Chapter 7: The First Cracks
1000 Words
on tuesday morning arrived with grey skies and a knot in Amara's stomach that coffee couldn't loosen.
She had posted a behind-the-scenes photo from the shoot—her reflection in the studio mirror, hair half-done, a tentative smile on her face. The caption read: *"Day 1 of making a dream come true. Pre-order link in bio."*
By noon, it had twenty-three likes. Four shares. Zero pre-orders.
She refreshed the page every ten minutes, watching the numbers stagnate. Her heart sank a little more each time.
Ethan had sent her a schedule: post again at 2 PM, then at 6 PM, then at 9 PM. She followed it mechanically, but the engagement was barely a trickle.
At 4 PM, her phone rang. Ethan.
"Check your email," he said without preamble. "I sent you a list of bookstagrammers and t****k reviewers who might feature your book. Reach out to all of them tonight. Personal messages."
"Tonight?" She looked at the list—thirty names. "That's a lot."
"You have six days. Every hour counts."
She swallowed her protest. "Okay. I'll do it."
"And Amara?"
"Yes?"
"Don't check the pre-order count until tomorrow morning. It'll drive you crazy."
She almost laughed. "Too late."
"I mean it. Focus on the outreach. Let me handle the ad campaign. Trust me."
She wanted to trust him. She really did. But as she ended the call and stared at the list of influencers, doubt crept in like a cold draft.
What if her story wasn't good enough? What if Marcus was right?
She shook her head, forcing the thought away. She opened her email and began typing.
*"Dear [Name], I'm a debut author with Black Publishing, and my novel launches next month... Would you be open to reviewing an ARC? I'd be happy to send you a copy. Thank you for considering..."*
Copy. Paste. Personalize the name. Repeat.
By 9 PM, she had sent twenty-two emails. Her fingers ached. Her eyes burned. But she kept going.
At 9:15, a reply came.
*"Hi Amara, thanks for reaching out. I'd love to feature your book! Can you send me a synopsis and cover art? I have a slot next week. Best, Clara @bookishclara"*
Amara's heart leaped. She responded immediately, attaching the synopsis Ethan had approved and the cover mockup from the designer.
*One down. Twenty-nine to go.*
Wednesday morning came too fast. Amara had slept only three hours, her dreams filled with numbers—pre-orders ticking up, then crashing back to zero.
She opened her phone with trembling hands.
Amazon author dashboard: **47 pre-orders.**
Forty-seven. Not five hundred. But not zero either.
She exhaled. *It's a start.*
Ethan texted at 8 AM: *"47 pre-orders. Ads went live at midnight. Expect a slow ramp today, then a jump by Friday. Keep posting."*
She replied with a thumbs-up emoji, then spent the morning crafting a new post—a video of her writing desk, messy with sticky notes and crumpled pages, captioned: *"This is where the magic happens. Or the madness. Pre-order link in bio."*
By 2 PM, pre-orders had climbed to 89.
She allowed herself a small smile.
But at 3 PM, her phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number. She answered, half-expecting a wrong number.
"Is this Amara Carter?" The voice was male, clipped, professional.
"Yes?"
"This is Daniel Reese from *The Literary Insider*. I'm reaching out because we received a tip that your debut novel is being published under questionable circumstances. Can you confirm that Mr. Ethan Black personally intervened to bypass standard acquisitions procedures?"
Amara's blood turned to ice. "What? No. I—I don't know what you're talking about."
"The tip suggests favoritism and potential breach of protocol. Would you like to comment?"
"I... I have no comment." She ended the call, hands shaking.
Within minutes, a second call came. Then a third. All from different outlets, all asking the same thing.
Someone had leaked the story. Marcus. It had to be.
She was being painted as Ethan's pet project, not a legitimate author.
Her phone buzzed again. Ethan.
"Amara, don't answer any more calls. I'm handling it. They're trying to discredit you before the pre-order deadline."
"Who?" she asked, though she already knew.
"Marcus. He's feeding the press. But I'll shut it down. Just focus on your posts."
"How can I focus when everyone thinks I'm a fraud?"
"You're not a fraud," Ethan said firmly. "You're a writer who earned her chance. Don't let them take that from you."
For a moment, she wanted to believe him.
But as she hung up and opened i********:, she saw the first comments under her latest post:
*"Heard you got the deal because you're sleeping with the editor. Nice."*
*"Must be nice to have connections. Some of us actually work for our contracts."*
*"Disappointed. I was going to pre-order but now I'm not sure."*
Amara stared at the screen, her vision blurring. The numbers in the corner still read 89 pre-orders. But they felt like lies now.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She had worked so hard. She had rewritten her chapters three times, poured her heart into every word, stayed up until dawn while her mother coughed in the next room.
And now, strangers were calling her a fraud.
She wanted to delete everything. Run away. Give up.
But then she remembered her mother's voice: *"Make it loud, Amara. Make them hear you."*
She wiped her tears, opened her laptop, and started writing a new post.
Not a promo. Not a pitch. Just the truth.
*"I'm not a fraud. I'm a girl who grew up poor, who watched her mother get sick, who wrote because it was the only way to survive. My deal wasn't handed to me. I earned it. And if you want to judge me before reading a single word, go ahead. But my story will speak for itself. Pre-order or don't. Either way, I'm not going anywhere."*
She posted it without editing, without overthinking.
Then she closed her laptop and waited.
- Writer
