Chapter 1
Chapter One: More Than A Pretty Face
Okay, here we go, smile girl.
A silver and sparkling heel hits the velvet dense carpet. In the slightest moment of hesitation, the pause of not wanting to be here, the other foot follows. La’niia Pierce rises out of the car like the captured moment of a blooming rose. Her quiet control speaks before anything else, one poised hand resting on the car door, the other near her side, her manicured fingers painted red and gently curled. Her every movement is meticulously planned. Camera flashes make her skin heat, but she remains reserved.
She doesn’t make a face.
She doesn’t blink.
Photographers call to her from behind the barricades, and she gently smiles and waves.
Some of the photographers call her name, some calling her Beacon’s guest, and only one asking if she’s here to promote something.
A woman who’s dressed to gain any and all attention, in a red dress, whispers loudly. “That’s the author, you know, the one who writes all that creepy shit.”
A reporter leans over the rail and, with much gusto, asks in a loud voice. “Who are you wearing?”
Another asked if she was working on anything new, but not before adding, “Or are you just here to look good?”
It takes everything for La’niia to take the practiced calming breath she has been taught to use before answering when triggered. The controlled inhale and exhale become a shield, a moment of stillness in the storm of unwanted attention. This technique, honed over time, enables her to maintain her composure and respond with the measured grace she has cultivated as a public figure, deflecting crude comments and shallow inquiries with professional poise. She smiles without showing teeth. Her eyes meet the lenses, and she keeps her reserve.
No one mentions the fact that her third novel has outsold most of the top superhero films last quarter. No one mentions that the adaptation of her first book into a film grossed five hundred million in its opening weekend. No one asked how it felt to be the most widely read horror writer in the generation. No one cited any part of her keynote lecture from only two weeks ago.
All of La’niia’s accomplishments are invisible to her beauty.
She knew better than to expect recognition, yet the careless words that tumble from people’s mouths over her awe-inspiring beauty still sting.
They all look at her, but none really see her.
La’niia smiles politely as someone shouts a compliment about her earrings. Another reporter belts out if she’ll be walking the carpet of her next movie premiere soon, but the scathing tone had more than seeped in, making it clear the man hadn’t been sincere in asking at all.
The lights flickered, she gave them their poses and their moment before the moment passed, and she moved on.
The inside of the Civic Art Tower stretches high and gleams in cold light. This place was built for events like this one: polished, transparent, and expensive. Banners bearing Malik’s ensign, all gold and black, hang from the balconies. The image is synonymous with Malik and easily recognized all across the country: a circle, backlit with radiance, standing for powerful light, the symbol of Beacon.
That’s his symbol.
That’s who they all have: Beacon. I have Milik.
Her phone buzzes and she doesn’t look, knowing it’s Rayna. Her timing is always exact.
La’niia steps through the lobby with the same deliberate rhythm she uses on panels, interviews, and bookstore stages. Confidence wasn’t something she needed to look for, but a carefully cultivated weapon of survival she learned to wield with precision. Confidence is also the shield she learned to hide behind. La’niia long decided that if people didn’t want to see her, then they would only see what she chose for them to see.
However, tonight carries a different weight, making her subtly more aware of what the public might perceive.
As she checks into the guest tablet, there’s the same familiar frustration of the woman behind the podium mistyping her name. The woman does so twice. Pierce became Price; then Pricce.
With a soft, feminine calm, La’niia corrected it, and with a nod that is sophisticated and stern, she ends the exchange.
When the tablet assignment comes through, La’niia has to catch her face and make sure she doesn’t look disappointed, but she is. She’s not seated at the front, not beside Malik, no, she’s at table seven, center-left.
Why am I even invited?
She thanks the woman and moves through the lobby.
Click-clack.
Her heels snap against the highly polished marble floors as she scans the crowd, but says little.
A few guests recognize her.
One whispers, “That’s the author, you know she writes that weird mental stuff, psychological.” Another leans in and asks La’niia what she thinks about horror being “so trendy right now”.
She answers professionally and politely, but offers nothing extra; she quickly turns towards the grand staircase.
