Page 6 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Dane Spellman is not an ideal book boyfriend. In fact, if I’m being honest, he has antagonist energy. I’ve never seen a man with resting bitch face, but lo and behold—it’s possible. I’m staring right at it.

“So”—I take a pretend sip from my empty coffee mug, out of sheer discomfort—“did you have a chance to check out the chapters I sent you? And please know, I’m not one of those authors who is too proud to take feedback.

I personally feel like the pacing could use direction, but I’m particularly fond of?—”

Dane interrupts me by holding up his hand. “Just take a deep breath, honey. I can tell you’re nervous.”

Honey? Lovely. Terms of endearment, laced with condescension. “More excited than nervous. I really appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to meet with me. I can’t imagine the number of queries you receive.”

He levels a stare at me, a cruel smirk curling at the corner of his thin lips. “Thousands.”

“Wow.”

His smile turns a little sinister. “Most of them don’t make it past my assistant’s spam folder, though.”

I press my lips together, trying to contain my zealousness, but I can’t help it—the need for validation wins out against my better judgment. “May I ask, what made you finally open my email?”

Dane runs his hands through his flowy blond hair and grimaces. “Honestly? I didn’t. One of my assistants did and passed it along to a junior agent on the team.”

It’s a sucker punch right to my heart, but I force myself to breathe in steady inhales and exhales.

Don’t be a child, Sora. This is the number one agent in the game.

So, Dane didn’t read your work, his junior agent did.

Deal with it. You’re here, aren’t you? Thousands of authors want to be here. Be grateful.

I tuck my hair back behind my ears. “Dare I ask what your junior editor thought?”

He shrugs. “She said it was fine.”

I stare at his expression, trying to gauge if I should smile at that. “Fine as in ‘fine wine’ or ‘fine dining’? Or fine like lukewarm fries at McDonald’s when you’re starving?”

He hangs his head and peeks up at me through his sparse lashes. “Like I said, breathe . Fine is just a word. Don’t read too far into it. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about you?”

“Sure.” I nod so eagerly, my hair clumsily untucks itself from the anchor of my ears and falls right back into my face.

“I’ve been self-published for three years now and have twelve books in my backlist and one more releasing in a couple months,” I explain as I smooth the loose strands away from my forehead and cheeks.

“Now, I know that’s a long time and a lot of books without representation, but the first few years I was really finding my footing.

I dabbled in women’s fiction, but ultimately fell in love with romance.

I like angst and emotional depth in stories, but personally, I just can’t read a book without a happily-ever-after, so I knew romance was the lane for me. ”

Dane nods along, but when I register his disinterested expression, my eye starts to twitch.

My hand flies to my eyelid and I rub gently like I’m trying to dislodge a rogue eyelash from my eyeball.

I hate having this tell. It’s been this way for years.

Every time I have to bite back a “fuck you” and smile politely instead, my eye twitches.

“I’m sorry. Is that not what you were asking…?” I trail off, silently begging Dane to fill in the blanks.

“You’ve been in this industry long enough to know all stories are recycled in some way, shape, or form, right? There’s no such thing as originality. Same dish, different plating.”

I twist my lips. “Okay,” is all I offer because I don’t necessarily believe him.

To an extent there are linchpins that all stories mirror in some way, but that has more to do with the human condition.

Heroes triumphing over adversity, healing from trauma, love against the odds—those are universal recipes for a great story, but originality isn’t dead. Is it?

“When I sign new authors, what I’m looking for is personality.

I need versatile authors, who are ready to deliver whatever the market is calling for.

Every story has been told, and retold, and retold again.

The only valuable thing a writer brings to the table is their personal style.

So, tell me, author business aside—who are you ? What do you like to do?”

Public speaking is my superpower. Years ago, when I briefly endured corporate work, I was the weirdo who loved interviews. This is my freaking jam . Never once have I choked when it comes to talking…until right now.

“Um…well, I’m Sora, obviously.” I flush and giggle like a fool.

My brain has split into two. Half is trying to buy myself time with nervous chuckling, the other is desperately racking through the last few years of my life since I became a full-time—struggling— author.

