<h4>Chapter 208: Chapter 208</h4>


    <strong>ALVA</strong>


    It’s two in the morning. I sit in the dim light of my apartment, watching the blue glow of myptop screen as it illuminates a half-written sentence that has stared me down for three days straight.


    My fingers hover over the keyboard with uncertainty. Every time I try to force the next paragraph of my novel, my chest tightens.


    The cursor blinks, mocking me. The woman in my story, ra, is stuck in the same ce I am. She had given away her first child (a son) after a night that broke her body and her spirit.


    She’s now raising her daughter with the desperate kind of love only a mother who has lost something can give. And I can’t decide if she deserves peace at the end of her arc.


    Do I let her find redemption? Or do I let her die broken, just as Camille did? Did Camille die broken though? Even if she did, it must have been connected to Demi, and not me for sure.


    I drag my hands down my face, groaning. The irony isn’t lost on me that I initially set out to write a fictional book. ra isn’t Camille. The baby she gave away isn’t me. The cherished daughter isn’t Demi, or so I convince myself.


    Every page is a ghost of my reality, dressed up with altered names and different settings. It’s not a story I’m writing; it’s my life disguised as literature.


    I’d stop if I wasn’t over a hundred thousand words in, if I wasn’t so emotionally invested in ensuring the discarded but innocent child got a happier ending than I ever will.


    It’s been a grueling set of writing months, and I still have no idea how to close it. Not even NaNoWriMo could fix that.


    The sound of footsteps breaks the stillness.


    "Alva?" Nomi’s voice trickles in from the doorway. She pushes inside without waiting for an answer, her eyes immediately falling on the openptop in front of me.


    She’s barefoot with a messy high bun. She’s also wearing one of my hoodies that swallows her petite frame. Normally, I’d melt at the sight. Tonight, I tense up as I usually do whenever she catches me working on my secret project.


    "You’re at it again," she says, crossing her arms. Damn, I thought she was fast asleep.


    I snap theptop shut. "Just... trying to finish something."


    "Something you’ve been trying to finish for months," she counters, walking closer. Her tone is yful, but her eyes are sharp. "You never let me read a single page. Not one."


    Because you’d see me, I think. You’d know exactly what kind of bastard you’ve been sleeping next to.


    Instead, I force a half-smile. "It’s just a stupid past time, not ready for anyone to see. Trust me, you’d hate it. I’m ready for bed."


    "Don’t give me that." She clocks my attempt at evasion. Her voice trembles just slightly, like she’s been bottling this for a while. "You don’t trust me enough to share something that obviously means the world to you?"


    "What? It’s a silly book, Nomi. It’s not about trust."


    "Then what is it, Alva?" Her eyes sh. "You spend hours lost in that thing, typing, deleting, sighing like the world’s ending. But the moment I ask to see it, you shut me out like it’s ssified NASA secret. Do you know how that feels, especially given how eagerly I share <i>everything</i> with you? It feels like you’re building a whole part of yourself that I’m not allowed into."


    The guilt is sharp, but anger rises faster, shielding me. "I told you...I’m not confident in it yet. I’m not damn near perfect like you. Everything you touch turns to gold, figuratively. That..." I point at myptop. "It’s messy. Poorly written. And there’s no ending in view."


    "You don’t need to be confident for me. I’m not a critic, Alva. I’m your girlfriend. Save the polished stuff for the big guns in publishing and let me see all the mess first." She rubs my shoulders and nts a quick kiss behind my ear. "That book will never feel perfect in your eyes. It’s the writer’s curse."


    I open my mouth to reply her, but her next words almost stop my heart.


    "That’s why I sent it to someone who can help."


    Seconds after she drops that bomb with an acre wide grin on her face, all I can hear is tinnitus ringing in my ears. When my vision returns, I yank her arms off my neck unceremoniously.


    "You what?"


    Her eyshes flutter nervously. "You know my mom has friends in publishing, so I mailed it to one of her contacts—a literary agent. I just thought I could help..."


    I shoot to my feet, chair scraping violently against the floor. "You did what, Nomi?" The words rip from my throat before I can stop them.


    Her face drains of color at the fury in my voice. "I—I thought it would motivate you. And guess what? The agent <i>actually</i> read it. He said it’s incredible, Alva. He wants to talk to you about a potential contract. Don’t you get it? This could be your big break!"


    "Nomi, what the hell were you thinking?"


    "I was trying to help you!" she cries, her hands trembling now. "You’re always doubting yourself. I wanted you to see what someone in the industry thinks."


    "You had no right," I snarl. My pulse hammers in my temples.


    "How long ago did you send it?"


    Her lips part, but she hesitates.


    "How long?" I bark at her.


    Tears pool in her eyes. "A few days ago. He prioritized it because of my mom. He... he’s eager to meet you, Alva."


