Evander Blackwood, renowned author of successful mystery novels, sits on an uncomfortable couch, which is merely a wooden bench with a thin cushion. The jumbled chatter from the store is distracting, making him anxious. It serves as a nagging reminder of why he is here. He can feel the headache rising.

His eyes are closed, a small smear of grease on his forehead as he massages his temples. However, the restlessness is too persistent for it to help. He sighs heavily, recalling Isabelle's harsh words three months ago after the disappointing sales figures of his latest novel had arrived. 

"You, Mr. Blackwood, have flopped. Step down from your solitary throne with your sorry ass and meet your subjects, Your Highness. I will arrange a book tour for you and plenty of interviews. You still remember those?" She had said sternly, and added, "And you will smile when I say so, you will jump if I request, and most importantly, you must be polite and kind to everyone. I'm not asking; I'm demanding."

Cold sweat rises on the back of his neck, and he shivers. He can still feel her icy black eyes burning through his spine. He can very well imagine her as the queen of the demon world. 

Those Eyes to rule them all, Those Eyes to find them, Those Eyes to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.

"No offense intended, Mr. Tolkien," the thought makes him chuckle, easing the tension a little. However, thanks to Isabelle's hard efforts, he is sitting on a shabby couch in an insignificant, smallish, and smellish bookstore, taking a break before continuing to meet his readers.

The staff room of the bookstore is barely adequate, smelling slightly of humans and a detergent, but at least the snacks are to his liking. They were most likely organized by Isabelle, as she knows his taste the best. As is expected from his long-time editor and assistant, Isabelle Grant. He could not live without her, or, preferably, he could not do his work—writing fiction novels—at all without her.

They had started together ten years ago, two literary enthusiasts: one an aspiring writer and the other an aspiring editor. As he gained recognition, so did she. Thus, she became one of the most sought-after editors in the field. 

She has a very busy life in New York, the center of the publishing world. Whereas he lived here and there, sometimes abroad, never settling in one place. He did have a home, an expensive penthouse in New York, but it was occupied by his editor, so he never visited the place. When he visited the city, he booked a room in a hotel. The arrangement was a benefit that he gladly offered to her. She did keep also his papers organized and achieved there.

The book tour was not done in vain. Even though the sales figures are now on the positive side, it cannot transform those bad reviews into good ones. The publisher is unhappy, he is unhappy, and everyone feels the same. What he and the world need is the next hit, a new novel to restore his reputation and everyone's earnings. The new situation worries him, but he is confident he can make it right. So far, everything he has done has been a success, not always a huge one, but a success nonetheless.

"Mr. Blackwood, it is time to meet the last group of the readers. Could you please move to the store area? Thank you."

"Oh, is it already time? Well then, let's go," he says to the lovely, somewhat older lady, the bookstore owner who has kept him company all day. 

She and the security person, who is also on a break, follow behind him to the store area. Throughout the day, he tried to have a conversation with the security person, but to no avail, only receiving one word or none in return. The owner lady, on the other hand, has been a nuisance at times.

He sits at the table reserved for him and can see an endless line of people waiting for him. On the table is a bottle of (his favorite) mineral water, a pen holder containing plenty of (his favorite) pens, swag, and high stacks of his newest novel and discount coupons for his works. Holding Isabelle's command firmly in his mind, he fabricates (his favorite) smile on his face and greets the first person in line. Fortunately, this was the last event, and then he could be free, or relatively free.

After a while, after numerous fans, shared stories, and various signatures written, he could hardly wait to finish this (least favorite) task. A pang strikes his heart, knowing very well that he is being unjust. All the things he has have been provided by his readers. But at the same time, he wishes to maintain his distance from them. He dislikes the masses, wanting to keep only a few people close. 

He cannot help it, and his thoughts begin to wander to a comfortable villa nearby that Isabelle had arranged for him so he could soothe his nerves and the ache in his hand, which was undoubtedly coming. 

He dreams of basking in the evening sun on the balcony, sipping the best white tea he acquired, with a hot towel on his hand, and contemplating the novel he plans to write. It surely would be a success this time.