Page 30 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

“What the hell just happened?” I stare at the exit Sora disappeared through, torn between following her and giving her space. The pain on her face had been so raw, so visceral, it felt like a physical blow.

Daphne grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my bicep. “That,” she says through gritted teeth, “was the aftermath of Tila-fucking-Valentina.”

“I gathered that much. But why did Sora look like she’d seen a ghost?”

Daphne releases my arm to aggressively arrange and rearrange the stacks of Sora’s books. Her movements are sharp, angry.

“Because Tila is the closest thing the romance community has to a professional hit woman.” She lowers her voice, throwing a venomous glance toward the adjacent table where Tila is holding court, her crimson hair like fire under the ballroom lights.

“Two years ago, when Sora really needed marketing help, she paid Tila to promote her book.”

“Paid her?” I echo, my eyes following a young woman who casually drops her purse on our table without so much as a glance in my direction.

“Yeah, a paid collaboration. It’s like Nike paying LeBron James to show off their shoes.

Tila was this rising BookTok influencer with a massive following.

She’d feature indie books for a fee—supposedly to help authors get exposure.

” Daphne shoves the woman’s purse back at her with a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Except with Sora, Tila decided to pivot her brand. Instead of promotion, she posted this vicious takedown video that went viral.”

My jaw tightens. “She took Sora’s money and then trashed her book?”

“Publicly eviscerated it. Called it fluffier than cotton candy in a hurricane. Said the hero had all the sex appeal of a dead fish. Made jokes about how reading it was like watching paint dry, but less exciting.”

“Couldn’t she file a civil suit for defamation?” I ask, my legal knowledge coming full front and center to Sora’s defense.

“Ha. If only. That’s not how our world works.

Ruthlessness is excused for the sake of honesty .

Except for the books Tila five-stars, which are garbage bags on fire, but of course they are written by her author besties.

So frustrating.” Daphne’s voice cracks slightly.

“Sora was devastated. Her launch tanked, her reviews plummeted, and Tila’s following quadrupled overnight. ”

The pieces click into place—Sora’s panic at seeing Tila, the way she shrunk into herself, the tears that couldn’t be contained. It wasn’t just professional jealousy. It was trauma.

“And now Tila’s the one with the book deal,” I say quietly.

“Seven figures.” Daphne nods bitterly. “Built her entire career on tearing down other authors for entertainment. The publishing industry rewarded her for it.”

I glance around the ballroom, taking in the scene with new eyes.

Authors at every table, smiling hopefully at passersby.

Some have lines; others sit alone, their expressions growing more strained with each person who walks by without stopping.

It’s not so different from my own line of work—the constant hustle for attention, the pressure of performance, oftentimes, the rejection.

“This whole industry is…rough, isn’t it?” I muse.

Daphne barks out a humorless laugh. “You have no idea. It’s like high school on steroids.

There are cliques, mean girls, and popularity contests that determine whether your work ever gets seen.

Forget talent—it’s all about who has the most followers, who can create the most drama, who games the algorithm best.”

“The algorithm?”

“Social media algorithms favor strong emotional reactions. Anger, outrage, shock—that’s what gets amplified.

” She straightens a stack of bookmarks with precise movements.

“So guess what gets rewarded? Not thoughtful, nuanced content. Not heartfelt stories. Rage rants and public takedowns. Authors and content creators battling it out, eating each other alive for clicks and likes.”

I think of Sora, of her eyes lighting up when she talked about her characters, of the earnest way she described her stories. “And Sora doesn’t play that game.”

“She can’t. It’s not in her DNA.” Daphne’s expression softens.

“That’s the problem. Most authors who survive in this industry develop thick skin, or they become part of the problem—joining in the pile-ons, stirring drama for attention.

But Sora…” She shakes her head. “Her heart is still so damn tender. It’s my favorite thing about her, but it’s also why she keeps getting her ass kicked. ”

Another woman approaches, already unloading her Tila Valentina books onto our table.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice harder than I intend. “This table is for Sora Cho’s readers.”

The woman blinks, looking around as if noticing our display for the first time. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize…” Her eyes slide over Sora’s books without interest. “Is she new?”

“Four years, twelve books,” Daphne answers tightly.

“Huh. Never heard of her.” The woman gathers her books and walks away, immediately forgetting our existence.

