Three weeks later, the humidity of New York City felt like a physical weight compared to the dry heat of Cabo. Maya sat behind a velvet-draped table in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. This was the launch of her newest thriller, and the security was tighter than a presidential visit.
To the five hundred fans waiting in line, she was M.K. Thorne. She wore a custom-made tech-lace shroud. The piece featured an oversized, structured black hood that framed a delicate floral lace veil stretched tight over her face. The dark patterns acted like ink-stained armor, mapping perfectly to her features and blurring her identity into a beautiful, gothic silhouette. Long black gloves covered her hands, ensuring no one could even see her skin.
It was her armor. Behind the mask, she was safe. Or so she thought.
"Next," the security guard grunted.
Maya didn't look up. She kept her chin down, her fountain pen poised over a fresh title page. She had been in a daze since Mexico, her mind looping back to the scent of Julian's skin and the way he'd looked in the moonlight. She'd tried to write, but every hero in her new book was starting to sound like a witty, "nice" bad boy with a guitar.
"Who should I make this out to?" Maya asked, her voice slightly muffled by the mask, kept low and husky to disguise her natural tone.
A hand reached out—not the soft, manicured hand of a typical fan, but a large, tanned hand with calloused fingertips and a silver ring in the shape of a serpent.
Instead of a new book, a weathered, black leather Moleskine notebook was placed on the table.
Maya's heart stopped. The fountain pen leaked a single, dark blot of ink onto the page. She knew that notebook. It contained her roughest drafts, her darkest secrets, and the phone numbers she'd tried to forget.
"Make it out to 'The Ghost in the Garden,'" a smooth, familiar voice vibrated through the air.
Maya's head snapped up.
Standing before her was a man in a wide-brimmed hat and oversized glasses, his collar turned up. To anyone else, he looked like just another eccentric New Yorker. But Maya knew that jawline. She knew that smirk.
Julian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, invading her personal space just like he had on the balcony. The fans behind him were whispering, annoyed by the delay, but the world had suddenly narrowed down to just the two of them.
"You're a very hard woman to track down, M.K.," he whispered, his eyes glinting behind the dark lenses. "Especially when you leave your brain behind in my bedroom."
"You shouldn't be here," Maya hissed, her voice trembling. "Julian, there are cameras everywhere. If people see you—"
"Then they'll see me getting an autograph from my favorite author," he countered easily. He flipped the notebook open to the last page—the one where she'd scribbled her real name. "I read it, by the way. Your prose is beautiful. But the ending of the Cabo chapter? It felt... unfinished."
The security guard stepped forward, sensing the tension. "Sir, please move along, there are others waiting."
Julian didn't move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, translucent business card. He slid it across the table, covering her name in the notebook.
"I'm filming a music video for the new single. It's a period piece. High drama, lots of secrets. I told the label I wouldn't do it unless I had the best writer in the world to polish the script." He winked. "My car is out back. We have a lot to talk about—starting with why you blocked my number."
Maya's pulse hammered against the delicate lace covering her skin. The mask didn't just hide her face; it felt like it was absorbing the heat of her blush. Through the intricate floral patterns of the black mesh, Julian's face was fractured into a thousand dark pieces, but his eyes stayed piercingly clear.
"The mask is new," Julian murmured, leaning so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with the smell of old paper and ink. "Lace. Dangerous. It makes me wonder if you're hiding or if you're daring someone to look closer."
Maya's gloved fingers trembled as she reached for the notebook. "I'm not doing this here, Julian. Give it back."
"I told you," he whispered, his thumb resting firmly on the edge of the leather cover. "I'm not a fan of endings where the main characters just walk away. Come to the shoot tomorrow. The address is on the card."
He stood up straight, tipping his hat to her with a grin that could melt a glacier. "Lovely meeting you, Ms. Thorne. Big fan."
He vanished into the crowd before she could scream at him. Maya sat frozen, the black lace of her hood shadowing her eyes. She felt the weight of the card he'd left behind—it felt like a ticking time bomb.
The Reluctant Agreement
Two hours later, Maya was back in her apartment, the lace mask discarded on the floor like a shed skin. She was pacing the length of her living room, clutching the business card.
"He's blackmailing me," she muttered to her reflection.
"He's flirting with you," Chloe countered from the couch, where she was scrolling through a news feed. "And he's doing it with style. Maya, think about the press! If M.K. Thorne is credited as a writer on a Julian Cross music video, your sales will triple."
"My sales are fine!" Maya snapped. "My privacy is what's at stake."
"He has your notebook," Sarah pointed out quietly from the kitchen. "The one with the 'property of' page. If you don't go get it, he has proof that the world's most mysterious author spent a sweaty night in Cabo with a pop star."
Maya stopped pacing. She looked at the card again. Studio 4, Brooklyn. 10:00 AM. She wasn't just a writer; she was a strategist. If she went, she could get the notebook back, sign whatever NDA his lawyers had, and put an end to this. But as she thought about the way his silver ring had caught the light at the signing, a different feeling—something hot and rebellious—stirred in her chest.
The Set
The next morning, the studio was a chaotic symphony of moving lights, rolling cameras, and shouting assistants. Maya arrived dressed as "Maya"—not "M.K. Thorne." She wore oversized glasses, a baggy trench coat, and her hair pulled back so tight it hurt. She looked like a harried assistant, which was exactly the point.
She found him in the center of a Victorian-style library set. Julian was dressed in a period-accurate frock coat, looking like a dark romantic hero stepped out of the 19th century. He was arguing with a director when he spotted her.
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes raked over her plain disguise, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the confused look from the director.
"You look like a librarian who has a very dirty secret," he whispered as he reached her.
"I'm here for the notebook," Maya said, her voice hard. "And then I'm leaving."
"The notebook is in my trailer," Julian said, gesturing toward the back of the studio. "But the script... the script is a disaster, Maya. It needs your blood on the page. Help me fix the story, and I'll give you back your secrets."