It was the premiere of Blaire’s movie debut, and she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Her husband, Seth, was already waiting in the limo for her. She smiled inwardly, thinking of him. He was the king of Hollywood, its most prolific producer and director, and founder of the biggest studio in town. She’d met him at a party thrown by the producer of the Megan Mahooney series. He’d been married at the time, one of the few Hollywood icons to still be with his first wife. But Blaire knew that meant that his wife took him for granted. And once he’d met Blaire, he was a goner. He told her that she was the perfect woman, the one he’d waited for all of his life. At forty-two, Blaire was smart enough to realize that no matter how well she could act—and let’s face it, she’d been acting her whole life—she’d never break into films without a little help. Once she was married to Seth and he’d cast her in his latest movie, no one was going to argue. And she’d been brilliant. Everyone had told her so. It was lucky too, because she’d had to leave New York and the literary world.

After Blaire and Daniel split up, the Megan Mahooney books were finished. Daniel had offered to buy her out so he could keep writing the series on his own, but there was no way she was going to let him bask in the glory of her fans. It hadn’t taken him long to go back to writing solo again, and she’d been furious to see that he hit the Times list immediately. She’d tried her hand at writing solo too, a book about a friendship gone wrong, and waited eagerly for it to surpass Daniel’s in sales. The first few weeks it sold well on her name alone, but then it slipped further and further down the lists, until it disappeared altogether. The crowds at her signings began to dwindle as well, until she pleaded exhaustion and put a stop to her tour. But the worst were the reviews. Scathing one-star reviews filled with vitriol and criticism. Every morning she’d go online and read them, skimming over the positive reviews and ruminating on the bad ones. One particularly bad day, she’d had enough, and she began to respond. She’d read the review out loud, her heart beating faster with each word.

Total garbage. I guess we know now who had the talent. Blaire Barrington’s solo debut should be her finale. Clunky sentences, clichéd characters, and meanderang prose. Take a pass.

Blaire had hit the comment field and started typing. When you learn how to spell, you can criticize my work. It’s meandering, you idiot. Go back to English class.

It felt great. She’d gone to the next.