Story code: ST-001453
Part 1: The Green Room
Maya’s knees popped in a sickening rhythm as she shoved the heavy velvet sofa closer to the blinding glare of the ring light. The air in the indie bookstore’s back storage closet, optimistically rebranded as the VIP Green Room, felt thick with cardboard dust and the sharp ozone scent of overheated extension cords. Her palms were rubbed raw, blistered from hauling fifty-pound boxes of hardcover books up the narrow, winding fire stairs since five in the morning. Now, she crouched on the stained linoleum, meticulously arranging a platter of imported vegan macarons so they sat exactly two inches apart. The publicist had already threatened to cancel the entire sold-out event if the aesthetic of the snack table felt off-brand for their guest.
She adjusted the dial on the portable air conditioning unit, wincing at the loud mechanical rattle it made. The event rider for this author had been a logistical nightmare. The room temperature had to be held at exactly sixty-nine degrees, the overhead lighting taped over with amber gels she had to cut by hand, and the drinking water had to be a specific artesian brand that Maya had sprinted three blocks to procure during her unpaid fifteen-minute break. She dragged the back of a dust-streaked forearm across her sweating forehead and reached into the supply crate for the acrylic name placard.
The etched gold letters caught the harsh light as she set it on the faux-mahogany side table. Chloe Vance. Maya’s fingers went completely numb. The heavy placard slipped from her grip, slamming against the table with a sharp crack. That name echoed against the inside of her skull, entirely drowning out the rattling hum of the AC unit. She stared at the looping cursive font, the breath leaving her lungs in a sudden, violent rush. She told herself it was a coincidence, a common name, just another influencer on a book tour. But the aggressive branding on the rider, the ruthless entitlement of the demands, the calculated aesthetic-it was a signature she knew too well.
From the hallway outside, the sharp click of stiletto heels tapped out a rapid, impatient rhythm against the hardwood floor. Then came the voice. It was a bright, aggressively cheerful tone, sanded down to a perfect broadcasting cadence. “Tell the sponsor we push the serum at minute twelve, I am absolutely not ruining my lighting for a skincare plug before my followers are even settled.” Maya pressed her spine flat against the cinderblock wall. The pitch, the slight vocal fry stretching the end of the sentence-it was the exact sound that had played in her waking nightmares for three years. Visceral panic seized her throat, choking off her air. Her hands shook with such force she had to grip the metal edge of the prep table to keep her knees from buckling. The person who had systematically dismantled Maya’s career, her reputation, and her life was standing less than twenty feet away, loudly complaining about the bookstore’s weak WiFi password.
Maya looked frantically around the cramped room for an alternate exit. The only door led straight into the narrow hallway where Chloe and her entourage were currently bottlenecking. Maya ducked behind a towering pallet of unsold inventory, making herself as small as possible. She listened to them sweep into the room. The overpowering, expensive scent of santal and bergamot instantly flooded the tight space, suffocating the smell of old paper.
Chloe was snapping her fingers at an assistant, adjusting her phone on an expensive tripod and complaining that the velvet sofa looked cheap on the monitor. Maya held her breath, her chest burning with the effort. She pressed her face against the rough cardboard of a book box, willing herself to blend into the shadows. The publicist barked a countdown. The livestream chime echoed from Chloe’s phone, and a red recording dot flared to life on the screen.
Maya’s radio earpiece suddenly crackled with a burst of painful static. Her manager hissed into her ear, demanding to know why the VIP’s iced matcha was still sitting on the service cart instead of in her hand. Maya closed her eyes, entirely paralyzed. Her manager’s voice barked again, louder, promising instant termination if the sponsor’s beverage cup was not in the livestream frame within ten seconds. Maya looked at the service cart pushed against the wall near the door. The iced drink sat there, sweating heavily onto a branded coaster. Chloe was completely focused on the glowing screen of her phone, greeting her millions of followers with that identical, perfectly curated smile. Maya forced her trembling hands to release the edge of the metal table. She stepped out from the safety of the shadows, picking up the heavy silver tray. The ice clinked loudly against the glass. Chloe’s eyes flicked away from the camera lens, darting toward the noise as Maya took a stiff step directly into the bright, unforgiving glare of the ring light.
