#kidnappedwriter

Yes, I’m writing a book.

Me: sips coffee

Brain: Okay, but what if the main character’s backstory involved a mysterious coffee addiction, and the plot revolves around their quest to find the perfect brew?

Writing fuel:

Smoke curled from the wreckage of what used to be my car, now halfway inside my neighbor’s living room. The front bumper had obliterated Mrs. Jenkins’ floral loveseat, leaving her cat, Mr. Whiskers, to now be perched on the back of a half-crushed recliner, looking wholly unimpressed.

Beside me, Jason exhaled sharply, hands on his hips as he surveyed the destruction. “How the hell am I going to explain this?”

We both turned to Mrs. Jenkins. She stood in her doorway, bathrobe clutched tightly around her frail frame, curlers askew, a chipped teacup trembling in her grip. Behind us, the sky still flickered green where the…thing had disappeared.

I cleared my throat. “Aliens?”

“You look suspicious.”

“I always look suspicious,” she muttered, not bothering to lift her eyes from her phone. Her fingers tapped rapidly across the screen, the rhythm of her thoughts syncing with the endless stream of messages she skimmed through.

“No, today’s different,” he pressed, his tone quieter, more insistent. He leaned back against the wall, arms folded. His gaze didn’t waver from her, even though she clearly wasn’t looking at him.

She raised an eyebrow, but still didn’t glance up. “What, because I’m wearing a hoodie? You’re gonna tell me I look like a criminal now?”

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, “it’s not the hoodie. It’s your smile.”

Her fingers paused on the screen, and her head tilted slightly, the barest hint of curiosity breaking through her usually guarded expression. “My smile?”

“Yeah. It’s too… perfect today.” He took a step closer, eyes studying her face, and for a brief moment, she felt an uncomfortable warmth rising in her chest. She hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t even realized she was smiling. It was just a reflex, an impulse. “Like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m always hiding something.” Her voice was calm, almost bored. “That’s how I get by.”

He hesitated, watching her, then laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re not as good at this as you think you are, you know.”

She finally looked up, meeting his gaze with an intensity that made him freeze for just a split second. “I’m very good at it. But I’m not hiding anything today.”

She stood up abruptly, her smile still there, as if it had never faltered. “Not anything you need to worry about, anyway.”

I always suspected something was off about my dog, Rufus. He was too smug for a golden retriever. Too judgmental. Like, yes, I did eat cold pizza for breakfast again, but I don’t need a side-eye from a canine.

Then one morning, I woke up to an email that changed everything.

"Congratulations! Your manuscript, The Shadows of Longview House, has been accepted for publication. We’re thrilled to offer you a six-figure advance."

I nearly choked on my cereal. I didn’t remember writing The Shadows of Longview House. In fact, I hadn’t written anything in months, unless you counted my grocery list (which I forgot at home anyway).

Confused, I searched my laptop and found a folder full of completed manuscripts. Brilliant, well-structured, emotionally gripping novels. All under my name.

And then I saw the security camera footage.

At exactly 2:14 AM, Rufus trotted into my office, hopped onto my chair and started typing. His tail wagged as he adjusted the manuscript formatting. He paused to sip from my coffee mug. The same coffee I had poured for myself before bed.

Rufus was a bestselling author. And he knew it.

When I confronted him, he didn’t even look guilty. Just wagged his tail and let out a single, unimpressed woof.

So now, I live in quiet fear of my own dog. He writes the books, I take the credit and in return, I provide unlimited belly rubs and an endless supply of gourmet treats.

It’s a delicate balance.

The first time Fiona met Vincent, he had blood on his hands. Not metaphorically, actual blood, dripping from his knuckles as he leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard. He looked up at her, dark eyes burning with something unspoken, something dangerous.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, against her better judgment.

He laughed, the sound low and almost amused. “Not my blood.”

That was how it started.

Now, standing in the dim glow of a flickering motel sign, Fiona felt the weight of every bad decision she had ever made. Vincent sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, watching her like a predator that wasn’t sure if it wanted to hunt or rest.

“You’re leaving,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

Fiona swallowed. “I have to.”

He nodded, but there was something sharp in the motion, something unraveling beneath his composed exterior. He ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling like he was trying to force the air out before it could turn into something else, something messy.

“We were never meant to be good for each other,” she said, softer this time. “We both know that.”

Vincent stood. He moved slowly, as if giving her time to run. She didn’t. He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of him, the storm beneath his skin.

“I know,” he murmured, fingers brushing her wrist. “But I still can’t let you go.”

Fiona closed her eyes. “Then what do we do?”

His lips ghosted over her temple, his breath warm and unsteady. “We burn, sweetheart.”