Page 29 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“Not true,” Daphne chimes in, materializing at my side with a stack of promotional postcards. “I just know how to use basic designer software. Sora’s the one who creates entire worlds out of nothing but her imagination.”

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that makes my stomach flip.

“Who’s taking the table next to you? It’s still empty,” Forrest asks, nodding toward the vacant space to my right, distinguished by a star on its placard.

“No idea. The email just said it was reserved for a special guest author,” Daphne informs us.

Forrest glances around the now-bustling ballroom. “Must be someone important. Everyone else is already set up.”

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Probably some bestseller who can waltz in whenever they want.”

“Speaking of bestsellers,” Forrest says casually, leaning against the table. “Your dad’s work is pretty different from yours, isn’t it? Fantasy versus romance?”

I tense involuntarily. “My dad writes literary epics with fantasy elements, yes.”

“That’s got to be…interesting. Growing up with a famous author.”

“Interesting is one word for it.” I arrange and rearrange the same stack of bookmarks, avoiding his gaze.

“Was he thrilled when you decided to follow in his footsteps?”

I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Not exactly. He recently told me to quit, actually.”

His eyebrows go skyward. “Seriously? Why?”

I hesitate, unsure why I’m even sharing this with him. Maybe because he’s looking at me with genuine curiosity rather than the usual pity or judgment I get when people learn who my father is.

“He thinks I’m torturing myself for nothing. That I’m destined to…fail.” The words are glass in my throat. “But mostly, I think he doesn’t want me to make the same mistakes he did.”

“Which were?”

“Sacrificing a real life for the fantasy of one on the page.” I straighten a book that doesn’t need straightening. “My parents’ marriage fell apart because my dad was always lost in his imaginary worlds instead of participating in ours. He regrets that now, I think.”

Forrest is quiet for a moment, studying me with a soulfulness that makes me want to squirm. “For what it’s worth,” he says finally, “I think your dad’s wrong. About you failing, I mean.”

Something warm blooms in my chest at his words, but before I can respond, a voice over the intercom announces that the doors are opening and attendees will be entering in five minutes.

“Showtime,” Daphne says buoyantly, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I mutter, smoothing my blouse and checking my lip gloss in my compact mirror.

Forrest moves to stand behind me, his hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders. “You’ve got this,” he assures me, warm breath tickling the shell of my ear. “They’re going to love you.”

I wish I could bottle the certainty in his voice and drink it when my confidence falters.

The first wave of readers enters the ballroom, a sea of excited faces clutching tote bags and book lists. I paste on my brightest smile, but as the minutes tick by, a familiar dread creeps in. People walk past my table without a second glance, their eyes scanning for the authors they came to see.

Not a single person stops.

Daphne, bless her, tries valiantly to lure people over. “Have you read Sora Cho? Her second-chance romances will make you cry in the best way!”

A few women smile politely but continue on.

I sink lower in my chair, the rejection a physical weight on my shoulders. This is what I was afraid of—being invisible in a room full of stars.

“They just don’t know what they’re missing,” Forrest says, but even his unwavering support can’t mask the pity in his voice.

After twenty excruciating minutes, I notice a commotion at the entrance. People are whispering excitedly, phones raised to capture whatever—or whoever—has just arrived.

And then I see her.

Tila Valentina sweeps into the ballroom like she owns it, her signature red hair cascading down her back, her curves poured into a skintight red dress. She’s surrounded by an entourage of assistants carrying boxes of books with her face emblazoned on the side.

And she’s heading straight for the empty table next to mine.

“ No ,” I whisper, the blood draining from my face. “No, no, no.”

Daphne’s hand clamps around my wrist. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Forrest looks between us, confusion evident on his face. “What? Who is she?”

But there’s no time to explain. Tila is setting up within range, her team efficiently arranging a display that makes mine look like a child’s craft project. And already, a line is forming—snaking past my table, around the corner, out of sight.

“Oh my god, it’s really her!”

“I’ve been following her since her BookTok days!”

“Her reviews are hilarious!”

The snippets of conversation are an onslaught of tiny daggers. Because I know exactly what made Tila Valentina famous: tearing other authors apart for entertainment.

Two years ago, desperate and naive, I borrowed money from Mom, and paid Tila to feature my book on her growing platform.

Instead of the positive promotion I’d foolishly expected, she posted a vicious “honest review” that reduced my labor of love to a laughingstock.

She called my writing “fluffier than a declawed kitten on Xanax” and my hero “about as sexually compelling as a damp sock.”

Her followers ate it up. My reviews plummeted, everyone wanting to follow suit and throw their own rock, each pebble slowly stoning my heart to death. Tila built her empire on the backs of authors like me, using our humiliation as stepping stones to her success.

Now here she is, basking in the adoration of fans who lined up to meet the queen of mean, while I sit forgotten at the next table over.

Tila’s gaze flicks to me, the briefest flash of recognition crossing her face before she turns away, dismissing me as thoroughly as she did my book years ago.

“Sora,” Daphne murmurs, her eyes wide with concern. “We can leave if you want.”

I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

But I’m not fine. Especially not when readers in Tila’s line start using my table as a convenient place to set down their belongings while they wait for their photo op.

“Do you mind if I leave my purse here?” a woman asks, already dropping her designer bag on top of my carefully arranged books. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Actually—” I begin, but she’s already walked away.

Another woman places her stack of Tila’s books on my table. “Thanks, hon. Could you watch these for me? I want to get a picture before she signs these.”

Before I can answer, Forrest interjects smoothly. “I’m afraid the author needs her space. You understand.”

The woman looks startled, as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize… Are you an author too?”

The “too” is what does it—the casual assumption that I’m an afterthought, a nobody compared to the celebrity next door.

“Yes,” I manage. “I am.”

She glances at my display without interest. “Cool. Well, good luck with that!”

I sink back into my chair, mortification burning through me. This is worse than being invisible—it’s being seen and dismissed.

Daphne’s expression has morphed from concern to barely contained rage. “This is such bullshit,” she hisses. “After what she did to you, I want to line her thongs with fire ants?—”

“It’s ancient history,” I mutter, though the reopened wound feels fresh as ever.

Forrest glances between us, clearly trying to piece together the story, but before he can ask, I overhear a snippet of chitchat from Tila’s table that turns my blood cold.

“… so excited about my new agent. He’s incredible. ” Tila’s voice carries, loudly enough for me to hear. “Dane Spellman himself cold-called me to offer representation. Said my work was exactly what he’s looking for.”

Dane Spellman. The agent who said I was a “dime a dozen.” The agent who only wanted me for access to my father, and who now apparently thinks Tila Valentina—a woman who built her career mocking authors like me—is worthy of his elite roster.

Something inside me splinters.

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I need some air.”

“Sora—” Forrest reaches for me, but I’m already moving, pushing past bewildered attendees, ignoring Daphne’s call behind me.

I make it to the hallway before the tears start, hot and humiliating. A sob builds in my chest, but I swallow it down, ducking into the nearest restroom.

The woman in the mirror looks so pathetic—red-eyed, mascara beginning to smudge, her carefully applied lipstick bitten away. This is what rock bottom looks like: crying in a public bathroom while the woman who tried to destroy your career celebrates her success twenty feet away.

Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should quit while I still have a shred of dignity left.