Page 54 of Role Play
Forrest is quiet for a moment, studying me with a soulfulness that makes me want to squirm. “For what it’s worth,” he says finally, “I think your dad’s wrong. About you failing, I mean.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at his words, but before I can respond, a voice over the intercom announces that the doors are opening and attendees will be entering in five minutes.
“Showtime,” Daphne says buoyantly, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I mutter, smoothing my blouse and checking my lip gloss in my compact mirror.
Forrest moves to stand behind me, his hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders. “You’ve got this,” he assures me, warm breath tickling the shell of my ear. “They’re going to love you.”
I wish I could bottle the certainty in his voice and drink it when my confidence falters.
The first wave of readers enters the ballroom, a sea of excited faces clutching tote bags and book lists. I paste on my brightest smile, but as the minutes tick by, a familiar dread creeps in. People walk past my table without a second glance, their eyes scanning for the authors they came to see.
Not a single person stops.
Daphne, bless her, tries valiantly to lure people over. “Have you read Sora Cho? Her second-chance romances will make you cry in the best way!”
A few women smile politely but continue on.
I sink lower in my chair, the rejection a physical weight on my shoulders. This is what I was afraid of—being invisible in a room full of stars.
“They just don’t know what they’re missing,” Forrest says, but even his unwavering support can’t mask the pity in his voice.
After twenty excruciating minutes, I notice a commotion at the entrance. People are whispering excitedly, phones raised to capture whatever—or whoever—has just arrived.
And then I see her.
Tila Valentina sweeps into the ballroom like she owns it, her signature red hair cascading down her back, her curves poured into a skintight red dress. She’s surrounded by an entourage of assistants carrying boxes of books with her face emblazoned on the side.
And she’s heading straight for the empty table next to mine.
“No,” I whisper, the blood draining from my face. “No, no, no.”
Daphne’s hand clamps around my wrist. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Forrest looks between us, confusion evident on his face. “What? Who is she?”
But there’s no time to explain. Tila is setting up within range, her team efficiently arranging a display that makes mine look like a child’s craft project. And already, a line is forming—snaking past my table, around the corner, out of sight.
“Oh my god, it’s really her!”
“I’ve been following her since her BookTok days!”
“Her reviews are hilarious!”
The snippets of conversation are an onslaught of tiny daggers. Because I know exactly what made Tila Valentina famous: tearing other authors apart for entertainment.
Two years ago, desperate and naive, I borrowed money from Mom, and paid Tila to feature my book on her growing platform. Instead of the positive promotion I’d foolishly expected, she posted a vicious “honest review” that reduced my labor of love to a laughingstock. She called my writing “fluffier than a declawed kitten on Xanax” and my hero “about as sexually compelling as a damp sock.”
Her followers ate it up. My reviews plummeted, everyone wanting to follow suit and throw their own rock, each pebble slowly stoning my heart to death. Tila built her empire on the backs of authors like me, using our humiliation as stepping stones to her success.
Now here she is, basking in the adoration of fans who lined up to meet the queen of mean, while I sit forgotten at the next table over.
Tila’s gaze flicks to me, the briefest flash of recognition crossing her face before she turns away, dismissing me as thoroughly as she did my book years ago.
“Sora,” Daphne murmurs, her eyes wide with concern. “We can leave if you want.”
I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