Her gown shifts along the marble. Her face gives no hint of her mood, but inside, something stabs into her ribs.
I’m not angry.
I’m not even surprised.
This is a different kind of ache.
La’niia has earned everything she has.
Four novels. Two films. Her name is in lights without having needed to bare skin or sleep with the person who could put her name there. She didn’t soften her tone, and she didn’t dumb herself down. Giving all glory to God, La’niia had been blessed with an ability to write words that gripped people by the throat. She has spoken with presidents. She has been invited to conferences, councils, and commissions. Yet, in this room, on this night, she is once again reduced to an elegant silhouette walking ahead of the main event.
A man in a dark grey tux smiles as she passes, but leans into his date and says, “She’s so cold. I can’t tell if she’s someone’s wife or someone’s PR.”
She hears it. He meant for her to. She gives no reaction.
Reaching the second floor, she looks over the mezzanine. Her hands gently rest on the rail. She looks like perfection, her posture precise.
The hush begins behind her.
She turns in time to see the doors part.
Malik enters.
No, that’s him; Beacon.
His uniform caught the light from the chandeliers, as if they were perfectly spaced to highlight the majesty that enveloped his presence. The light isn’t too bright but just enough to make him look otherworldly. His face is uncovered. He walks in with the same gravity that has made the city fall in love with him.
The crowd responds with quiet awe.
Some rose to their feet as though summoned.
A boy near the bar whispers, “He’s really here.”
Malik passes the press line without stopping. His eyes swept the lobby once and then landed on her.
He gives a barely there nod.
She receives it; nothing more.
He looks away.
He doesn’t come closer.
La’niia exhales through her nose, her eyes slightly stinging, adjusting the neckline of her dress with one motion, and turns toward the inner staircase that leads to the ballroom level.
She walks slowly.
The same way she did when she was ten years old in a dress her father had picked out. She remembers the banquet hall and the civic award being presented to him. It was a full room, and her father didn’t look at her with a glance at all until the event was over. Her father had been a brilliant man. In his way, a hero. However, not once had the man ever said he was proud of her.
He doesn’t mean to be like him.
How would Malik even know he’s anything like him?
I never talk about him.
La’niia never asked Malik to be different, but tonight she can feel herself remembering how it felt to be dressed up and unseen. She reaches the top of the stairs, and the applause from below has already quieted. The music returns, and the show is beginning.
So, she enters the space as quietly as her strength allows her to make an entrance. She takes her time scanning the room, but she isn’t searching for Malik:
He isn’t here tonight; this is Beacon’s space, but more and more space is becoming Beacon’s.
When do I get Malik?
With a wistfulness, she arrives at table seven, near the center aisle, two rows back from the front.
At least this time I get a respectable seat.
This seat is placed intentionally in proximity to the stage. The placement is not too close to invite prying questions and speculations, but close enough to photograph, while being far enough to ignore. Her chair is already pulled out for her, and as La’niia gazes at it, so arises the intense feeling that she simply doesn’t belong here. She pushes the feeling down and away, her mental avoidance unwilling to delve into why she feels this emotion. She doesn’t notice her lingering as she doesn’t sit just yet.
A young woman touches La’niia’s hand that is bracing on the back of the pulled-out empty chair and smiles up at her brightly.
“Hey, you’re that author, right?” The young woman sounds interested. “You look exactly like your author photo.”
Inclining her head, La’niia enters her public persona again. “Yeah, that’s me, La’niia Pierce.”
The girl smiles even bigger with a certain awe. “You know that one story, the one where the girl’s dead boyfriend tries to make her join him in death? It literally scared the hell out of me!”
The corner of her deep red, coated lips rises a bit. “That’s usually the idea of the story.”
The young woman turns back to her phone.
La’niia takes her seat.
A man across the table, the kind that looks like he chases women all day and evening, leans into the conversation. His bow-tie is already loosened, giving him that slightly sloppy, bad buy vibe, whatever he’s drinking is already half gone.
“You actually write those stories?” His voice is incredulous and hints that it isn’t a question.