What do I like to do? I like writing schedules, word count sprints, and taking writing craft classes. But outside of that, it’s blank.

Dane’s eyebrows climb his forehead like twin caterpillars. “Why don’t we start with what you read for fun?”

Indie marketing guides on Facebook and Amazon Ads… But I can’t freaking say that out loud. It’s starting to dawn on me why my mom is worried about my mental health. What was the last book I read for fun? Hell, when was the last time I had fun ?

“How’s your social media presence?”

“Wildly unimpressive.” I show him a half-smile and half-cringe as I playfully point at his chest. “But hey, at least you know I’m honest.”

He lets out a weak chuckle, then drags his hand over his face. He doesn’t need to say anything. I can read his mind. This is a casting call, and he’s thinking there’s absolutely nothing unique about me that stands out.

I hold up both hands as if I’m trying to stop him from leaving.

It’s a bit of an overreaction because he hasn’t budged.

“I need this, Dane. I really need your help. I’m old-school.

I care about storytelling, but all the other stuff?

I can’t do indie publishing anymore. It’s a giant popularity contest and I can’t seem to fit in.

But somehow, I do still believe this is meant for me. ”

Dane’s gaze snaps to mine as the thin veins stretched across his temples bulge. That apparently catches his attention. “What do you mean?”

I clench my fists under the table, preparing to unleash my bleeding heart.

“If there’s anything remotely interesting on my social media accounts, it’s the brainchild of my unpaid personal assistant, who I’m certain has only stuck with me out of steadfast loyalty.

I’m not polarizing. I don’t do hot takes.

I’m not good at getting views and asking for attention.

I just really love to write. I don’t miss deadlines.

I don’t cause drama. I’m never going to be TikTok famous, but I swear, I will work harder than any author you have on your roster.

I want this that badly. You want your authors versatile?

I can do that. Just tell me what the market wants right now and I’ll write it. ”

His smile is small. It doesn’t touch his eyes. Actually, it looks a lot like pity. “It’s simple. The readers want dragons. Can you do that?”

I quirk a brow. “Dragons in contemporary romance? Please tell me how that can work.”

Dane purses his lips. “It can’t.”

“So, you want me to switch lanes and start writing fantasy?”

He cinches his thick brows together seemingly in anguish.

Exactly the way people do when they are about to deliver bad news.

“The truth is, Sora, the market is so oversaturated. Everybody is an author these days. And I’m sorry to say, but the genre you write is a dime a dozen.

We’re not taking any new authors right now unless they are bringing their own lucrative opportunities to the table. Then, we’ll happily manage them.”

“For a cut of the deal,” I deadpan.

“Well, of course.”

What a scheme. Their authors bring in the deals with the publishers, then the agency swoops in and takes a percentage to forward a few administrative emails. How is that fair?

“If you want my opinion, you can make more money staying on the indie publishing path. Keep writing. Wait for your big break, and then when the publishers are swarming with offers”—he points to his chest—“I can make sure you get every single penny you’re worth.”

My cheeks are stiff and my mouth goes dry.

I hate this feeling so much. It’s the same feeling from when I auditioned for Ariel in the elementary school play but got cast as singing seaweed instead.

It’s when my very first crush in junior high asked me to pass a love note on to my best friend.

It’s the moment my high school boyfriend dumped me because I wouldn’t put out.

The next day the entire school was gossiping about how I was still a virgin during senior year.

There was even a rumor that I wouldn’t take my pants off because I had “weird” equipment down there.

It’s the same feeling I had when I took the subway by myself for the first time and experienced racism. I’d never really heard derogatory names for a Korean woman before, but I learned every single one on one bus ride from a cracked-out hobo on the subway.

This same feeling brings me back to my first awful book review.

The first time I spent a month’s worth of rent on an influencer to help me promote my book, but instead of helping me, she made it her full-time job to humiliate me on socials by picking apart my backlist one by one.

I lost way more than money in that bad deal.

Rejection hurts everyone. But I wonder if humiliation makes other people want to shut their eyes and never open them again, like it does to me. When is adulthood going to stop feeling like the torturous hell of grade school?