Wildfire

Chapter 1

Manhattan glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows, a million-dollar view that Lauren Morrison could maintain for exactly three more months. The sun was setting, painting her pristine penthouse in amber light that caught the broken pieces of china still scattered across her kitchen floor.

She should clean that up. Should answer her agent's increasingly urgent emails. Should write something, anything. Instead, she stood at the window, phone in hand, staring at her banking app as if the numbers might magically rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.

The notifications stacked up on her screen: Monthly mortgage payment processed. HOA fees due in 72 hours. Her publisher: "Lauren! Readers are DYING for news about the sequel! Any updates?"

Her fingers tightened around the phone. One bestseller had barely covered the down payment on this penthouse. She'd been so sure the sequel would cover the monthly payments. The sequel she hadn't written a word of.

This morning's coffee stain was still dark against the white marble floor, surrounded by broken porcelain. Not her fault, really. Anyone would drop their cup if a cat from their unpublished manuscript suddenly appeared at their breakfast bar.

Lauren closed her eyes, but the memory was too fresh. Casimir, exactly as she'd originally written him - smoke-gray fur that shifted like mist, eyes that held centuries of secrets. A character she'd edited out of "The Invisible Kingdom", her first and only book, before publication, deemed too dark for young adult fantasy. Yet there he'd been, perched between her fruit bowl and coffee maker, as real as the city beneath her feet.

"Creation is a door that swings both ways," he'd said, in that ancient voice she'd heard only in her head while writing. "You opened it once. It remembers."

She'd dropped the cup then, ceramic shattering against the marble. By the time her eyes refocused, Casimir was gone. But the coffee stain remained, a stubborn reminder that either her imagination was bleeding into reality or her sanity was bleeding out.

Her phone buzzed again. Her agent this time: "Gallery Books is serious about movie rights, but they need a guarantee of the sequel. Seven figures, Lauren. Call me."

Seven figures. Enough to keep this view forever. Enough to make her parents proud, if they were still alive to see it. The thought stung like it always did - them never witnessing her success, never seeing this apartment she'd bought partly to prove she could, never knowing their belief in her weird, wonderful stories had paid off.

Lauren opened her laptop, the blank document glaring back at her. The cursor blinked like a countdown, like Casimir's knowing eyes, like the timer on her perfect life ticking down to zero.

"Creation is a door that swings both ways."

She didn't want to think about what else might walk through.

Another email notification lit up her screen: a reminder about tomorrow's speaking engagement at NYU's Creative Writing department. "Share your journey to bestseller status with our students!" The last time she'd given this talk, she'd actually believed her own advice about perseverance and creative authenticity. Now the thought of facing those eager faces, all believing in the polished lie of her Instagram feed, made her stomach turn. "I won't go."

Speaking of Instagram... Lauren opened the app, thumbs moving on autopilot. Her latest post showed her at some charity gala last week, a glass of champagne in hand, the caption reading "Taking a creative break to recharge! #WritersLife #TheInvisibleKingdom." The reality: she'd left after ten minutes, came home, and stared at a blank document until sunrise.

Three thousand likes. Four hundred comments begging for sequel hints.

The city lights were taking over now, darkness settling in. Her reflection in the window looked expensive - carefully highlighted hair, a cashmere sweater that cost half a chapter she hadn't written. The perfect author photo. The perfect lie.