Whispers of Failure

~ Joan ~

I glared at Aaron, who sat with his usual regal arrogance, an amused expression playing on his face. Plucking my earbuds out, I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You scared me,” I snapped, pushing myself off the ground and brushing off imaginary dust.

“Not my fault you decided to block out the world,” he said, his gaze flicking to the earbuds in my hand with thinly veiled disapproval. I cocked my head, annoyed.

“Why were you sitting there watching me like some creep?” I asked, crossing my arms. He shrugged, his dark eyes dragging over me leisurely, setting my nerves alight.

“I liked what I was seeing, so…” He let the words trail off.

I huffed, turned away, and headed to the counter, pouring a glass of water. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, the weight of his attention impossible to ignore.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen: a text from my editor.

“Please tell me you’ve come up with something.”

I sighed, dropping the phone fall on the counter as I gripped the edge. Writing had always been my escape, the thing that steadied me when life spun out of control. 

After leaving the orphanage—a place where no one ever adopted me—I dove into writing full-time. I quickly realized I could actually earn a living from it. That led to my debut novel, His Mistress. I hadn’t expected its success, but by 22, it had catapulted me into the spotlight.

Eventually, I signed a deal with a publishing house after relentless persuasion from my editor, Shayne. Now, I faced a problem: I had no idea what to write next.

“Zoning out?” Aaron’s voice sliced through my thoughts, and I turned to see him still watching me, his sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade.

Suppressing a sigh, I turned, leaning against the kitchen island.

I leaned against the island, meeting his stare with forced calm. “Miss me? Or is it because I haven’t given you a reply yet?” My tone was flat, the barest edge of sarcasm creeping in.

He didn’t respond. Not that I’d expected him to. The tension in the room grew heavier, making me shift uncomfortably.

“Where’s Rhoda?” he finally asked, his voice sharp. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Of course, it always came back to her. 

“She’s not home,” I said, my tone light, almost dismissive as I inspected my nails like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“That doesn’t answer my question, does it? I asked where she is,” he pressed, his voice now carrying an icy undercurrent.

Lifting my gaze in his direction, I opened my mouth to reply, but the door burst open, and Rhoda breezed in, saving me from what would have likely been a biting retort.

With a paper bag in her hands—probably our late lunch—her eyes darted between Aaron and me.

“Okay, I’m shocked you two aren’t at each other’s throats,” she said, setting the bag on the island.

“Oh, I was just about to murder him,” I muttered for her ears only. She huffed a laugh, shaking her head as Aaron stood, silently excusing himself from the room.

I turned back to Rhoda, helping her unpack the food as we fell into a familiar rhythm. “Shayne texted,” I said quietly, breaking the silence.

“And?” she prompted, raising a brow.

“She wanted to know if I’ve come up with anything yet,” I admitted, my voice barely audible as a familiar sense of failure crept over me.

How could I explain that I hadn’t written a single word since my last hit? I’d sit in front of my laptop for hours, staring at the blank screen. Nothing came.

“So, do you have anything in mind?” she asked. 

I shrugged, feeling the bitterness creep in. “I have no idea,” I admitted, the words tasting sour on my tongue. Every time I opened my laptop, all I could do was stare at the screen, willing something—anything—to come. Nothing did.

Rhoda sighed, setting a hand on my arm. “Jo, if it’s not working, just tell her. Call off the deal and free yourself from the pressure.”

“And risk telling the world that JJ can’t write anymore?” I shook my head firmly. “Backing out isn’t an option, Rhoda.” She fell silent. Failure wasn’t an option. I’d written a masterpiece once, and I’d do it again, no matter what it took.

Writing wasn’t just a career for me—it was my lifeline. Unlike Rhoda, whose parents left her a trust fund and a career she genuinely loved, I had nothing. No parents, no safety net, no fallback. Just me.

A bitter taste rose in my throat as I pushed the thought away.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” she said after a moment, her voice steady and sure. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get you writing again.”

 I nodded. “I hope so.” If I couldn’t find my muse here, I wasn’t sure I’d find it anywhere.