Chapter 3: Terms of Engagement

The acceptance email sat in Ellie's sent folder like a ticking bomb for exactly forty-seven minutes before rational thought crashed back into her consciousness like a cold wave.

What the hell have I done?

She paced her small apartment, stepping over stacks of books that had somehow migrated from their shelves to create treacherous reading obstacle courses across her hardwood floors. The fairy lights she'd strung up for aesthetic photos now felt mocking, their warm glow highlighting the chaos of her life rather than its cozy charm.

Her phone buzzed with congratulatory texts from Jessica, her mom, and a handful of creator friends who'd somehow already heard the news through the romance community's lightning-fast gossip network. But beneath the excitement, Ellie felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.

She was going to share a stage with Caleb Thorne. The man who'd spent three days systematically destroying her credibility would have a microphone and an audience of thousands to finish the job in person.

Professional, she reminded herself, settling back at her laptop with a fresh cup of chamomile tea. You can be professional. Set boundaries. Make it clear this is about the work, not personal drama.

She pulled up Instagram and navigated to @TheLitCritik's profile, her finger hovering over the message button like it might burn her. Cal's feed was a stark contrast to her own warm aesthetic—black and white photos, harsh lighting, book covers arranged like evidence at a crime scene. His bio was equally unforgiving: Holding romance accountable. Read better. 📚⚔️

Three million followers hung on his every word, ready to deploy at his command like a digital army. The comments on his recent posts were a mixture of worship and fear, readers desperately trying to prove their literary worth to someone who seemed fundamentally incapable of being impressed.

Ellie took a steadying breath and opened a new message.

Hi Caleb,

I wanted to reach out regarding the LitCon panel we'll be sharing. I think it would be beneficial for both of us to coordinate our talking points beforehand to ensure we can provide the audience with a substantive discussion about the future of online book communities.

Perhaps we could schedule a brief call to discuss the format and our respective approaches? I'm happy to work around your schedule.

Best regards, Elara

She read it over three times, tweaking words to strike the perfect balance between professional courtesy and emotional distance. No warmth, no vulnerability, just pure business. She hit send before she could overthink it further.

The response came faster than she'd expected—within minutes, her phone chimed with a notification that made her stomach lurch.

Well, well. Look who's suddenly interested in coordination.

Funny how you want to "discuss approaches" now that you can't just block me and pretend I don't exist. Tell me, Elara—is this the same strategic thinking that led you to disappear the moment your audience started asking uncomfortable questions?

But sure, let's chat. I'm curious to see if you've developed any actual arguments in the past six months, or if you're still planning to weaponize your wounded doe routine.

I'm free Thursday at 8 PM PST. Try not to cancel when you realize I won't be pulling my punches just because we're sharing a stage.

—C

P.S. It's Cal. We're not friends, but we don't need to pretend we're strangers either.

Ellie stared at her phone screen, heat rising in her cheeks. The casual cruelty of his response shouldn't have surprised her—she'd watched him eviscerate countless other creators with the same surgical precision—but somehow it felt different when she was the target.

Wounded doe routine. The phrase stung because it echoed her own worst fears about herself, the voice that whispered she was too soft for this industry, too naive to survive in spaces where kindness was perceived as weakness.

But underneath the hurt, something else stirred. Something that felt suspiciously like indignation.

She'd reached out professionally, offering collaboration, and he'd responded with condescension and personal attacks. This was exactly the kind of behavior that had driven her from the community in the first place—the assumption that cruelty was somehow more intellectual than compassion, that tearing down was more valuable than building up.

Her fingers flew across her phone screen before she could stop herself.

I see your communication style hasn't improved. Thursday at 8 works fine.

And for the record, Cal—there's nothing strategic about wanting to have a productive conversation instead of a performative bloodbath. Some of us actually care about the community we're supposed to be serving.

But you're right about one thing: we're definitely not friends.

—Ellie

She hit send and immediately regretted it. The message was too emotional, too reactive. It gave him exactly what he wanted—proof that he could get under her skin, that behind her positivity platform was someone just as petty and combative as everyone else.

His response came back almost instantly, and despite herself, Ellie found herself holding her breath as she opened it.

There she is.

I was beginning to wonder if the real Elara Vance had been completely sanitized out of existence. Turns out you do have opinions that aren't focus-grouped to death.

Thursday it is. Fair warning though—I've done my homework on you. Six years of content, every book you've recommended, every stance you've taken. I know exactly where your logic breaks down, and I won't hesitate to point it out.

Hope you've done yours. It would be disappointing if this ended too quickly.

—C

Ellie set her phone down with shaking hands. There was something in that message that she couldn't quite parse—a challenge, yes, but also something that almost felt like... respect? Or maybe she was reading too much into it, seeing complexity where there was only calculation.

I've done my homework on you.

The words sent a chill down her spine. What had he found? She'd been careful over the years to avoid controversy, to focus on celebrating books rather than condemning them. But no online presence was perfect, and Cal had built his reputation on finding the cracks in other people's armor.

She spent the next hour spiraling through her own content, trying to see it through his eyes. The romance novels she'd championed that later faced criticism for problematic elements. The authors she'd supported who'd been involved in community drama. The times she'd chosen silence over taking a stand on difficult issues.

By the time she closed her laptop, the sun had set completely, leaving her apartment bathed in the artificial glow of her fairy lights. Outside, Seattle's evening rain had begun, a steady percussion against her windows that usually soothed her but tonight felt ominous.

She curled up in her reading chair with a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice—her comfort read, the book that had first made her fall in love with enemies-to-lovers romance. Elizabeth Bennet's sharp wit and refusal to be intimidated by Mr. Darcy's initial disdain had always inspired her.

But as she read the familiar words, she couldn't shake the image of Cal's message: There she is.

What had he meant by that? And why did some traitorous part of her mind keep returning to those three words, turning them over like a puzzle piece that might fit somewhere she wasn't ready to acknowledge?

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jessica: How'd it go with setting up the coordination call?

Ellie stared at the message, unsure how to explain that a simple professional exchange had somehow turned into the most emotionally charged conversation she'd had in months. That Caleb Thorne, her supposed nemesis, had managed to spark something in her that felt dangerously close to excitement alongside the fear.

It's complicated, she typed back.

Good complicated or bad complicated?

Ellie looked out at the rain-streaked windows, at her reflection superimposed over the city lights beyond. In three days, she'd speak to the man who'd made her question everything about herself and her place in the community she loved.

The smart thing would be to approach it as pure business—stick to talking points, avoid personal engagement, get through the panel without further damage to her reputation.

But as she sat surrounded by thousands of love stories that had taught her about the transformative power of conflict, of two people who challenged each other to become better versions of themselves, Ellie couldn't help wondering if maybe—just maybe—the smart thing wasn't always the right thing.

I honestly don't know, she finally replied. But I guess I'm about to find out.

Thursday couldn't come fast enough. Or soon enough to terrify her completely.

Either way, Caleb Thorne was about to discover that six months of silence didn't mean six months of standing still. And if he'd done his homework on her, well...

She'd been doing hers on him too.