Influenced by Eva Robinson (love story books to read .TXT) 📕

You’re doing strong work already. Stop looking at the tweens. They have a different audience.”

Rowan stared at her peppermint tea. “I just wanted a little more gravitas, I guess. I have this friend Arabella who’s doing a PhD at Harvard; her dissertation’s on children with PTSD. Wouldn’t it be good if I could sell makeup and do, you know, something more meaningful?”

She didn’t want to examine how genuine this was—whether she actually wanted to help children with PTSD, or if she just saw that kind of virtue as a shield against criticism. Maybe both were true. Life was complex.

Heather leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. Even frowning, she looked much younger than her forty years. “It’s a nice idea, Rowan. But it’s not your brand. People looking at your photos don’t want to think about emotionally damaged children. They want fun, adventure, luxury. You provide escapism, elitism. They can get traumatized children from the news.”

“People keep calling me a privileged narcissist.”

Heather pointed at her. “And that, precisely, is your brand. Privileged. First you were the preppy girl at Harvard. Then the sultry rich girl with the famous boyfriend in Paris. And now, you’re—” She waved a hand, unable to find the right words. “Now, you’re a sultry rich girl in New England. Anyway, the point is—once more, it all comes down to the fact that you need to ignore the negativity. You have an amazing career if you stop sabotaging yourself.”

But Rowan was hardly listening. Her mind was already whirling with this new idea. “But what if I did something for charity? What if I used my followers to raise money for something positive? I know some academics who are working on a grant—something about funding for an afterschool program. They’re trying to raise tons of money to create a center for Cambridge kids to go after school where they can get extra tutoring or whatever. It’s like an educational equality thing.”

Heather recrossed her legs. “I mean, it’s not the worst idea. Just don’t post any images that look depressing.”

“Of course not.”

“It could get you some press, I guess. Maybe something in the Globe. You just have to make it seem aspirational somehow. And we’d need to think of how to phrase it and some specifics so you don’t seem like, you know…”

“Like the out-of-touch, privileged narcissist I am?”

“So it sounds genuine. Make sure the captions sound right. And that you don’t lose focus from what’s actually paying your bills. Speaking of which, how’s the book going?”

Rowan didn’t want to talk about the book. She’d spent most of the advance already—three-quarters of a million. And despite her champagne post, she’d hardly written a word. But she had a separate literary agent to nag her about that, so there was no point going into it with Heather. “Fine. Just revising.”

Heather grabbed her paper cup and rose from the table. “Good, because that could be a whole new audience, too. And all that time you’re not reading the comments can be put toward writing words, yes?”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m doing.” More lies—much like the content of her book so far.

“I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as Heather was out the door of the Brattle Café, Rowan felt that overwhelming urge to check her phone. Since her book deal had been announced—along with rumors about the size of her advance—the comments had taken an even darker turn.

She’d stepped out of her lane, and people were mad about it. Stick to the cleavage, Rowan. The pout, the dumb-but-sexy expression on her face—those were all fine. But once she had shown literary pretensions, a bit of rage had started seeping into her comments like poison.

She opened the Instagram app and clicked on her latest post. It was a shot of her lounging on her bed in a low-cut black dress. With her arched eyebrows and scarlet lips, this was her classic Hollywood look—a sort of combination of Sophia Loren and Elizabeth Taylor. Sixty-two thousand likes, and two hundred and eighty comments.

But the number of comments already had her stomach tensing. That many suggested that people were pissed off about something.

Nausea started rising in her gut as she read them.

I’m amazed she managed to write a caption without reminding us she went to Harvard again. Well done, Ro!

And then a stream of replies to that comment.

Friend of a friend told me she never graduated. Also, her rich parents bought her way in, and she was basically on coke the whole time. And she blew at least one of her professors. 

Who is she getting to write the book for her? We all know her last book was ghostwritten, considering she can’t put a sentence together. 

She needs to die already. 

Rowan’s vision seemed to dim, and she had the strange sensation that she was falling, plummeting through the air.

Keep it together. 

Some of her fans jumped in, arguing that her haters needed to “get a life,” but her fans never seemed witty or clever.

The most pressing question on her haters’ minds—the one they kept asking over and over—was why did she get a book deal?

Because she could make the publishers money, that was why! It wasn’t a freaking conspiracy.

She blew out a long breath. No one would say that about Arabella. Not with the five languages she spoke, and her sophisticated dissertation. Rowan imagined what Arabella’s images would look like if she were to become an influencer. She’d sit at one of the little round tables in Harvard Yard in a pencil skirt and blouse, leaning over a notebook, thoughtfully chewing on the end of her pen. She’d raise tens of thousands of dollars for charity. Then she’d post photos of her smiling with rosy cheeks, surrounded by the traumatized children she’d healed.

Arabella Green. Everyone would love her.

When Rowan was done punishing herself in the comments, she opened the messages again.

She wasn’t sure why she kept going back, except that she was still so upset from the last ones. She wanted reassurance that people loved her again. But