Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He strode off stage, ignoring Mike Holmes’s repeated protests, while the camera tracked his progress until he disappeared backstage. They switched back to Mike, who stared blankly directly into the lens for a few seconds before blinking, and smiling with the practiced ease of a consummate professional. He smoothly apologized for the disrupted schedule with a forced chuckle and moved on to their next guest.
It had been Trystan’s only televised interview. He’d made a few red-carpet appearances before and after that—always stag—ignoring all of the inevitable questions about Trish or Iris.
After that disastrous interview, interest in Iris had ratcheted up from rabid curiosity to slanderous and sordid insults. Nothing was exempt from public scrutiny, excerpts from her journal—her private thoughts and insecurities, her innermost secrets, her sexual fantasies, everything that had happened between her and Trystan—had been released on an entertainment blog just hours before that interview. Iris wasn’t sure how, likely Evan, probably at the behest of Mike Holmes’s team.
How it had happened was moot. The fact was it had happened and Iris felt like she’d been stripped naked and flayed alive before a jeering, unsympathetic crowd. Especially since Trystan’s outraged fans had started the teamtrystan hashtag, demanding that Iris be canceled, while labeling her everything from a money-hungry slut, to an obsessive psychopathic stalker, who many believed posed an actual physical threat toward Trystan. It was around then that the death threats had begun too.
Iris felt increasingly isolated from her family, from the few people she’d considered her friends. Her flatmates had been curious and supportive at first but after those first snippets of the journal had been leaked, they’d begun to avoid her. As if they were afraid that the public ridicule was somehow contagious.
The requests—then near demands—for interviews were becoming overwhelming, with some of the more notorious gossip rags offering obscene amounts of money for her “side” of the story. She was pretty certain her steadfast refusal to engage with any of them was one of the reasons the gutter press had turned hostile so quickly. Why she was now being vilified, mocked, and straight-up lied about. She didn’t have the energy or the desire—quite frankly—to fight some of the libelous things being printed about her. And she felt like she was free-falling into a dark abyss, no bottom in sight.
All she had right now to keep her sane was her work. And her writing. The writing gave her an escape from her intolerable reality.
She sighed and tucked her phone under her desk chair’s cushion. Even though the device was on silent, the screen lit up with every new notification. It was distracting and, worse, she would often see the opening lines of whatever horrible message had been sent to her, which—when they came continuously—could send her into a terrible funk.
She was between editing jobs right now. A few of her clients had jumped on the #cancelirishughes bandwagon and dropped her like a hot potato, but her more long-term regulars had stuck with her. It did mean she had less work to focus on and she was concerned she would start feeling the financial pinch soon. In all likelihood, she’d have to move back in with her parents at some point until the world forgot about her, but for now she was only just managing to keep her head above water.
She opened up her manuscript, and reread the last chapter. This was the one thing that brought her any joy at the moment. She loved how the story and characters were developing. Her pregnant werewolf detective would be going into labor soon. And Iris had submerged herself in a happy little research bubble, reading anything she could find on lycanthropy, with materials ranging from serious psychological tomes, to myths and folklore, as well as sexy, fun paranormal romances.
She was watching a fascinating documentary about European lycanthropic mythology when a quiet knock sounded on her bedroom door. She paused and tilted her head, wondering if she’d imagined the sound.
When the timid knock came again, she swiveled her chair to face the door.
“Come in.”
“Hey, Iris” her flatmate Hilary said quietly. “We need to talk.”
Hilary and their other flatmate, Nora, stood framed in Iris’s bedroom doorway, and Iris froze at the sight of them. The women wore matching expressions of apology and both looked supremely uncomfortable. Iris immediately knew what they wanted to discuss with her.
She fought to keep the wobble out of her voice, but couldn’t quite hold back the hot press of tears welling up in her eyes as she asked, “When do you want me out?”
“You have to, Trystan. Seriously, the studio is threatening us with breach of contract if you don’t do at least one more interview.” Bianca, Trystan’s PR guru, glared at him over the rims of her cat’s-eye glasses. It was her signature I mean business, Mister! glower. A look she’d used more on Trystan these past two weeks than she’d done in the entirety of their decade-long business relationship. “Quinn, talk some sense into him. He’s being unreasonable.”