Chapter 1
Olivia POV
I stared at the framed book covers on the wall behind Margot’s desk, trying not to fidget as I waited for my editor to finish her phone call and tell me why she had called me in urgently an hour ago.
It still felt surreal to see my book covers framed.
To see them in reality at all and not just as a dream I had had ever since I was sixteen and starting penning silly little stories in my bubblegum pink notebook.
My writing debut had been one of those slim, pastel fantasies with a glowing sword and two fully clothed teenagers staring soulfully at each other.
I had self-published it after a lot of trial and error in finding my right audience.
Three more had followed.
Clean.
Sweet.
Marketable to parents and librarians.
They paid the rent—barely—and let me keep writing full-time, which was all I’d ever wanted.
Margot finally ended her phone call and slid a contract across the desk while tapping it with one blood-red nail.
“It's a major imprint.” She said without fanfare, “The one that’s been eating up all the fantasy romance titles. They want the whole four-book series you’ve been shopping. Six-figure advance. Foreign rights in play. They’re talking adaptation interest already.”
I looked at the name on the contract and nearly choked.
When I had started writing a new fantasy series a year ago, I had thought it would go the same way as my first.
Self-published.
Eaten up by my fans and no one else.
Another notch in my writing career.
But my editor had insisted I at least try to go traditional this time.
I hadn't ever imagined anyone would even be interested.
My chair made an embarrassing squeak as I nearly tipped backward. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about money, Olivia.” She smiled the way sharks do when they spot a seal. “They love the world. They love the characters. They love the magic system.”
“Oh my god.”
Margot tempered my excitement with a finger in the air. “Wait. What they want is more romance. And by ‘more,’ they mean a lot more. Steam level five, minimum. On-page. Frequent. The kind that makes readers text their friends at 2 a.m.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “They want me to write spice?”
“Yes.”
“But I write clean YA romance. That is what my readers want.”
“Yes, Olivia. All three thousand of them. This could go to millions of readers. The possibilities are endless.”
“But only if I change my book?”
“It's not changing. It's just adding. They want you to write spice and hot spice at that. The market has shifted. Clean YA still sells, but adult fantasy romance with actual heat is printing money. They think you can do it. Your prose is already strong; you just need to let the characters take their clothes off and enjoy it.”
My brain short-circuited somewhere between “six figures” and “take their clothes off.”
For three years I’d been dating Cameron, who treated sex like an occasionally scheduled maintenance task. Tuesday nights, lights off, five to seven minutes of competent but uninspiring missionary, followed by a kiss on the forehead and him rolling over to check his phone.
That lack of passion had somehow translated into my books.
I wrote the yearning, the tension, the desperate need… and then cut away every single time.
It suited my young teenage readers.
It suited me.
It clearly didn't suit this publisher who was basically asking me to stop cutting and to transition from YA into full open door adult romance territory.
“Olivia?” Margot was frowning at me. “Spice isn't going to be a problem is it? It's just sex. Book sex at that.”
I thought of the last time Cameron and I had any sort of sex.
It had been three weeks ago.
A Tuesday of course.
He’d asked if I wanted to “get it out of the way” before dinner.
I’d said yes because it was easier than admitting I didn’t really want to.
I sat up straighter, heart hammering. “Of course it won’t be a problem.”
Margot’s eyebrow lifted, amused. “You sure? You’ve never written anything past a closed-door kiss. They want tongue. Hands. Multiple positions. Sweaty, messy, filthy. They want readers to feel the magic and the orgasms.”
Heat crawled up my neck.
I forced a bright, confident smile that felt like it belonged to someone who actually had a thrilling sex life. “I can write that. I’ve been… researching. Mentally. For the new series.”
Lies.
All lies.
My research consisted of sighing at BookTok videos and then closing the tab when Cameron came home.
Margot leaned back, satisfied. “Good. They want the first revised chapters in four weeks. Full outline for the spice beats by next month. They suggested giving your protagonists an enemies-to-lovers arc with a one-bed situation in book one and a magical bond that makes them feel each other’s arousal by book two —”
I was nodding so fast I probably looked like a bobblehead. “One bed. Magical bond. Got it.”
“And the heroine’s love interest needs to be… substantial. Tall, scarred, morally gray, filthy mouth. You have the basics already. The heroine will be a virgin obviously. They want him to talk her through it. Lots of talking, Olivia.”
My thighs pressed together under the table before I could stop them. “Virgin. Filthy mouth. Talking. Excellent. I can do filthy mouth.”
Inside my head, Cameron was already looking vaguely offended.
Margot slid a folder toward me. “Sample scenes from their top-performing titles. Read them tonight. See what the bar looks like.”
I took the folder with hands that were only slightly shaking. My brain was already spinning—new characters, new stakes, entire sex scenes I’d have to write instead of fade to black.
