Chapter 2

I was drowning.

The basement air felt heavy and thick, like a damp towel pressed over my face. Every breath I took rasped through my throat, each sound magnified in the still room. My heart thumped against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape, but I couldn’t move.

I was strapped to a chair, my ankles bound and wrists secured with thick ropes that dug into my flesh. My vision was blurry, a sea of swirling shadows, but I could still make out the glint of metal instruments glinting under a single naked bulb that hung from the ceiling, casting an ominous glow.

The tools, I knew, were for him to use.

“The ending,” a deep, gravelly voice growled. “Where is it, Cora?”

“H-Haides?” I tried to say his name, but it came out a choked gasp. My throat burned; the words stuck there.

He stepped into my view, the single light outlining his broad frame and chiseled features. His gaze, cold and dark like a stormy sky right before a tornado touched down, sent shivers down my spine. My imagination, I reminded myself. This was all my own doing.

“The ending,” he repeated, his voice inches from my ear. His hot breath sent shivers down my neck, a sensation that was both terrifying and exhilarating. “They want it. I want it.”

He moved his hands, tracing a fingertip along my jawline, sending sparks across my skin. My body was responding. I didn’t want him to stop.

But the fear, the sickening reality that this was my dream, my creation, snapped me back.

“I don’t know,” I croaked. “I can’t give you what you want.”

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within. He moved closer, looming over me like a menacing predator about to strike.

“You will,” he growled, his voice barely a whisper. His hand moved up, his thumb brushing against my lips. “You will finish the story. You will give them the ending they crave.”

A sob escaped my lips. My own character, a figment of my imagination, was threatening me, demanding the words I was struggling to find. The pressure, the fear, it was suffocating. My own story was my enemy now.

Then, the air shifted. The shadows danced around me, and a feeling of dread washed over me. I could hear him moving, a metallic clinking announcing his approach.

A scream built in my throat, but it was drowned out by the sharp crack of thunder that shook me awake.

I shot upright, gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sweat slicked my skin, and my breaths came in ragged pants. The room looked different, softer; the shadows less menacing. I was in my bedroom, the storm raging outside my window was the source of the thunder.

It was just a dream. Just a goddamn dream.

I let out a shaky breath, my hands trembling. The events of the dream played back in my mind, vivid and terrifying. Haides, my creation, so real, so menacing. The demand for an ending, the pressure, the fear.

But it was over. Just a dream.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, needing to move, needing to escape the lingering remnants of the brain fog. I crossed the room, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and stood by the window. The storm raged outside, the wind howling like a tormented beast.

The nightmare served as a warning, a manifestation of my struggle, frustration, and fear of failing. In the dream, Haides became the embodiment of my readers’ demands and expectations. And it provided a glimpse into my deepest desires, a distorted reflection of my longing for more.

More than just a fictional character, Haides was everything I craved—dark, passionate, and dangerous. He was the perfect villain, the perfect counterpoint to my sunny, optimistic heroine Sofia. Their love story was a clash of light and darkness, a forbidden romance that captivated me as much as it did my readers.

But was it too much? Was I pushing the boundaries, blurring the lines between reality and fiction?

My subconscious was reminding me that I had to be careful, to control my imagination and not let it control me.

But I couldn’t deny the thrill of it all. Even the fear, the terror, there was a strange excitement beneath it, a longing for something more.

A part of me wanted to give in, to explore the forbidden, to surrender to my fantasies rather than just giving the readers what they wanted. But another part, the rational, responsible part, knew the dangers of playing with fire.

I didn’t know what to do. I was caught between two worlds, two desires, two versions of myself.

The storm outside subsided, the wind dying down, the rain falling in a steady rhythm. The air felt lighter, the world around me regaining its familiar hues.

I turned away from the window, my mind still churning. I needed a break, a distraction. Maybe after work, I should go for a walk in the park, chat with my mom, or go to the bookstore—anything to clear my head and reset my thoughts.

