Chapter 108 : The Review That Haunts Me More Than Taxes
The moment Elliot said the name Lady Seraphina Wrenford, I reacted with the speed and panic of someone who had just heard a bomb timer start ticking. I shot out of my chair so fast it rolled backward and nearly collided with my bookshelf. “Shhh!” I hissed, lunging across the desk and clapping a hand over his mouth.
Elliot froze mid-sentence, eyes widening as if he had just discovered I possessed the reflexes of a caffeinated ninja. I glanced toward the glass walls of my office like someone expecting spies to appear from the air vents.
“Do you want the entire building to hear you?” I whispered dramatically. Elliot blinked slowly under my hand.
He peeled my hand away from his face with exaggerated calm.
“First of all,” he said dryly, “I would appreciate breathing privileges.”
I crossed my arms immediately. “Second of all,” he continued, lowering his voice theatrically, “you just reacted like I said the name of a secret crime lord.”
I leaned forward across the desk and pointed at him. “Because you basically did.”
Elliot rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So we’re acknowledging that the identity of Lady Seraphina Wrenford is, in fact, extremely dangerous information.”
I glared at him. “We are acknowledging that you need to stop saying that name like you’re announcing it on a podcast.”
He leaned back in the chair with a slow grin that told me he was enjoying this far too much. “Relax,” he said. “No one heard me.”
I gestured wildly toward the office door. “Larry hears everything. The interns hear everything. The copy editors hear things that haven’t even happened yet.”
Elliot nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true. One time Melissa predicted a typo three chapters in advance.”
I pressed my hands against my temples. “Exactly. So please stop shouting the name of the woman who publicly destroyed my client’s literary reputation.”
Elliot raised one eyebrow. “Your client’s reputation?” he repeated. “Or your future boyfriend’s reputation?”
I groaned loudly and collapsed back into my chair. “Grayson Hale is not my boyfriend.” Elliot nodded slowly. “Correct.” He paused dramatically. “He is currently your client.” I pointed a pen at him. “And that is the only category he belongs in.” Elliot held up both hands in surrender. “Of course. Purely professional. Completely neutral. Absolutely zero emotional investment.” I nodded firmly. “Exactly.”
He tilted his head, studying me carefully. “Then why did you nearly tackle me when I said the name Lady Seraphina Wrenford?” I stared at him. “Because if Grayson ever hears that name in connection with me,” I said slowly, “he will immediately realize that I am the person who wrote the most brutal review of his career.” Elliot nodded thoughtfully. “Ah yes. The review that called his protagonist ‘a brooding sword with emotional issues.’” I winced. “It was a metaphor.” Elliot continued counting on his fingers. “And also described the plot as ‘a dramatic parade of gloomy monologues.’”
“That was constructive criticism,” I said defensively.
Elliot leaned forward with a grin. “You also wrote that the romantic tension felt like ‘two statues glaring at each other across a thunderstorm.’” I buried my face in my hands. “I stand by that observation.” Elliot burst out laughing. “Leila, if Grayson Hale finds out that the woman editing his book is the same woman who roasted his novel in public literary history…” He made an explosion gesture with his hands. “Boom.” I peeked at him through my fingers. “That is exactly why you need to stop saying the name.”
He nodded slowly. “Fair point.” Then his grin returned. “However, this does not change the other issue.” I lowered my hands cautiously. “What other issue?” Elliot leaned forward dramatically. “You are falling for Grayson Hale.” I sat up straight again. “I am not falling for Grayson Hale.” Elliot folded his arms. “You are helping his ex-girlfriend plan his birthday party.” I pointed a finger at him. “That is called professionalism.” He nodded. “You also nearly smoked a cigarette to prove you weren’t jealous.”
“That was a temporary lapse in respiratory judgment.”
“And you panicked when I mentioned the possibility of feelings.” I lifted my chin stubbornly. “Because there are no feelings.” Elliot studied me carefully for a moment, then looked down at my chest. “Your heart disagrees.” I frowned. “My heart does not have voting rights in this conversation.” Elliot shrugged. “It’s beating very loudly for someone who claims to be emotionally neutral.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Listen carefully,” I said, leaning forward across the desk. “I am not falling for that brooding author with the intense stare and the irritatingly thoughtful comments.” Elliot nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm.” I continued firmly. “I am simply doing my job. Editing his manuscript. Maintaining professional boundaries.” Elliot’s grin widened. “And secretly planning his birthday party with his ex-girlfriend.” I pointed at him again. “That part is temporary.”