La’niia once again breathes deeply and fights the urge to sink her teeth into her bottom lip. She reaches for her glass, sipping, just to wet her mouth a compose herself. “I do.”
He does a chuckle, a breathy little sound that dismisses her admission. “You know, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re too elegant to write that mess. You should leave it to the awkward, scary ones.”
La’niia looks him up and down, with a lift of her eyebrow, “I always found the scariest things don’t appear to be scary. Maybe that’s the key to my success, that I am both elegant and yet the same person who writes the things that keep people up at night.”
He rubs the back of his head with a forced chuckle. “Yeah, maybe it’s that...you know, you just don’t look like the sort to think of all that creepy, intense, type of stuff. I always thought horror writers were kinda weirdos, the types who don’t fit in a crowd, twitchy, and sort of goth.”
That almost makes her laugh from the sheer stupidity expressed. “You’re thinking of characters and not people, huh? Like, you think the Halloween stores write these books and scripts?”
The entire table chuckles, and the guy turns a little red, a little small. He tries to regain some semblance of composure, but the damage is done. La’niia watches him, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, before returning to the gentle sip of her champagne, the silence that falls around the table a comforting blanket.
La’niia picks up her glass with a slight twist of her lips.
She pins the guy, briefly but intensely, with eye contact over the edge of her glass before taking a well-earned sip of her champagne. The glass in her hand is cold, but internally, she feels the warmth that makes a loud, sexist man shrink can only inspire. The fabric against her body is snug and smooth as she effortlessly poses in her chair, natural, but a sign that she welcomes the silence that falls around the table.
Across the room, conversations buzz like the bubbles in her drink.
Branding deals.
Media rollout.
Crypto.
Other nonsense.
No one mentions literature.
I mean, what did I think, that my top-selling movie adaptation would be a topic of conversation?
But even if the movie wasn’t topic of conversation worthy for those in this room, neither were the topics of adaptation rights, the cultural reach of horror, nor the talk she’d given but weeks ago on violence against women and family and silence in American mythmaking. The talk had gone viral, and yet, somehow tonight, here, there is no one to even whisper or allude to any of it.
They continue to comment on her earrings.
I wish I had never chosen them.
They continue to remark on her skin.
It doesn’t matter how much I say it’s good food and exercise, they think it’s some new peel or injection.
They remark on her poise and her posture.
A woman, bless her heart, leans over and gives what she believes to be a compliment. “You look like his prize award.”
La’niia’s smile rises and falls, a delicate dance of amusement and a hint of something deeper, a quiet strength that belies her elegant facade. The words still sting, but now, a different kind of fire ignites within her, a determination to carve her path, unburdened by expectations.
It’s the only reaction she allows herself to give to the vain conversations and assumptions.
The room shifts behind her.
La’niia doesn’t need to turn around to know Malik has emerged from wherever he disappeared to when arriving at the building.
She listens to the hush that precedes the hum of whispers.
His steps follow the whispers.
Always even.
Never hurried.
Measured to the inch.
Then she hears the camera clicks.
The sound of applause begins to break out in a polite and reverent sound.
That’s when she looks.
Malik walks through the room like a hot knife dragged through butter, without breaking that meticulous stride. His eyes and mind were focused on getting to the appointed spot. His suit isn’t glowing, but the matte fabric catches the room’s light across his shoulders. His gloves are off and his face is visible, sporting a clean expression that holds no shadow or hesitation. The hush that had enveloped the room seems to deepen, and all eyes follow his path, a silent acknowledgment of his presence. A low murmur ripples through the crowd as he moves, a testament to the power and influence he carries.
Malik rarely smiles, especially in public.
Even now, his face holds that stillness that La’niia wishes were so easy for her to have. People think his composure in media was a stunt of some sort, but she knows it’s simply how Malik processes a room.
He doesn’t like artificial light, but he understands why it’s needed.
He doesn’t like unpredictable noise, but he knows he can’t control all sound.
He really gets annoyed with interruptions, but he’s practiced hiding his fidgets and ticks.
The world around Malik treats these things as preferences and quirks, but La’niia knows things better; she knows him better.