“See what I mean?” Daphne sighs. “It’s not about the quality of your work. It’s about how visible you are. And in this industry, nice girls finish last.”

I stare at Tila’s table, at the line of eager fans clutching her books to their chests.

Something cold settles in my stomach. I’ve spent my adult life surrounded by people who use others as stepping stones—professors who plagiarized their students’ work, law partners who took credit for their associates’ research, clients who treated me like a prop for their fantasies.

“I should check on her,” I say, already moving toward the exit.

“Wait.” Daphne catches my arm again. “Give her a minute. Sora hates for anyone to see her cry.” She hesitates, then adds, “You really care about her, don’t you?”

The question catches me off guard. Do I care about Sora? A woman I barely know, who hired me for a service I didn’t even provide? But the answer comes without any doubt.

“Yeah. I do.”

Daphne studies me for a moment. “How did you and Sora meet, anyway? She’s been pretty vague about the details.”

I pause, then decide to spin a story that feels right—one that I wish were true. “We met at a coffee shop a couple weeks ago. I was with my daughter.”

“Papa Beans?” Daphne asks. “She practically lives there.”

I nod, grateful for the prompt. “Yeah. I met her in line, and something about her just…caught my attention. She’s clueless as to how magnetic she is.

” The image comes easily—I noticed a lot about Sora that day.

The way she smiles with her whole face, eyes cinching shut, lips spreading wide, cheeks bunching into pink spheres.

“After she selflessly gave my daughter the last kitchen sink cookie, I couldn’t help myself. I asked her out right then and there.”

“Cute,” Daphne says with an approving nod.

“I couldn’t wait, so I took her to dinner that night,” I continue, the fantasy unfolding in my mind. This is how it should have been—how it would have been if I were just a normal guy who could approach a woman I found interesting. “I asked her to pick her favorite restaurant.”

“Let me guess. Galbi Grill?” Daphne adds casually. “Korean BBQ.”

I snap my fingers and point at her, as if she’s hit the jackpot. “That’s the one. She ordered for both of us—I couldn’t pronounce any of the dishes, but they were incredible.”

The lie feels good, like trying on a life that fits better than my own. In this version of events, I’m not an escort. I’m just a single dad who met a beautiful woman and was brave enough to ask her out. In this version, there’s no money changing hands, no pretending, no complications.

Daphne smiles. “Prepare yourself. Sora always takes charge with the food. She gets it from her mom.”

“I like that about her,” I say, and this part, at least, is completely honest. “I like a lot of things about her.”

“That’s sweet.” Daphne ducks her head in what seems like approval. I guess I’m passing the new-boyfriend test. “So, how long have you been in financial consulting?”

“Just a couple years.”

“Oh. And does that line of work require a fancy degree?”

I assume so, but since I’m not actually a financial consultant, I don’t know. I think up an excuse to satiate Daphne’s curiosity. “I pivoted careers after my doctorate. I actually attended law school—Columbia.”

Daphne’s eyes widen. “You’re shitting me. As in Columbia Law? That was my dream school.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

She shakes her head, a wisp of hurt crossing her face. “No, I wish. I applied after undergrad but didn’t get in. Completely destroyed me at the time.”

“It’s competitive,” I acknowledge. “But there are other good schools.”

“Yeah, I know that now. But Columbia Law was on my vision board, you know?” She fiddles with a bookmark, turning it over in her hands. “But actually, I just got accepted to a program in Lincoln, Nebraska. Starting next semester.”

“That’s great,” I say, genuinely pleased for her. “You excited?”

A shadow passes over her face. “I don’t know if I’m going.

I’m worried about leaving Sora. She depends on me.

She asked me to move into the brownstone with her on her birthday, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I might not be here in a few months.

” She groans in frustration. “Or I don’t know. Maybe I will be. I just can’t decide.”

“You can’t put your life on hold forever,” I say gently. “Even for the people you love.”

“Easy to say. Harder to do.” Her expression grows serious as she looks toward the exit door.

“Sora’s been through so much. Her parents’ divorce, her dad’s bullshit, this industry tearing her down at every turn.

She puts on a brave face, but each rejection cuts deeper than she lets on.

” Daphne’s voice cracks slightly. “I’ve been her rock for so long.

I can’t ditch her when she needs me most.”