What he hadn’t expected was Orelia’s fans, who were savage chumps. Their retaliation reminded him of a video he’d seen, where white blood cells chased down bacterium, engulfing the invaders. Her diehard fans destroyed the impact of his reviews and troll remarks, so his commentaries looked bad, instead of her.

William’s excitement had drained, replaced by a flat and empty gnaw inside, as he heard the bustle of staff preparing for Orelia’s event. This wasn’t fair. Orelia made a mockery of literature, enjoying such success with her banal romances. But worse, she’d stolen his fans (maybe not his fans but readers who might have bought his books), stolen his luck and now she’d stolen his muse.

For William hadn’t written a fictional word in over four months. A word drought like that had never happened to him until she came along. The irony of squatting in the aisle of a bookstore contemplating his lack of production wasn’t lost on him. Damn her and whatever voodoo she practiced. Why did she have to choose him? All the authors in this world, and he became the unlucky duck.

His legs burned, forcing him to stand. Now he pretended to look at books on the third shelf, so he could bend below the top rack. If he stood any higher his head would be within sight of the counter. Half standing though did not release the pain. In fact, the throbbing ache had traveled through his loins and into his stomach. His intestines were on fire like he’d eaten something bad. The gnawing ache though wasn’t from food or physical exertion.

Damn, damn, damn. This agony was Orelia Mason. What she’d done to his life was eating him inside. The emotions she stirred, pulled and pushed at him until everything was a boiling mess of hatred.

A tiny voice had whispered to him every time he sat before his computer. Give this up and return to work and write something, it said. He couldn’t listen. Wouldn’t listen because this vendetta seemed too important as if he had been chosen to save not just his own life from her evil, but the world.

William had begun to imagine Orelia Mason had cast a spell on him, something like Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. The more successful and beautiful she became, the more his career would wither and grow ugly. He was the painting in the attic reflecting all the corruptness she hid so well.

Deep in his thoughts, William jumped at a tap on his shoulder. He stood upright and turned, ready to explain to Morris or Orelia how he accidentally happened to be here. Already on his tongue was “Imagine seeing you here.”

In a chipper tone, she said, “If you don’t have anywhere to be, we’re about to have an author talk. Orelia Mason. She’s a New York Times and USA Today best seller. They say she’ll sell more than Fifty Shades of Grey this year.”

He recognized the person by their voice even before he faced them. Grace smiled at him, looking nothing like he imagined (cherry-red bob with a fringe and deep mulberry lipstick).