    My chest tightens. My stomach churns. Panic presses against my ribcage like a vice. I never set out to do this because I actually wanted a publishing deal. No, I am not a writer. Somehow, this was therapeutic for me. Crafting a story akin to mine felt like looking from the outside and watching someone else carry the burden and pain I had lugged for years.


    I rake a hand through my hair, pacing. "Goddammit, Nomi. You don’t understand. That story isn’t—" I stop myself before the words can tumble out.


    She stares at me, trembling. "Why are you acting like this? I thought you’d be happy. Why would you write a book if you never wanted it seen?"


    I freeze, throat burning. She can’t know the truth, not yet. She can’t know the blood-soaked roots that feed every word in that manuscript. I dial down on my reaction to ease her suspicion.


    "I’m sorry if I scared you but I’m just not ready for that plunge. Tell the agent I’m not interested. End of story." I grab my jacket and head for the door, unsure where my night drive will lead me.


    "Alva—"


    "Just do it, Nomi. I won’t ask again!" My voice cracks louder than I intended, and the fear in her eyes guts me. I can’t stand it. I storm out before she sees the shame on my face.


    ***


    For days, the guilt and shame eat at me. Nomi was only trying to help me. It’s not her fault that she’s clueless about my painful birth story, and my insecurity when ites to my family.


    I’ve deliberated kept eighty percent of my identity hidden from her. She doesn’t even know I have a living parent.


    Things have been rocky for us since that night. I want to apologize to her but I can’t because it would entail answering her questions about my life. I’m not ready for that, and she’s not willing topromise for peace to reign, at least not anymore.


    The agent’s number shes across my phone and I ignore it. Thest time I texted Nomi about it, she said she passed my message to the agent but he’s relentless.


    I have been smashing the calls into voicemail, unsure why I haven’t blocked it yet. Eventually, the buzzing wears me down and I realize that if I don’t handle this, he’ll just keep digging.


    And if Duncan ever hears about this book...No. That cannot happen.


    So, three dayster, I find myself sitting across from the agent at a corner café. He’s slick, mid-forties, suit too sharp for this dusty ce. Unsurprisingly, his grin is shark-like. I bet they all pull this card whenever they’re desperate to sign a new client.


    "Alva!" he gushes, extending his hand like we’re old friends. "Or should I say, ’E. K. Harrow’? Fantastic pen name by the way. Very marketable. I’m Elijah Hill."


    I grip his hand briefly, then pull away. "I’ll make this quick. I’m not interested in your offer. I believe my girlfriendmunicated that to you as well."


    Heughs like I’ve made a joke. "Not interested? Kid, I’ve been in this business thirteen years, and your manuscript... it’s one of the rawest, most gut-punching pieces I’ve read. ra’s story, her pain, the child she gave away—it’s devastating. People will eat this up."


    My jaw clenches. "It’s just a dumb story. Something I made up as a result of an overactive imagination. Nothing more."


    "Cliché? Maybe but I certainly feel like there’s more to it." He smirks knowingly. "Trust me, I’ve read enough to know the difference. There are two kinds of great books: the ones born from pure imagination, and the ones carved out of lived experience. Yours isn’t the first. And with respect, Alva, you’re no natural-born wordsmith. The grammar slips, the pacing stumbles—but the emotion? The authenticity? That’s real. Too real to be <i>made up."</i>


    "Whatever, man. I’m not publishing it."


    He leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Do you know how rare it is for an unfinished manuscript to nearly make me cry? Do you know the market for stories like this? Do you know how many copies titles like <i>The Child She Buried</i> or <i>Letters from the Broken Cradle</i> sold in Danvarr alone? Millions. And don’t get me started on adaptations. Netflix, films, stage ys—your book screams potential."


    My fists tighten under the table. "Drop it."


    "I can’t," he says simply. "Because I feel like I know what’s missing in this great book."


    The words hit me like a p. Against my will, I meet his eyes.


    He smiles like a man who’s solved a puzzle. "ra—the mother—she gave away her son. But you left the boy dangling in the dark. What if, in her guilt, she left him something? A letter. A token. A keepsake. Some proof that she thought of him, even as she raised the daughter she kept. Readers crave that kind of thread. It makes them ache, but it also redeems her."


    My breath stutters.


    The agent lowers his voice. "I was adopted, you know. My birth mother left me a watch with her initials, even though she never came back for me. It meant she cared, in her own broken way. Trust me: if ra leaves something behind, your story will sing."


    My hands tremble under the table. Did Camille...? Could she have left me something in her own broken way?


    No. That’s impossible. Marcel would’ve told me. He is the only one who knows I exist and the only one Camille will entrust with something like that. Unless...


    I shove back from the table, and surge to my feet. "Thank you for your time." I mutter. My brain is spinning right now.


    "Hey," the agent calls after me, surprised. "Think about it. That’s all I’m saying. You’ve got great potential, kid."


    I stalk out into the night air, lungs burning.


    If there’s even a chance...


    I clench my fists tightly. If Marcel’s been holding out on me all this time...I won’t spare him or his precious niece!