Chapter One: Welcome to the Limelight
There’s something strangely vulnerable about walking onto a talk show stage. It’s not the lights, or the cameras, or even the sea of strangers waiting to judge your shoes.
It’s knowing you can’t trip.
Which is exactly what I almost do.
“And next up—she’s the author of Claimed by the Crown of Thorns, and the woman responsible for a 72% spike in fairy-themed lingerie sales—please welcome Theodora Rose!”
I take a deep breath and walk out, channeling every graceful woman I’ve ever admired. Audrey Hepburn. Grace Kelly. The ballerina emoji.
The applause is loud, warm. My palms are damp. I smile like someone who has everything under control, which of course means I definitely don’t.
Gloria, the host, rises to greet me, her hug as practiced as her teeth-whitening regimen.
“You’re even lovelier in person,” she says, guiding me to the sleek couch.
“That’s very kind,” I say, smoothing my skirt and praying my top isn’t doing anything weird. “I wore mascara for you, so this feels serious.”
She laughs, and I exhale—tiny victories.
“So, Claimed by the Crown of Thorns is coming out next week, and I hear a certain film studio is sniffing around?”
“There are…conversations,” I say, carefully. “But you know how Hollywood is. One day it’s a movie, the next it’s a TikTok trend.”
“I’ve read it,” Gloria says, leaning in. “And I’ll just say—if they don’t make it, I will. And I’ll cast myself as the Queen of the Thistle Realm.”
“Perfect,” I say. “But only if you agree to speak exclusively in florals and innuendo.”
The audience laughs. I start to feel my shoulders loosen.
“Well,” Gloria says, smiling like a cat about to pounce, “speaking of innuendo… we have a surprise for you.”
My stomach does a small, elegant somersault.
“Ladies and gentlemen… Dimez!”
The room goes wild.
Dimez strolls out with that impossible confidence only men with Grammys and good cheekbones can pull off. He’s wearing a dark, tailored suit—unexpectedly classy—and a quiet grin like he knows every secret in the room.
“Seriously?” I say under my breath, laughing softly.
“You know him?” Gloria asks, clearly delighted.
“Let’s just say I’ve quoted his lyrics… inappropriately.”
Dimez slides onto the couch beside me, giving me a look that could melt velvet.
“I’ve read your work too,” he says, casually. “Fairies, forbidden royalty… intense stuff.”
“I write what I know,” I say. “Well. Minus the wings and scandalous crowns.”
“Shame,” he says. “I was hoping you’d cast me as the morally gray prince who seduces the enemy.”
“You might have the morally gray part down,” I reply. “But can you swordfight while monologuing about love and destiny?”
He chuckles. “I’ve battled worse on Twitter. I think I’m qualified.”
“We’ll see,” I say, arching a brow. “The role also requires emotional vulnerability and a very intense stare.”
He leans in slightly, matching my gaze. “How’s this?”
I blink. The audience is laughing again, but all I hear is the faint rush of blood in my ears.
“Not bad,” I say, straightening. “But you’ll need a screen test.”
“You offering?”
“I’m not cheap,” I say, smiling. “And I charge by the page.”
Gloria’s losing it. I can feel her eyes twinkling.
So here I am, sitting on a couch beside a rapper I once listened to during a breakup bath, accidentally flirting on national television.
And weirdly?
It feels like chapter one.
