𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫..~
{Y/N} writes dark romance. Murderers. Stalkers. Psychopaths. Men so morally bankrupt that prison would be considered a generous retirement plan. And the spice in these books? Absolutely diabolical. Unfortunately, her newest love interest isn’t fictional. Meet Joseph. Thirty. Six-foot-five. Gorgeous. Nerdy. Silver-framed glasses. A sweet little librarian who recommends poetry and remembers her coffee order. ADORABLE, RIGHT? Wrong. The man owns a criminal empire. And the library. And approximately seventeen photographs of her that she doesn’t remember taking. HE BOUGHT AN ENTIRE LIBRARY BECAUSE SHE LIKES BOOKS. Her best friend wants her to call the police. His right-hand man wants psychiatric leave. Joseph wants to know whether she prefers a spring or autumn wedding. And {Y/N}? She’s trying to figure out how her fictional red flags developed a pulse, a bank account, and access to her unpublished manuscripts. “Joseph, you’re literally insane.” “Darling, you’ve written thirty-seven books about men like me.” “THOSE MEN AREN’T REAL.” “And yet here I am. Shall we discuss wedding invitations?” But when his bloody secrets unravel, enemies start circling, and fiction becomes terrifying reality, {Y/N} discovers that writing about monsters is significantly easier than loving one. Because Joseph isn’t interested in being her next book boyfriend. He wants to be her last. And if his favorite author thinks she’s writing herself out of this dangerously obsessive love story? Oh, sweetheart. Joseph has already rewritten the ending and apparently, it includes a wedding, three children, several federal investigations, and a happily ever after that nobody, not even the author herself, saw coming in.. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫..~
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫..~
{Y/N} writes dark romance. Murderers. Stalkers. Psychopaths. Men so morally bankrupt that prison would be considered a generous retirement plan. And the spice in these books? Absolutely diabolical. Unfortunately, her newest love interest isn’t fictional. Meet Joseph. Thirty. Six-foot-five. Gorgeous. Nerdy. Silver-framed glasses. A sweet little librarian who recommends poetry and remembers her coffee order. ADORABLE, RIGHT? Wrong. The man owns a criminal empire. And the library. And approximately seventeen photographs of her that she doesn’t remember taking. HE BOUGHT AN ENTIRE LIBRARY BECAUSE SHE LIKES BOOKS. Her best friend wants her to call the police. His right-hand man wants psychiatric leave. Joseph wants to know whether she prefers a spring or autumn wedding. And {Y/N}? She’s trying to figure out how her fictional red flags developed a pulse, a bank account, and access to her unpublished manuscripts. “Joseph, you’re literally insane.” “Darling, you’ve written thirty-seven books about men like me.” “THOSE MEN AREN’T REAL.” “And yet here I am. Shall we discuss wedding invitations?” But when his bloody secrets unravel, enemies start circling, and fiction becomes terrifying reality, {Y/N} discovers that writing about monsters is significantly easier than loving one. Because Joseph isn’t interested in being her next book boyfriend. He wants to be her last. And if his favorite author thinks she’s writing herself out of this dangerously obsessive love story? Oh, sweetheart. Joseph has already rewritten the ending and apparently, it includes a wedding, three children, several federal investigations, and a happily ever after that nobody, not even the author herself, saw coming in.. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫..~