club picks, and I can name hundreds of authors more successful than I am that he could reach out to instead.
Luckily for me, Kassara is well-versed in, and completely immune, to my cynicism and terrible personality.
That’s the burden of being a writer, truly. We spend so much time in our heads, we rarely experience the world outside of it. Not in the same way other people do.
“I don’t know. What if I make myself look dumb? What if I’m not fancy enough? I don’t know anything about Hollywood. Besides that, I haven’t spoken to anyone aside from you in a year. I’m socially awkward. I’m going to ruin this somehow. I should just say I can’t make it and slowly blow him off, right?”
Like a proper addict, my entire body is now buzzing with adrenaline, the drink in my hand the only thing I can focus on. I haven’t allowed myself a drink all day, and every nerve in my body is screaming in revolt. Demanding a sip, like a petulant toddler. I lift the cocktail to my lips and take a small drink. In an instant, everything in me goes electric. My brain seems to whir to life. The room around me is brighter.
I’ve never found an author whose books make me feel the way yours do. The twists manage to get me every time.
Will some of my biggest critics say at least the world will never be subjected to another half-baked Marietta Morgan novel with their two-dimensional characters, juvenile dialogue, and unrealistic plot twists?
That’s my burden—loving someone capable of monstrous things.