Maya’s knees popped in a sickening rhythm as she shoved the heavy velvet sofa closer to the blinding glare of the ring light. The air in the indie bookstore’s back storage closet, optimistically rebranded as the VIP Green Room, felt thick with cardboard dust and the sharp ozone scent of overheated extension cords. Her palms were rubbed raw, blistered from hauling fifty-pound boxes of hardcover books up the narrow, winding fire stairs since five in the morning. Now, she crouched on the stained linoleum, meticulously arranging a platter of imported vegan macarons so they sat exactly two inches apart. The publicist had already threatened to cancel the entire sold-out event if the aesthetic of the snack table felt off-brand for their guest.
She adjusted the dial on the portable air conditioning unit, wincing at the loud mechanical rattle it made. The event rider for this author had been a logistical nightmare. The room temperature had to be held at exactly sixty-nine degrees, the overhead lighting taped over with amber gels she had to cut by hand, and the drinking water had to be a specific artesian brand that Maya had sprinted three blocks to procure during her unpaid fifteen-minute break. She dragged the back of a dust-streaked forearm across her sweating forehead and reached into the supply crate for the acrylic name placard.
The etched gold letters caught the harsh light as she set it on the faux-mahogany side table. Chloe Vance. Maya’s fingers went completely numb. The heavy placard slipped from her grip, slamming against the table with a sharp crack. That name echoed against the inside of her skull, entirely drowning out the rattling hum of the AC unit. She stared at the looping cursive font, the breath leaving her lungs in a sudden, violent rush. She told herself it was a coincidence, a common name, just another influencer on a book tour. But the aggressive branding on the rider, the ruthless entitlement of the demands, the calculated aesthetic-it was a signature she knew too well.
From the hallway outside, the sharp click of stiletto heels tapped out a rapid, impatient rhythm against the hardwood floor. Then came the voice. It was a bright, aggressively cheerful tone, sanded down to a perfect broadcasting cadence. “Tell the sponsor we push the serum at minute twelve, I am absolutely not ruining my lighting for a skincare plug before my followers are even settled.” Maya pressed her spine flat against the cinderblock wall. The pitch, the slight vocal fry stretching the end of the sentence-it was the exact sound that had played in her waking nightmares for three years. Visceral panic seized her throat, choking off her air. Her hands shook with such force she had to grip the metal edge of the prep table to keep her knees from buckling. The person who had systematically dismantled Maya’s career, her reputation, and her life was standing less than twenty feet away, loudly complaining about the bookstore’s weak WiFi password.
Maya looked frantically around the cramped room for an alternate exit. The only door led straight into the narrow hallway where Chloe and her entourage were currently bottlenecking. Maya ducked behind a towering pallet of unsold inventory, making herself as small as possible. She listened to them sweep into the room. The overpowering, expensive scent of santal and bergamot instantly flooded the tight space, suffocating the smell of old paper.
Chloe was snapping her fingers at an assistant, adjusting her phone on an expensive tripod and complaining that the velvet sofa looked cheap on the monitor. Maya held her breath, her chest burning with the effort. She pressed her face against the rough cardboard of a book box, willing herself to blend into the shadows. The publicist barked a countdown. The livestream chime echoed from Chloe’s phone, and a red recording dot flared to life on the screen.
Maya’s radio earpiece suddenly crackled with a burst of painful static. Her manager hissed into her ear, demanding to know why the VIP’s iced matcha was still sitting on the service cart instead of in her hand. Maya closed her eyes, entirely paralyzed. Her manager’s voice barked again, louder, promising instant termination if the sponsor’s beverage cup was not in the livestream frame within ten seconds. Maya looked at the service cart pushed against the wall near the door. The iced drink sat there, sweating heavily onto a branded coaster. Chloe was completely focused on the glowing screen of her phone, greeting her millions of followers with that identical, perfectly curated smile. Maya forced her trembling hands to release the edge of the metal table. She stepped out from the safety of the shadows, picking up the heavy silver tray. The ice clinked loudly against the glass. Chloe’s eyes flicked away from the camera lens, darting toward the noise as Maya took a stiff step directly into the bright, unforgiving glare of the ring light.