Chapter 2: An Audience with the Thief

Chapter 2: An Audience with the Thief

The cease-and-desist letter wasn't a deterrent; it was rocket fuel. Its crisp, insulting weight in my bag felt like a talisman of my own fury. Two days later, thanks to a hastily organized crowdfunding campaign by my online army—dubbed the ‘Justice for R.J. Fund’—I swapped the gentle hiss of Oregon rain for the roaring, electric chaos of New York City.

Julian Thorne’s book launch was being held in a sprawling, glass-walled event space in SoHo that likely cost more to rent for one night than my cottage was worth. The air buzzed with the sound of clinking champagne flutes, murmured gossip, and the synthetic beat of some minimalist electronic track. Women in dresses that shimmered like fish scales and men in razor-sharp suits mingled under ambient lighting. Everywhere I looked, there was Julian’s face, blown up on ten-foot banners: his sharp jaw, those piercing blue eyes, and a charismatic smirk that now looked utterly predatory.

I stuck out like a weed in a rose garden. My travel-worn jeans, sensible boots, and a dark wool coat felt like armor, but also a glaring announcement that I did not belong. I clutched my complimentary glass of champagne with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, the cold seeping into my fingers. This was his world: a fortress of wealth and influence, designed to keep people like me out.

My plan, if you could call it that, was simple and reckless. Wait for him to take the stage, let the cameras find him, and then give them a real story. I rehearsed the words in my head, the phrases from his letter burning behind my eyes. Malicious and defamatory campaign. The audacity of it still stole my breath.

After what felt like an eternity of hiding in corners and pretending to admire the art, a hush fell over the crowd. Julian Thorne walked onto the small, elevated stage. In person, he was even more intimidating than on magazine covers. He radiated a kind of kinetic energy, a power that bent the room around him. He moved with the fluid, unthinking confidence of a man who had never been told ‘no’ in his life.

He flashed a brilliant smile, the one that sold stocks and graced tabloids. "Thank you all for coming," he began, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that filled the space effortlessly. "Writing Beverly was… a journey. A deeply personal one."

A red mist of rage clouded my vision. Personal? I could feel the blood pounding in my ears, drowning out the polite applause. This was it.

Before my courage could desert me, I pushed my way through the tightly packed crowd, ignoring the irritated murmurs and annoyed glances. I stumbled into the open space near the front of the stage, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.

"A personal journey?" I shouted, my voice raw and louder than I intended.

Every head turned. The ambient music seemed to falter. Julian Thorne stopped mid-sentence, his smile freezing on his face. His gaze swept the crowd, searching for the source of the disruption, and then his eyes—an impossible, arctic blue—landed on me.

"You call it personal?" I yelled, taking a step forward. "Or did you find my soul so cheap you thought you could just buy it off a shelf?"

His perfect, public-facing mask didn't crumble; it shattered. The charisma vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine, unadulterated shock. His brows furrowed, not in anger, but in what looked like pure, unscripted confusion.

"What book did you steal it from, Mr. Thorne?" I pressed, my voice shaking but clear. "Was it an obscure little novel called Obsessed? Does the name R.J. Lewis mean anything to you?"

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Phones were suddenly raised, their small red lights blinking as they recorded. Security guards in black suits started moving toward me, their faces grim.

But Julian held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. He was still staring at me, his expression a maelstrom of emotions. The initial shock was now hardening into a cold, dangerous fury that seemed completely at odds with the smug villain I had imagined. It wasn't the anger of a man caught in a lie. It was the outrage of a man being accused of something he couldn’t comprehend.

Without another word, he descended the steps from the stage, his movements sharp and precise. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He strode directly toward me, his six-foot-plus frame towering over mine. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to destroy me right there, in front of everyone.

Instead, he grabbed my arm. His grip was like steel, firm but not bruising. "You and I are going to talk," he said, his voice a low, furious growl meant only for me. "Now."

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled me along, cutting a path through the gawking, whispering attendees. The security guards fell in around us, creating a moving wall that separated us from the prying eyes and flashing cameras. He dragged me past the bar, through a door marked 'STAFF ONLY,' and into a stark, silent hallway. He didn't stop until he found an empty storage closet, shoving the door open and pulling me inside before shutting it behind us with a decisive click.

We were plunged into the sterile quiet of the small room, surrounded by boxes of champagne and stacked linens. The only light came from the crack under the door. The frantic energy of the party was gone, replaced by a silence so thick it was suffocating. It was just the two of us. The thief and the ghost.

"Who the hell are you?" he hissed, finally letting go of my arm. He paced the small space like a caged predator, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time. "And what the hell was that?"

"You know exactly who I am," I shot back, rubbing my arm. My bravado was starting to fray, replaced by a tremor of fear. He was even more intense up close. "Your lawyers sent me a letter. Or did you forget about the little author from Oregon you decided to rob blind?"

He stopped pacing and turned to face me, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that pinned me to the wall. "I have never heard of you, your pen name, or your book in my entire life." He bit out each word with chilling precision. "My lawyers send out letters every day. Now, you have sixty seconds to explain what this is—a publicity stunt, a shakedown—before I have you arrested for trespassing and defamation."

The sheer, absolute conviction in his voice staggered me. There wasn't a flicker of deceit in his eyes, no sign of a liar caught in the act. There was only raw, incandescent rage. The kind of rage a man felt when his entire world was upended by an accusation that made no sense.

"You're lying," I whispered, but the words sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Am I?" he challenged, taking a step closer. The space between us crackled with a strange, volatile energy. "My book is named Beverly. It's about a musician. You stood out there and yelled about a book called Obsessed." He stared at me, genuinely waiting for an explanation, as if I held the missing piece to his own puzzle.

I was speechless. The righteous certainty that had carried me all the way to New York was dissolving, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion. I had come here to confront a smug, calculating thief. I expected denials, threats, maybe even a cynical offer of hush money. I had not expected this. I had not expected to find a man who looked just as bewildered and furious as I was.

He saw the doubt on my face, and his expression shifted, the hard lines of his anger softening just a fraction into something more complex.

My entire narrative had just been ripped to shreds. If he wasn't the one who did this… then who was? And why did I have the terrifying feeling that the man standing in front of me was the only one who could help me find the answer?