It felt terrifying.
It felt like the first honest thing I’d been asked to do with my career.
I stood, contract tucked under my arm. “Thank you. Seriously. I won’t let you down.”
She indicated my arm“Take some time before you sign it. But I'm telling you now, Olivia. You won't get another offer like this.”
“Okay. I understand.”
She must have read something in my expression.
“Olivia.” Margot’s softened. Only a fraction. “They’re not asking you to become a different writer. They’re asking you to stop holding back. Whatever’s been keeping you from writing the heat—get rid of it. Your new readers are going to thank you. So will your bank account.”
I walked out into the bright afternoon, folders clutched to my chest like contraband.
The city felt louder than usual.
My pulse was still racing.
Four weeks.
One-bed situations.
Magical bonds that let two people feel each other’s pleasure.
Filthy mouths.
I could already picture my hero becoming something I have never imagined—tall, battle-scarred, the kind of voice that would rumble instructions like “spread for me, sweetheart” while the heroine’s magic sparked between them.
The thought alone made my cheeks burn.
My phone buzzed as I reached the subway.
Cameron: Dinner at 7? Got that new pasta place.
I typed back a quick yes and shoved the phone away, the folder’s glossy sample pages already calling to me as I found a seat against the window on the subway and made myself start reading.
Margot had highlighted passages—descriptions of hands gripping hips, mouths tracing sweat-slick skin, the electric snap of power and lust colliding.
I’d never written anything like it.
My previous books stopped at longing glances and chaste kisses.
This was different.
This was a version of adult even I didn't feel most of the time.
By the time I got home to our tiny one-bedroom in the heart of the city, my head was spinning with possibilities.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my heels, and spread the sample pages across the kitchen table.
A new scene flared to life in my head: a fated-mates pair, rain-soaked, tearing at each other’s clothes in a cave while the heroine’s power flared and the hero growled exactly what he wanted to do to her.
I ran through it twice in my mind, heart thudding, then opened my laptop.
Cameron came in at six-thirty, tie loosened, smelling like the subway and aftershave. “Hey, babe. How was the meeting?”
I spun in my chair, practically vibrating. “They want the whole series. Big advance. But they need… more romance. Adult romance. On-page.”
He set down his briefcase and frowned. “Like sex scenes?”
“Spice, yeah. Multiple scenes per book. They said the readers want it hot.”
Cameron blinked, then shrugged. “Cool. Whatever sells, right?”
He kissed my forehead—the same distracted peck he always gave—and headed for the fridge. “Want wine? I picked up that cheap white you like.”
I watched him move around the kitchen, efficient and familiar and painfully oblivious.
Three years together and he still didn’t know I hated that wine.
My mind drifted back to the scene I had thought of.
What would it feel like to write something that raw?
To describe the hero pinning the heroine’s wrists above her head, magic crackling between their bodies, his mouth hot against her ear as he told her exactly how he was going to take her?
My thighs pressed together.
I closed the laptop before the flush gave me away.
Dinner was pleasant but predictable—pasta, small talk about his work, a mention of his parents’ anniversary.
When we went to bed, he reached for me with the usual Tuesday-night efficiency.
I let it happen, thinking that maybe this time I would get some inspiration rather than mentally crafting our weekly grocery list the whole time.
But as usual it was soft and quick and ultimately unsatisfying.
He came with a groan in my ear and I didn't come at all.
Afterward he rolled over, murmured “love you,” and was scrolling his phone within thirty seconds.
I lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, the folder’s pages still glowing behind my eyelids.
Margot’s words echoed - Stop holding back.
At two a.m. I slipped out of bed, padded to the living room, and opened a fresh document.
My fingers hovered.
Scene: Book 2, Chapter 12 – The Cave.
The rain hammered the mouth of the cave while Kael backed Lira against the stone wall. His hands—callused from sword and spell—slid beneath her soaked tunic.
“You feel it too,” he growled, magic threading through his fingers and straight into her core. “The bond. It’s burning.”
Lira’s breath hitched. “Kael—”
“Tell me to stop and I will. Otherwise I’m going to taste every inch of you until you’re begging the gods for mercy.”
I deleted the last line, cheeks flaming, then rewrote it again.
By three in the morning I had two pages of tentative spice, heart racing, a strange mix of thrill and terror running through me.
This was nothing like Cameron’s quiet, lights-off routine.
This was hungry.
Reckless.
Free.
And it still sounded nothing like me.
They were words - hot yes - but not my words.
I saved the file with a frustrated sigh, closed the laptop, and slipped back into bed.
Cameron didn’t stir.
Outside, the city hummed with ominous possibility.
Four weeks to deliver.
Four weeks to become the kind of writer who could write filthy sex scenes about deflowering virgins without flinching in embarrassment.
Fuck.
I was doomed.
