The blue light of the laptop was the only thing illuminating Maya's face, casting long, tired shadows against the stacks of reference books on her desk. To the world, she was M.K. Thorne, the reclusive novelist whose face was always hidden behind an intricate velvet mask during rare public appearances. But here, in the sanctuary of her apartment, she was just Maya—hair tied in a messy knot, wearing a coffee-stained sweatshirt, and currently three chapters behind her deadline.
The silence of the room was a living thing, broken only by the rhythmic click-clack of her mechanical keyboard. She was just hitting her stride, the dialogue finally flowing, when the silence didn't just break—it shattered.
The front door slammed open, followed by the unmistakable melody of high heels clicking rapidly against the hardwood and the frantic energy of two people who didn't understand the concept of a "quiet workspace."
"Do not say no!" Chloe shouted before she even reached the doorway of the office. She was already holding her phone out like a trophy, her eyes bright with the kind of mischief that usually ended in Maya needing a nap.
Close behind her was Sarah, looking slightly more sympathetic but equally determined. "We've done the math, Maya. You've been in this room for fourteen days. You're starting to smell like old library books and desperation."
Maya didn't look up from the screen, her fingers still flying. "I have five thousand words to go, and my editor is currently sharpening a guillotine with my name on it. No."
"It's a week in Cabo," Chloe countered, leaning over Maya's shoulder to physically block her view of the monitor. "Private villa. No laptops allowed. My firm is handling the PR for the 'Solstice Festival,' which means we have passes to the VIP after-parties. The real ones, Maya. Not the ones for influencers. The ones for the icons."
Maya finally stopped typing, sighing as she rubbed her eyes. "You know I hate parties. I write about people because I don't want to actually talk to them."
"Which is exactly why you need to go," Sarah said, gently closing Maya's laptop lid. "You're writing a romance novel, aren't you? How are you supposed to write about 'electric chemistry' if the only thing you've touched in a month is a wireless mouse?"
"I have an imagination," Maya muttered, though her resolve was already flickering.
"Pack a swimsuit and that one black dress you look lethal in," Chloe commanded, waving three first-class boarding passes. "We leave Friday. If you try to hide, I'm telling your fans that M.K. Thorne is actually three cats in a trench coat