Chapter Two: The Client
Maya hated Zoom calls.
They blurred the line between anonymity and obligation—two things she liked to keep far apart. But this client insisted on “a quick face-to-face.”
The screen loaded, and there she was: Delilah Saint-Morris. Heiress to a luxury hotel empire, Instagram-famous for her reckless parties and diamond-studded everything. But on the call, she wore no makeup. Just a hoodie and a tired stare, like she hadn’t slept in a week.
“You’re younger than I thought,” Delilah said flatly.
“And you’re quieter than I expected,” Maya replied. “What can I do for you?”
Delilah exhaled through her nose. “I need a memoir. Something real. But not too real. Sad enough to sell, relatable enough to go viral.”
Maya scribbled notes. “Right. A curated tragedy.”
Delilah flinched, just slightly. “Yeah. That.”
They discussed the outline. A story of growing up in wealth, feeling invisible, escaping to Europe to "find herself." Maya already knew the beats. This wasn’t a memoir—it was a script. Something for a book deal, a Netflix adaptation, maybe even a TED Talk if Delilah really committed.
“Anything off-limits?” Maya asked.
“My mother,” Delilah said quickly. “And rehab. Mention ‘struggles,’ but not... specifics.”
Maya nodded. “Understood.”
They ended the call. Maya closed her laptop and stared at the blank sheet in her typewriter.
Every project left a mark. She carried pieces of other people’s trauma like souvenirs: a war veteran who wanted forgiveness, a pop singer desperate to sound deeper than her lyrics, a pastor who didn’t believe anymore. Now, Delilah would join the shelf.
But something about this client gnawed at her. Not the money—Delilah had offered twice Maya’s usual rate. It was the girl’s eyes. Dull, distant, like she’d been hollowed out long before fame ever touched her.
Maya poured herself a cup of instant coffee, hands steady, mind racing.
Every lie she wrote had to start with a truth.
The trick was figuring out which one to use.
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