Divine almost turned back three times before she reached the venue. The city buzzed outside the tall glass doors, traffic horns tangled with voices and footsteps, but her chest held only silence and a tension that coiled like wire. She clutched Xavier Isidro’s book in her hands so tightly that the cover edges pressed lines into her palms. She told herself she was only curious, that it was just another signing event. Yet she knew deep down this was not curiosity but compulsion.
The lobby of the bookstore was already crowded. Rows of chairs filled the space, people chatting while clutching their own copies, laughter here and there as fans compared their favorite passages. A large banner stretched across the wall with Xavier’s name in bold letters, the cover of his new novel looming like a shadow over the crowd. Divine’s gaze snagged on the villain’s face in the artwork, a half formed silhouette whose eyes seemed to follow her even as she shifted in place.
Stacy had offered to come with her, but Divine had refused. She could not bear Stacy’s watchful stare tonight, her best friend’s constant questions about why she obsessed over these books. Neither could she face Sid’s protective interference. This encounter was hers alone.
She found a seat near the back, her heart hammering. From here she could see the long table set at the front where the author would sit. A stack of fresh books waited beside a silver pen. The air smelled faintly of paper and brewed coffee from the store’s café. Yet beneath the ordinary details was an undercurrent that felt anything but ordinary.
When Xavier Isidro finally entered, the atmosphere shifted like a tide pulling back to reveal the sea floor. Conversations hushed. People straightened in their chairs. He was taller than she expected, lean in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate, as if he had been sculpted out of restraint itself. His suit was dark, his hair neatly combed back, his features sharp but softened by a faint half smile that was both polite and unreadable.
Divine’s breath caught. Photographs of him on book jackets had not captured this presence. He radiated something magnetic and unsettling, as though the air bent around him. She felt it from across the room, a pull that was not attraction alone but something heavier, something that warned of surrender.
He greeted the audience with a voice that was smooth yet threaded with weight. Thank you for coming. Thank you for reading. His words were ordinary, yet when Divine heard them, her skin prickled. She thought of the dream from the night before, where his voice had been woven into Maverick’s. Now it was real, resonant, and she could not unhear the echo.
The signing line began, fans approaching one by one with eager chatter. He spoke to each briefly, his tone warm but measured, his pen gliding across title pages with practiced ease. Divine stayed seated, her knees pressed together, her knuckles white against the book she held. Every passing minute made her chest tighter.
When at last she rose and stepped into line, the floor seemed to shift beneath her. Each advance forward felt like walking toward a door she both feared and craved to open. She rehearsed in her mind what she would say. Nothing rehearsed survived. By the time she was the next in line, her throat had dried, her thoughts scrambled into silence.
The woman ahead of her left the table, smiling with her freshly signed book. Xavier lifted his gaze, and his eyes met Divine’s.
Her body locked in place.
There was no flicker of recognition, no moment of searching. He looked at her as though he had expected her, as though he had been waiting for this exact second. His half smile curved just slightly more.
“Divine,” he said.
The world collapsed into stillness.
No one had introduced her. She had not spoken. She had not worn a nametag, nor had she been with friends who might have called her name. Yet Xavier Isidro had spoken it with quiet certainty, pronouncing each syllable with a strange intimacy.
Her stomach twisted. She approached the table slowly, lowering the book into his waiting hands. He opened it without asking, uncapping his silver pen. His eyes never left hers as his hand moved across the page. The air felt charged, every breath between them heavy with unspoken meaning.
When he slid the book back to her, Divine glanced at the inscription.
At last, the story returns to its rightful owner.
Her heart skipped. Heat rushed to her face. She shut the book quickly as though the words might burn through the paper.
“I…” she began, but her voice failed. She swallowed, tried again. “How do you know me?”
His smile was faint, almost kind. “I have always known you.”
The words fell between them with unbearable weight. He did not elaborate. He did not break eye contact. It was as if he expected her to understand, as if everything he had written was already explanation enough.
Divine’s pulse thundered in her ears. Behind her, the line of waiting fans shifted impatiently, but she could not move. She wanted to demand answers, yet her body betrayed her, holding her rooted in place.
Finally a store staff member stepped forward, gently urging her along. She clutched the book to her chest and stumbled away from the table, her legs trembling as though she had run a marathon. She reached the edge of the crowd and pressed herself against a shelf, breathing hard, trying to steady herself.
Around her, the event continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Fans laughed, books opened and closed, Xavier’s pen scratched steadily onward. But Divine’s world had tilted.
She flipped the book open again, her eyes locked on the inscription. The letters were precise, elegant, deliberate. Not a generic thank you. Not even her name. A message meant only for her.
At last, the story returns to its rightful owner.
Her mind raced. What story? Hers? His? The villain’s? Had he known about Maverick, about the scars, about the whispered words that matched his novels? Was it coincidence, or confession?
The crowd blurred around her. She felt Stacy’s absence like a wound. Maybe her friend would have pulled her away before she sank this deep. Maybe Sid would have demanded explanations, shielding her whether she wanted it or not. But they were not here. She had chosen this path alone, and now the door was open.
For the rest of the event she lingered at the edges, unable to leave, unable to approach again. She watched Xavier, how he moved, how he spoke, how every gesture seemed precise yet uncalculated. He was gracious but distant, attentive but untouched. A paradox of presence and absence.
When the last fan departed and the staff began to clear the table, Xavier rose. He glanced toward the crowd once more, his eyes sweeping until they landed on Divine. He gave the slightest nod, almost imperceptible, then turned and disappeared into the back room.
Divine’s knees weakened. She clutched the book as though it were the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
That night, back in her apartment, she sat at her desk and stared at the inscription again. The words glowed beneath the dim light, more alive than ink had any right to be. She ran her fingers over them, half expecting to feel heat or pulse.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Stacy again.
So did you meet him? How was it?
Divine typed back slowly.
He knew my name.
She stared at the screen, waiting. Three dots appeared, then vanished. Finally Stacy replied.
That is creepy. Are you sure he did not hear it from someone in the crowd?
Divine closed her eyes, remembering the weight of his gaze, the certainty in his tone. No, she thought. There was no mistake.
She did not answer Stacy. Instead she opened a blank page on her laptop, her fingers trembling over the keys. She wanted to write down everything, to capture the moment before it slipped into disbelief. Yet as she began typing, the words came out wrong. Sentences formed as if guided by a hand that was not hers.
At last, the story returns to its rightful owner.
She slammed the laptop shut, her heart racing. The room felt smaller, the shadows closer. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Somewhere inside her, a truth shifted.
If Xavier had been writing about her all along, then perhaps meeting him had not been her choice at all. Perhaps it had been written too.
She sat in the darkness, clutching the book to her chest, torn between dread and desire. She knew she should be afraid. She knew she should never see him again. Yet deep within her, something whispered otherwise.
The story had returned. And stories demanded to be followed.
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.