I glanced at my computer, the unfinished manuscript taunting me. I knew I had to face it and eventually make a decision. But for now, I needed a break.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of my room, ready to face the day. The storm within me was still raging, but for now, I had to find a way to weather it.

It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a challenge I was willing to face. After all, I was a writer, a storyteller. And this was my story to tell.

The stale coffee aroma clinging to the breakroom wasn’t helping the stifling heat. I pulled the bobby pins from my hair, letting the wavy strands cascade down my back before shoving my hair into a messy bun and taking a deep breath.

Pulling out my phone, I clicked on the post. Hundreds of comments flooded the screen. My heart warmed at the sight of readers so passionate about my work. “You’re a queen!” one comment read. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with next!” Another said. A smile crept across my face. This was it. This was the validation I needed.

One comment caught my eye.

“Why not let Sofia walk away?”

The words sparked a fire in my imagination. Sofia, the sweet character I created, walking away from the darkness, from Haides. Regardless of the love between them. It was the perfect ending, a twist that would gut readers and make us all ugly cry- me included.

The only thing was, if I took away the typical happy ending, it wouldn’t be categorized as a romance. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t care. Not every romance had a happy ending, and not every book was going to cater to the fantasy of a happy ending. Sometimes, the happy ending was that they walked away. Sometimes, the lesson and the love expressed during their time together was what the characters needed and the story that needed to be told, but their time together changed them to be their most authentic selves, and no longer fit each other seamlessly. Even if it was painful and they still loved each other because love wasn’t always enough.

A wave of excitement washed over me. I could hardly wait to get home and start writing. Pulling out the notes app on my phone, I began to type, a grin spreading across my face as the words flowed.

“Sofia stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind whipping her hair. Haides reached for her, his touch sending shivers down her spine. But this time, she didn’t flinch.”

My fingers danced across the screen, the words flowing effortlessly. I could see it so clearly: Sofia turning away, her silhouette bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, leaving Haides standing alone in the shadows.

It was the perfect ending.

When I got home, I rushed to my office, a small room at the back of my mom’s house on the second floor that I had converted into my writing space. It was my sanctuary, the place where I could escape the world and lose myself in my stories.

I turned on my computer, fired up my writing software, and opened the manuscript. I stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, then took a deep breath and started typing.

Now that I knew where I was going, the words flowed easily. I wrote about Sofia’s escape from Haides, her journey back to the light, and the new life she built for herself. I wrote about Haides’s descent into madness, his obsession with Sofia growing stronger with each passing day. I wrote about the final confrontation, the battle between good and evil that would determine their fate.

The hours flew by as I wrote, lost in the world of my story. I didn’t notice the sun setting outside or the moon rising in the sky, the hunger pangs in my stomach, or the growing fatigue in my body. I was in a zone, and I didn’t want to stop.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn peeked through the window, I reached the end of the story. I reread the last paragraph, a satisfied smile spreading across my face. I had done it. I had finished the novel.

I leaned back in my chair, exhausted but exhilarated. I felt a sense of accomplishment that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I had poured my heart and soul into this story, and I was proud of what I had created.

I knew that it wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. It was a reflection of my deepest desires, my darkest fears, and my unwavering belief in the power of love. It was a story that I would cherish forever, and I hoped that others would, too.

I saved the manuscript, shut down my computer, and stood up to stretch my legs. I felt stiff and sore, but I didn’t care. I was too happy, too excited to let anything dampen my mood.

I walked out of my office and into the kitchen, where I made myself a cup of coffee. I sat down at the table and sipped my coffee, savoring the rich flavor and the warmth that spread through my body.

As I sat there, I thought about my beta readers. I wondered what they would think of the ending. I wondered if they would love it as much as I did. I wondered if it would change their perception of Haides, of Sofia, of the story as a whole.

No matter what my editor said, no matter what the readers thought, I knew that I had created something special. I had created a story that would stay with me forever, a story that would remind me of the power of self-love, the depravity of the human heart, and the enduring strength of the human spirit.