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The first sob happened when the guitarist started playing, the music drifting through the aisles.

The second occurred when the Times journalist introduced himself and told her they were covering the evening.

The third happened when she cornered me and thanked me for organising the event.

The fourth time, I didn’t catch the trigger, I just heard her bawl from two aisles over.

Every time she passes me in the crowded space, she throws her arms around me.

“You didn’t have to do this, Julian.”

“This is too much.”

“Thank you for organising this.”

I don’t really know how to handle it. I’ve never experienced such unreserved gratitude in my life, so I simply wrap my arms around her and hug her.

“You deserve every bit of it, Penny.”

The guys rolled in an hour ago, and their presence makes the night feel even more absurdly surreal. It’s definitely a contrast to our normal, liquor-soaked meets at Stave.

Up until tonight, Josh, Theo, and Marco hadn’t even officially met Ellise. Watching them file through the door, sheepishly handing her small gifts of wine, chocolates and flowers and offering warm, genuine introductions was unreal, but seeing how easily she fit in with them and how quickly my friends softened around her, did something dangerous to my chest.

Josh and Maddie haven’t stepped more than two inches away from each other all evening. They’re standing near the ‘new releases’ table, easily the best-dressed people in the entire shop. Josh is wearing a sharp, dark charcoal blazer over a black turtleneck, looking effortlessly tailored, while Maddie is striking in an emerald velvet dress, metallic boots, and chaotic dark curls. They’ve been locked in an intense, low-toned conversation since they arrived, laughing and leaning into each other’s space in a way that suggests something serious is brewing between them. I didn’t even know they knew each other.

Meanwhile, Theo and Marco have set up camp near the front display, using their insufferable charm to flirt shamelessly with a group of middle-aged romance writers. They are definitely going to be the inspiration for future novels.

When Maddie first ambushed me this evening, I was completely caught off guard. She and Ellise are polar opposites. Ellise is reserved, whereas Maddie is an unfiltered force of nature.

“So, Julian Thorne,” she had said, eyeing me with a cheeky, razor-sharp smirk. “I hear you’ve moved from being an insufferable dick to completely obsessed over Ellise.”

I’d blinked, stunned by her openness. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” she’d grinned. “If you break her heart, I know how to make a flute case look like an accident.”

Before I could even think about a response, Josh had wandered over, sliding a smooth arm around her waist to pull her back into conversation.

I'd thought she was an absolute nightmare.

At some point, I find myself cornered by a poet who talks my ear off for about twenty minutes about tragedy. He is sharp and witty, and I realise that I might actually buy and read some of his work. He must be convincing because I never read, if I can help it. While I am listening intently to the conversation and everything that he says, my internal radar remains locked entirely on Ellise.

She is moving through the room with a lightness I’ve never seen at Belrose. There’s no tension in her spine or guarded walls. She knows the location of every single book as she rushes from shelf to shelf, sliding recommendations into customers’ hands and laughing as she does so. She isn’t performing here. She is completely and beautifully unguarded.

This, I realise with a sudden jolt of absolute clarity, is where she actually belongs.

It isn’t on a stage under a harsh spotlight, where every micro-movement of her wrist is judged and assessed. It definitely isn't in a practice room, injuring herself to achieve the standard of perfection that doesn’t exist. Here, in this room, surrounded by these shelves, is the exact version of her that I have gotten to see behind closed doors.

The real Ellise.

She is wearing one of her usual combinations, a burgundy corset dress, a pristine white shirt, those shiny boots and of course her signature bow pinned neat into her chestnut waves.

When our eyes cross over the packed room, she holds my gaze, her soft lips curving into a smile.

“The Times photographer wants a photo of the two of you,” I say, stepping over to where Ellise and Penny are standing near the wine table, laughing together. “They’ve officially confirmed the feature. They’re running a piece on the revival in the next issue.”

Penny lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-sob, pulling me into a fiercely tight hug. The Times running a feature on Vance’s Volumes, because of an event that I put together. It’s more than I could actually have wished for. I glance over Penny’s shoulder and offer Ellise an arrogant smirk.

“Julian, you have done far too much for us,” Penny cries into my shoulder. “This is all too much.”