He stood up slowly, still smiling like a man who had already solved the mystery. “Leila,” he said gently, “you can deny it all you want.” I crossed my arms defiantly. “And I will.” Elliot nodded. “But eventually your heart is going to figure it out.” I scoffed loudly. “My heart is perfectly reasonable.” At that exact moment my heart decided to betray me by replaying the memory of Grayson leaning against the brick wall last night, smiling at me in the dim alley light.
I cleared my throat aggressively.
Elliot watched my face with growing amusement. “You just thought about him,” he said.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“That was indigestion.”
Elliot laughed all the way to the door. “Sure,” he said cheerfully. “Completely unrelated indigestion caused by a tall brooding author.” I grabbed a paperweight and threw it lightly at the door just as he stepped out of the office.
It missed him completely.
Unfortunately, my heart was still very unconvinced.
Late that night, I was sitting at the small desk in my apartment staring at my laptop screen like it had personally betrayed me. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant car passing outside. Normally, my apartment felt peaceful at night. Tonight it felt like a courtroom where I was both the defendant and the judge. The glowing screen illuminated the very thing I had been avoiding all day: my old review of Ashen King, written under the famously dangerous pseudonym Lady Seraphina Wrenford.
I scrolled slowly, rereading the opening paragraph for what had to be the twentieth time.
“The Ashen King is an overwrought, self-indulgent fever dream of a novel, dripping with purple prose and the kind of existential musings that only make sense at 3 a.m. after too much whiskey.”
I winced immediately.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, rubbing my forehead. “Maybe that was… slightly aggressive.” Past Me, apparently, had been in an extremely judgmental mood that day. Present Me was now editing the author of that book and possibly—hypothetically—emotionally compromised.
I kept scrolling.
“If you strip away the flowery language, what’s left? A hollow story. A protagonist who feels more like a mouthpiece for the author’s philosophical ramblings than a real person. A plot that meanders without purpose.”
I leaned back in my chair and groaned at the ceiling.
“Why was I like this?” I asked the universe.
The universe did not respond, which was deeply unhelpful.
On the screen, Lady Seraphina Wrenford continued delivering literary destruction with the confidence of a woman who would never have to sit across from the author at editorial meetings.
I leaned forward again, squinting at the final line of the review.
“The prose is undeniably beautiful, but it’s like admiring a glass house… you can appreciate the craftsmanship, but there’s no warmth. No life.”
I pressed both palms against my face.
“Oh my god.”
Somewhere in the world, Grayson Hale was peacefully existing without knowing that the woman editing his manuscript had once described his book as a beautiful but emotionally vacant glass house.
I scrolled up to the top again.
The username LadySeraphinaWrenford stared back at me from the corner of the screen like a smug ghost of my past decisions.
“Okay,” I said out loud to my laptop. “We have options.” I held up one finger. “Option one: write a new review correcting the tone and showing intellectual growth.” I held up another finger. “Option two: delete the account and move to another country.” I paused. “Option three: fake my own death and start a quiet life selling books in a coastal village.”
My laptop, unhelpfully, remained silent.
I reread the review again, this time slower. Beneath the sarcasm and the dramatic phrasing, the actual critique wasn’t wrong. The structure comments were fair. The pacing issues were real. The character development points were things I had literally discussed with Grayson during editing sessions.
Which meant the worst part was not that the review was cruel.
The worst part was that it was accurate.
I sighed and rested my chin on my hand. “This is bad,” I murmured to the empty apartment. “This is very bad.” Because if Grayson ever discovered that Lady Seraphina Wrenford—the critic who had publicly roasted his novel—was actually me, there were only two possible outcomes. One: he would fire me immediately. Two: he would stare at me with that calm, thoughtful expression and ask why I had never told him.
Honestly, the second possibility felt worse.
I hovered my cursor over the Delete Account button.
My finger twitched over the trackpad.
“Maybe it’s time to retire Lady Seraphina,” I said quietly.
But instead of clicking delete, I scrolled back to the top of the review again.
For the twenty-first time.