She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

Hotel ballroom smelled of roses, candle wax, and money.

Gold sconces warmed the paneled walls.

A harpist in the corner plucked something delicate and expensive while guests leaned close over champagne flutes.

Editors, donors, critics, publicists, and women in diamonds pretended not to watch me stop in the aisle.

But their eyes moved.

Oh, they moved.

They continue reading …