[Sophie’s POV]

I don’t hear about Vaughn’s numbers from the trades. I hear about them from the break room, where someone has left a copy of her book face-down on the counter like it embarrassed them to be seen with it. The spine is already cracked, the pages bent in a way that tells me it’s been passed through a few hands, skimmed more than read. I pause there longer than I should, staring at the title like it might blink first.

“Did you see the early reviews?” Mara asks from behind me, her voice cautious in the way people get when they’re talking about something adjacent to your life. She pours coffee without looking at me, pretending this is casual. “They’re… mixed.”

I nod slowly, because nodding is easier than speaking. “Mixed is generous,” I say, keeping my tone light even though something tight twists under my ribs. “Anger doesn’t always translate well on the page.”

Mara glances at me, then back at the book. “Some readers love it,” she says carefully. “They say it’s raw. Vindicating.”

“And others?” I ask.

She exhales. “Others say it feels like settling scores instead of telling a story.”

That tracks. Vaughn always wrote like she was speaking directly to someone who wasn’t in the room anymore, like every paragraph was a pointed look over her shoulder. Her audience exists, of course. There are always readers who want fury without reflection, who confuse exposure with healing. But the wide, reverent response she expected never arrives, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a complicated sense of closure in that.

Later that week, my own book hits its second print run. I’m in my office when Mark leans against the doorframe, smiling in a way that tells me this isn’t just polite praise. He holds the sales sheet like a flag.

“You did something important,” he says. “Not provocative for the sake of it. Not sanitized either. People feel seen.”

I swallow, the word seen landing heavier than any number on a spreadsheet. “That was the point,” I reply. “To talk about emotion without turning bodies into spectacle.”

“And you succeeded,” he says. “Readers are responding to the honesty. Even the ones who don’t agree.”

After he leaves, I sit alone and let myself breathe. Vaughn’s book fades into the background hum of the industry, discussed in panels about accountability and tone, referenced with caveats instead of reverence. Mine keeps being handed to people quietly, like a secret that doesn’t need defending. The difference isn’t subject matter. It’s my intention.

I think that’s the end of it. I think my body will finally catch up to the relief my mind keeps insisting on.

It doesn’t.

The nausea starts on a Tuesday morning after weeks at home, subtle enough that I ignore it. I sip ginger tea at my desk and tell myself it’s stress, or dehydration, or the fact that I stayed up too late revising a foreword. By noon, the room feels tilted, and the smell of someone’s reheated leftovers makes my stomach roll in a way that feels almost personal.

“You look green,” Cleo says when we meet for lunch at a restaurant near my apartment, eyeing me across the table with too much accuracy. She’s already unwrapped her sandwich, calm and observant in the way that makes her impossible to lie to. “Don’t tell me you skipped breakfast again.”

“I ate,” I protested, even though I can’t remember what. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for weeks,” she says, not unkindly. “And moody. And weird.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Wow. Thank you for that incredibly supportive assessment.”

She doesn’t smile. “I’m serious, Soph. You snapped at a barista yesterday.”

“That barista spelled my name wrong on purpose,” I reply, then wince as another wave of nausea rolls through me. I press my palm to the table, grounding myself. “Okay. Maybe I’m not great today.”

Cleo watches me for a long moment, her expression shifting from teasing to something sharper. “When was your last period?”

The question lands like a dropped glass. “I don’t track it regularly,” I say, defensive too fast. “And it’s been a chaotic month.”

“Sophie,” she says gently. “Answer me.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. My mind flips backward through calendars and deadlines and long nights that blurred into mornings. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Late, maybe.”

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