Chapter 1

I stared at the last page of my latest dark romance novel, the blinking cursor mocking me as it waited for me to type the final scene. This was always the hardest part—the end. Especially this book. Getting these two characters to coalesce in a way that both my readers and I would find satisfying had proven to be more difficult than anticipated.

Sofia, my sunny main character, was so fucking difficult to finalize. I could hear her grumbling in my ear about wanting her happily ever after. But who would give her one? The stoic serial killer, Haides Anastos, of course. My dream man. He would whisper a love poem while she slept, and hold her close in his muscled, deadly arms. The perfect picturesque ending.

My fingers faltered over the keys, my mind blank as I tried to type how Haides would end his murderous spree and live happily ever after with Sofia. It felt wrong. This character of mine, who was perfect in every way, was supposed to be the grumpy match to Sofia’s sunshine. Which he was but my readers want him to be redeemed, to be happy, to love and be loved. I couldn’t do it. I mean I could force the scene, but it felt wrong in every way. It just didn’t sound right for him. At least not in the way the beta readers were demanding.

Maybe I should just split it here and make it a duet?

As soon as the thought registered, I groaned, and my head practically slammed into the arm resting on my desk.

Absolutely not.

I didn’t have the time, money, or resources to make this into a duet. I shivered just imagining all the costs that would go into making a second book so soon after this one to match the readers’ demands.

I had to make this work, but as I deleted yet another attempt at the final scene, a familiar voice called my name. “Cora! Dinner is ready!” My mother yelled from downstairs, effectively ending my intense writing session. Glaring at the monitor, I closed my laptop after saving my draft.

Getting up from my chair, I stretched my stiff muscles and grabbed my phone. I tapped away at the keyboard, writing a cryptic post on my social media account, which I used as Kore Vasilios, my author pen name.

“Stuck on the last scene of #Haides&Sofia. Can’t seem to get it right,” I moaned into the void, considering using a word or two in all capital letters to emphasize my frustration. But that would be too dramatic. This was my author account, not my personal one, which I didn’t even use much these days.

I tagged the account I used for my series, then promptly shoved the thought to the back of my head. I sincerely hoped one of my fans would chime in with ideas. I headed downstairs for a meal and a much-needed break from my fictional world.

As I trudged down the stairs, the aroma of my mom’s bean soup with feta cheese wafted through the air, bringing a smile to my face. It had been ages since I last had this childhood staple. The side salad, overflowing with colorful vegetables fresh from the grocery store my mom worked at, looked like a work of art on the dinner table.

“Ma, you really shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble,” I said as I stepped into the warm and cozy kitchen. The savory scent of garlic and onions sautéing in olive oil reached my nose, making my stomach rumble in anticipation. I glanced around the room, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of home. The table was set for two, complete with our family’s traditional white and blue pottery that always brought back memories of happier times.

The vibrant bouquet of pink roses and white chrysanthemums gracing the table instantly drew my attention. I had meticulously arranged them earlier, each bloomed a silent expression of my love and appreciation for my mom. She ignited my fascination with floriography. I vividly recalled our trips to parks and gardens, where she would point out the hidden meanings behind each delicate blossom. As I matured, my curiosity for this intimate language blossomed alongside me, becoming almost my second language.

As I took a seat at the table, my mom bustled around the kitchen, adding the final touches to our meal. I watched her with affection, noticing the lines around her eyes and the gray streaks in her hair that seemed to have appeared overnight. It was hard to believe that she was getting older, but I was grateful for every moment we had together.

“I thought this would be the perfect meal to celebrate your new book,” she said, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of me. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she sat down across from me.

Guilt washed over me. “I haven’t finished the last scene yet,” I confessed. “Haides is on a rampage, and Sofia’s not happy about it.”

Her smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll find a way. You always do.”

The warmth of the bean soup soothed my aching head as I took a spoonful. Sensing my mother’s wilting cheer, I quickly changed the subject. “Tell me about your day,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

My mom and I chatted about mundane things while we enjoyed dinner—the weather, the neighbors, the latest news. I laughed at my mom’s stories about the current employee drama at the grocery store she worked at, and she smiled at my rants about the quirky customers at the flower shop. The warmth of the soup filled our bellies, and we couldn’t help but clean out our bowls in record time.

“What do you think? Can you guess their meaning?” I asked her, gesturing toward the flowers. While she might have started me on my path, I surpassed her knowledge today.

My mom studied a pale rose nestled between white chrysanthemums and pink gerbera daisies. “This one must be for spring,” she said, gently picking it up from the vase. “It denotes ‘love is new’, doesn’t it?”

“Yep!” I replied, beaming at her blossoming knowledge. “A white chrysanthemum represents truth, and a pink daisy stands for love that improves with age.”

My mom looked at me with such warmth as we pushed the bowls aside and made room for dessert—my mom’s famous baklava, of course. We dunked our forks into the layers of crispy phyllo pastry, slathered in sweet syrup and crushed pistachios, and savored every mouthful. The rich, sweet taste of the dessert, coupled with the simple chatter, felt like the perfect remedy to my mental exhaustion.

“Sofia wants a happy ending,” I murmured between bites. “But Haides? He won’t let up on his murderous tendencies. Can you believe this character I created as her equal? The stoic, brooding type. It’s almost like I didn’t create him, and he became his own person! I mean, I understand it helps him heal his festering childhood trauma, but still!”

“That’s the beauty of writing, sweetheart,” my mom replied, nodding in agreement. “The complexity of your characters just goes to show how truly creative you are. Even unfinished, your book is truly a work of art.”

I smiled at the compliment, grateful for my mom’s unwavering support. As much as my career came with its unforeseen challenges, I couldn’t imagine trading it in for something less fulfilling.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’m so glad I have you in my life.”