Chapter 8 Whispers Of Failure

• ~ Joan ~
• I glared at Aaron, who sat with his usual regal arrogance, an amused expression playing on his face. Plucking my earbuds out, I narrowed my eyes at him.
• “You scared me,” I snapped, pushing myself off the ground and brushing off imaginary dust.
• “Not my fault you decided to block out the world,” he said, his gaze flicking to the earbuds in my hand with thinly veiled disapproval. I cocked my head, annoyed.
• “Why were you sitting there watching me like some creep?” I asked, crossing my arms. He shrugged, his dark eyes dragging over me leisurely, setting my nerves alight.
• “I liked what I was seeing, so…” He let the words trail off.
• I huffed, turned away, and headed to the counter, pouring a glass of water. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, the weight of his attention impossible to ignore.
• My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen: a text from my editor.
• “Please tell me you’ve come up with something.”
• I sighed, dropping the phone fall on the counter as I gripped the edge. Writing had always been my escape, the thing that steadied me when life spun out of control.
• After leaving the orphanage—a place where no one ever adopted me—I dove into writing full-time. I quickly realized I could actually earn a living from it. That led to my debut novel, His Mistress. I hadn’t expected its success, but by 22, it had catapulted me into the spotlight.
• Eventually, I signed a deal with a publishing house after relentless persuasion from my editor, Shayne. Now, I faced a problem: I had no idea what to write next.
• “Zoning out?” Aaron’s voice sliced through my thoughts, and I turned to see him still watching me, his sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade.
• Suppressing a sigh, I turned, leaning against the kitchen island.
• I leaned against the island, meeting his stare with forced calm. “Miss me? Or is it because I haven’t given you a reply yet?” My tone was flat, the barest edge of sarcasm creeping in.
• He didn’t respond. Not that I’d expected him to. The tension in the room grew heavier, making me shift uncomfortably.
• “Where’s Rhoda?” he finally asked, his voice sharp. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
• Of course, it always came back to her.
• “She’s not home,” I said, my tone light, almost dismissive as I inspected my nails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
• “That doesn’t answer my question, does it? I asked where she is,” he pressed, his voice now carrying an icy undercurrent.
• Lifting my gaze in his direction, I opened my mouth to reply, but the door burst open, and Rhoda breezed in, saving me from what would have likely been a biting retort.
• With a paper bag in her hands—probably our late lunch—her eyes darted between Aaron and me.
• “Okay, I’m shocked you two aren’t at each other’s throats,” she said, setting the bag on the island.
• “Oh, I was just about to murder him,” I muttered for her ears only. She huffed a laugh, shaking her head as Aaron stood, silently excusing himself from the room.
• I turned back to Rhoda, helping her unpack the food as we fell into a familiar rhythm. “Shayne texted,” I said quietly, breaking the silence.
• “And?” she prompted, raising a brow.
• “She wanted to know if I’ve come up with anything yet,” I admitted, my voice barely audible as a familiar sense of failure crept over me.
• How could I explain that I hadn’t written a single word since my last hit? I’d sit in front of my laptop for hours, staring at the blank screen. Nothing came.
• “So, do you have anything in mind?” she asked.
• I shrugged, feeling the bitterness creep in. “I have no idea,” I admitted, the words tasting sour on my tongue. Every time I opened my laptop, all I could do was stare at the screen, willing something—anything—to come. Nothing did.
• Rhoda sighed, setting a hand on my arm. “Jo, if it’s not working, just tell her. Call off the deal and free yourself from the pressure.”
• “And risk telling the world that JJ can’t write anymore?” I shook my head firmly. “Backing out isn’t an option, Rhoda.” She fell silent. Failure wasn’t an option. I’d written a masterpiece once, and I’d do it again, no matter what it took.
• Writing wasn’t just a career for me—it was my lifeline. Unlike Rhoda, whose parents left her a trust fund and a career she genuinely loved, I had nothing. No parents, no safety net, no fallback. Just me.
• A bitter taste rose in my throat as I pushed the thought away.
• “Then we’ll figure it out,” she said after a moment, her voice steady and sure. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get you writing again.”
• I nodded. “I hope so.” If I couldn’t find my muse here, I wasn’t sure I’d find it anywhere.