heroine was so emotionally damaged by her deformity that the hero had a hard time breaking down the walls she’d built around her soul. He’d tried—boy, had he tried. It seemed his entire life now revolved around trying to show her she was worthy of love.
Before I knew it, I was devouring the last few pages. My eyes scanned the cursive handwriting, rapidly firing line by line, until I was gasping for air—literally grasping onto every last word as the hero walked out of the heroine’s life for good.
“No,” I whispered. How could the author end the entire novel like that? Weren’t they supposed to live happily ever after? Wasn’t the wounded heroine supposed to be won over by the amazingly patient hero?
Sitting up, I kneeled on the bed and fanned the pages out over the plush surface, frantically looking for more of the writing that I might’ve missed along the way. There had to be more to the story, something I’d completely overlooked. There was no way it could end like that.
That was when I saw it… the author’s name.
Karoline Webber.
I’d read the author’s name before, but it wasn’t until that moment that I made the connection.
Karoline.
Bolting up from the bed, I headed toward the door. The only sounds I could hear were my feet pounding on the cold, hardwood floor as I made my way to the main foyer.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I had to find her.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I felt both dumb and determined in that moment.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dumb for not realizing she was the author all this time.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And determined to talk to her about her novel.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Entering the foyer, I glanced at the stairs. I knew I wasn’t allowed to climb them, but I wanted so badly to talk to her. Call it a death wish, but I had to know what she was thinking when writing an ending like that.
You’d think confronting her about it would be dumb, and maybe I was, but I was nothing if not passionate about my literature. Books were my life. I thrived on the fictional relationships that I devoured each and every day.
A flicker of light from the living room caught my eye, but I knew there was nothing in there except a barren set of walls and floors, the roses littering each room being the only really vibrant things that decorated this massive house. As soon as I poked my head into the room, I noticed the glimmer of a fire in the distance, the fireplace being filled with oranges and yellows—a stark contrast to the dark, barren soot that decorated the space mere hours before.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” a female voice murmured, startling me a bit since I saw no one. My footsteps still seemed loud against the wooden surface of the floor over the crackling sound of the fire as I slowly advanced further into the room. With a measured pace, I made my way toward the fire, rounding a set of chairs I hadn’t noticed before.
There she sat—like royalty—her fur-covered hands gripping both arms of the chair like it was her life raft and her world depended on it. There was a matching chair right next to her, a small, round table decorated with a single rose the only thing separating the two pieces of furniture in the otherwise empty room.
“I figured you’d want something to keep you warm. It’s supposed to get pretty chilly tonight,” she said, never looking in my direction as I took a seat next to her.
I had no words. This suddenly nice side of her took me off guard, not to mention I now knew she was the one to write such an amazing, touching story like the one I’d just read, Trusting Fate .
The Interrogation
We remained in silence for a good few minutes, me throwing her cursory glances and her staring into the fire. I tried to fumble together a string of words to speak, but all that came out was air whenever I opened my mouth, my fingers lightly stroking the soft petals of the rose between us.
“Well?” Her voice cut through the silence, startling me and making me pull back the
Before I knew it, I was devouring the last few pages. My eyes scanned the cursive handwriting, rapidly firing line by line, until I was gasping for air—literally grasping onto every last word as the hero walked out of the heroine’s life for good.
“No,” I whispered. How could the author end the entire novel like that? Weren’t they supposed to live happily ever after? Wasn’t the wounded heroine supposed to be won over by the amazingly patient hero?
Sitting up, I kneeled on the bed and fanned the pages out over the plush surface, frantically looking for more of the writing that I might’ve missed along the way. There had to be more to the story, something I’d completely overlooked. There was no way it could end like that.
That was when I saw it… the author’s name.
Karoline Webber.
I’d read the author’s name before, but it wasn’t until that moment that I made the connection.
Karoline.
Bolting up from the bed, I headed toward the door. The only sounds I could hear were my feet pounding on the cold, hardwood floor as I made my way to the main foyer.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I had to find her.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I felt both dumb and determined in that moment.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dumb for not realizing she was the author all this time.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And determined to talk to her about her novel.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Entering the foyer, I glanced at the stairs. I knew I wasn’t allowed to climb them, but I wanted so badly to talk to her. Call it a death wish, but I had to know what she was thinking when writing an ending like that.
You’d think confronting her about it would be dumb, and maybe I was, but I was nothing if not passionate about my literature. Books were my life. I thrived on the fictional relationships that I devoured each and every day.
A flicker of light from the living room caught my eye, but I knew there was nothing in there except a barren set of walls and floors, the roses littering each room being the only really vibrant things that decorated this massive house. As soon as I poked my head into the room, I noticed the glimmer of a fire in the distance, the fireplace being filled with oranges and yellows—a stark contrast to the dark, barren soot that decorated the space mere hours before.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” a female voice murmured, startling me a bit since I saw no one. My footsteps still seemed loud against the wooden surface of the floor over the crackling sound of the fire as I slowly advanced further into the room. With a measured pace, I made my way toward the fire, rounding a set of chairs I hadn’t noticed before.
There she sat—like royalty—her fur-covered hands gripping both arms of the chair like it was her life raft and her world depended on it. There was a matching chair right next to her, a small, round table decorated with a single rose the only thing separating the two pieces of furniture in the otherwise empty room.
“I figured you’d want something to keep you warm. It’s supposed to get pretty chilly tonight,” she said, never looking in my direction as I took a seat next to her.
I had no words. This suddenly nice side of her took me off guard, not to mention I now knew she was the one to write such an amazing, touching story like the one I’d just read, Trusting Fate .
The Interrogation
We remained in silence for a good few minutes, me throwing her cursory glances and her staring into the fire. I tried to fumble together a string of words to speak, but all that came out was air whenever I opened my mouth, my fingers lightly stroking the soft petals of the rose between us.
“Well?” Her voice cut through the silence, startling me and making me pull back the
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