These are thresholds, and crossing them has consequences.
It’s not anger, but it’s worse; it’s withdrawal and silence that could take hours to undo.
Tonight Malik is calm.
This means that everything has been adjusted for him in advance.
Timelines, temperature, and lighting, all coordinated so that he could function and not shut down.
“He’s so tall, you don’t see that in the footage.” Someone whispers at her table.
“I would fold in his presence. Baby, when I tell you, he could turn me every which way loose...” A woman whispers.
He passes within twelve feet of her. Their eyes meet briefly, but it means a lot when she knows his eye contact isn’t always a given.
He nods.
La’niia didn’t expect more.
The young woman from earlier leans over. “He’s a freaking god. He’s so poised. He just doesn’t move like anyone else. I’m sure you always feel so safe with him.”
La’niia smiles gently. “Yeah, he’s certainly precise.”
The lights dim.
La’niia lets out a little breath, and everyone’s focus is up front as a presenter takes the stage. She’s glad no one is no longer looking to point out every beautiful thing about her that is only skin deep. She listens, but the words begin to blur.
Service.
Sacrifice.
Her attention lights up again as the screen above the stage lights up. A montage plays.
Beacon carrying a child.
Beacon is pulling a van off the freeway.
Beacon clearing a tunnel collapse.
His face appears again and again in slow motion.
And La’niia feels that feeling, the feeling of witnessing someone so big, so huge, and wondering what her place is in his life. The weight of his presence is undeniable, a constant hum in the room that she can’t ignore. She is a small part of a much larger world, and the question of her relevance, her worth, hangs heavy in the air.
She’d been present for two of the moments shown, and neither had felt cinematic.
She felt real concern and worry for the people Malik was attempting to help.
She felt real concern and worry for the man she loves, even though others only see him as “super.”
The video ends, and Malik steps onto the stage. The room falls silent, save for the faint hum of anticipation. His presence is a magnet, drawing all eyes towards him as he moves with the confident grace that has become his signature. The spotlight catches the glint of his uniform, transforming him into an emblem of power and unwavering resolve.
He adjusts the mic twice.
Once for height.
Once again, by a fraction of an inch.
He waits three beats and then begins.
He always speaks without notes.
His memory is just that good.
His cadence is exact. His voice sounds like a hero as he states three facts and one example. There is a pause, and then he says names.
He always starts with the names.
The mayor.
The construction union.
A rescue team captain.
A poet who died under collapsed scaffolding.
A teenager who once sold drugs but is now a regular volunteer at a local flood shelter.
The guests nod in approval, and La’niia holds back her applause.
She is proud of him.
Each name comes without embellishment. He doesn’t speak with metaphor, just stern memory. His voice is flat, not emotionless, but it’s not holding the extras most people use to perform for others.
La’niia smiles at his excellent execution of the speech. The rhythm is perfect as she doesn’t pay attention to the content. She already knows the order because he always rehearses out loud when he is alone.
Her name doesn’t appear, and that’s when her smile does fade because that, that she didn’t expect tonight to lose. The carefully constructed facade cracks, revealing a vulnerability that has been hidden for so long. The weight of the unspoken words, the ignored achievements, and the casual dismissals all coalesce into a palpable sense of disappointment. In this moment, La’niia is stripped bare, not of her beauty or her talent, but of the recognition she deserves. The event, meant to celebrate and uplift, instead leaves her feeling invisible and unheard, a stark contrast to the glittering world around her.
The same young lady leans over again. “You’re so freaking lucky! I hope you know that.”
La’niia doesn’t trust her voice at first, but she gives a nod. “He does his job well.”
Applause erupts.
Malik gives a final nod and steps back from the podium. The lights come up slowly. The servers move between the tables, and the next part of the program is beginning.
La’niia’s hands tremble only as much as she alone can notice as she folds her napkin in half and places it on her thighs. She rests her hands on top of it.
I’m not angry.
I’m surprised.
I’m not hurt.
She chants this to herself over and over, but the names also run in between those things she tells herself, and most importantly, by the large silence of her name remaining unsaid.
