Page 56 of Role Play
My jaw tightens. “She took Sora’s money and then trashed her book?”
“Publicly eviscerated it. Called it fluffier than cotton candy in a hurricane. Said the hero had all the sex appeal of a dead fish. Made jokes about how reading it was like watching paint dry, but less exciting.”
“Couldn’t she file a civil suit for defamation?” I ask, my legal knowledge coming full front and center to Sora’s defense.
“Ha. If only. That’s not how our world works. Ruthlessness is excused for the sake ofhonesty. Except for the books Tila five-stars, which are garbage bags on fire, but of course they are written by her author besties. So frustrating.” Daphne’s voice cracks slightly. “Sora was devastated. Her launch tanked, her reviews plummeted, and Tila’s following quadrupled overnight.”
The pieces click into place—Sora’s panic at seeing Tila, the way she shrunk into herself, the tears that couldn’t be contained. It wasn’t just professional jealousy. It was trauma.
“And now Tila’s the one with the book deal,” I say quietly.
“Seven figures.” Daphne nods bitterly. “Built her entire career on tearing down other authors for entertainment. The publishing industry rewarded her for it.”
I glance around the ballroom, taking in the scene with new eyes. Authors at every table, smiling hopefully at passersby. Some have lines; others sit alone, their expressions growing more strained with each person who walks by without stopping. It’s not so different from my own line of work—the constant hustle for attention, the pressure of performance, oftentimes, the rejection.
“This whole industry is…rough, isn’t it?” I muse.
Daphne barks out a humorless laugh. “You have no idea. It’s like high school on steroids. There are cliques, mean girls, and popularity contests that determine whether your work ever gets seen. Forget talent—it’s all about who has the most followers, who can create the most drama, who games the algorithm best.”
“The algorithm?”
“Social media algorithms favor strong emotional reactions. Anger, outrage, shock—that’s what gets amplified.” She straightens a stack of bookmarks with precise movements. “So guess what gets rewarded? Not thoughtful, nuanced content. Not heartfelt stories. Rage rants and public takedowns. Authors and content creators battling it out, eating each other alive for clicks and likes.”
I think of Sora, of her eyes lighting up when she talked about her characters, of the earnest way she described her stories. “And Sora doesn’t play that game.”
“She can’t. It’s not in her DNA.” Daphne’s expression softens. “That’s the problem. Most authors who survive in this industry develop thick skin, or they become part of the problem—joining in the pile-ons, stirring drama for attention. But Sora…” She shakes her head. “Her heart is still so damn tender. It’s my favorite thing about her, but it’s also why she keeps getting her ass kicked.”
Another woman approaches, already unloading her Tila Valentina books onto our table.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice harder than I intend. “This table is for Sora Cho’s readers.”
The woman blinks, looking around as if noticing our display for the first time. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize…” Her eyes slide over Sora’s books without interest. “Is she new?”
“Four years, twelve books,” Daphne answers tightly.
“Huh. Never heard of her.” The woman gathers her books and walks away, immediately forgetting our existence.
“See what I mean?” Daphne sighs. “It’s not about the quality of your work. It’s about how visible you are. And in this industry, nice girls finish last.”
I stare at Tila’s table, at the line of eager fans clutching her books to their chests. Something cold settles in my stomach. I’ve spent my adult life surrounded by people who use others as stepping stones—professors who plagiarized their students’ work, law partners who took credit for their associates’ research, clients who treated me like a prop for their fantasies.
“I should check on her,” I say, already moving toward the exit.
“Wait.” Daphne catches my arm again. “Give her a minute. Sora hates for anyone to see her cry.” She hesitates, then adds, “You really care about her, don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard.Do I care about Sora?A woman I barely know, who hired me for a service I didn’t even provide? But the answer comes without any doubt.
“Yeah. I do.”
Daphne studies me for a moment. “How did you and Sora meet, anyway? She’s been pretty vague about the details.”
I pause, then decide to spin a story that feels right—one that I wish were true. “We met at a coffee shop a couple weeks ago. I was with my daughter.”
“Papa Beans?” Daphne asks. “She practically lives there.”
I nod, grateful for the prompt. “Yeah. I met her in line, and something about her just…caught my attention. She’s clueless as to how magnetic she is.” The image comes easily—I noticed a lot about Sora that day. The way she smiles with her whole face, eyes cinching shut, lips spreading wide, cheeks bunching into pink spheres. “After she selflessly gave my daughter the last kitchen sink cookie, I couldn’t help myself. I asked her out right then and there.”
“Cute,” Daphne says with an approving nod.
