She sighed deeply, stretching her tired body as she leaned back in the chair. Finally, it was done. Her manuscript was complete. The book was finished. It was 8 in the morning, and her meeting with the publishers was at 10. She had two hours—yes, she could take a little nap until then.

Her body ached, desperate for rest, but she didn't bother to move to bed. Instead, she let herself slump down, her head resting on the desk. Sleep took her quickly, the exhaustion overpowering her.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The familiar, irritating sound of her phone alarm dragged her out of her sleep. She groggily reached for it, blinking her eyes to focus. It was 10:30. There were three missed calls—two from her editor and one from her publisher.

"Fuck I'm late," she mumbled, panic creeping in as she shoved her phone into her bag. She didn't have time to change, didn't have time to gather herself. The meeting was important. She grabbed her things hastily, throwing on her baggy hoodie and sweatpants, her messy bun barely holding together as she rushed out of the house.

Socializing was the last thing she wanted to do. Even though she knew her editor and publisher well, they were always just colleagues. Nothing more.

Her stomach churned with dread. She sighed as she glanced down at her outfit. She was in her oversized hoodie, baggy sweatpants, and her hair... a mess. Not the professional image she wanted to project.

She grabbed a quick bite from a restaurant nearby and tried to fix her hair as she drove, hoping to look at least somewhat presentable. By the time she reached the building, she had barely managed to make it look halfway decent.

The building loomed above her—huge, sleek, and luxurious. She rushed inside and made her way up to the 23rd floor. The elevator dinged, and she hurried to the conference room.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said, out of breath. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Her editor and publisher exchanged concerned looks as they took in her appearance—the dark circles under her eyes, her pale complexion, and the way her eyes were bloodshot from staring at the screen all night. They had been worried about her for a while, ever since the signs of stress had started showing.

For the past two years, she had hardly taken care of herself. They suspected she might be struggling with more than just work pressure, maybe even depression. But whenever they asked, she'd shrug it off, insisting she was fine.

The question they always asked, "Are you really okay Reece?" filled her with frustration.

Of course she was okay. Nothing was wrong with her. She just didn't sleep. She worked late, that's all.

"I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about," she said irritably.

This was the fifth time in the month they'd asked the same question. It made her feel like they saw her as fragile, as if something were deeply wrong with her. It triggered her insecurity about her mental health—something she wasn't comfortable discussing.

She sighed, trying to shake off the feelings. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" she muttered.

During the meeting, she began to feel dizzy. A strange pressure seemed to build up in her chest. Her mind was clouded, whispers echoing in the back of her head, and she struggled to breathe.

No, no, no, not now... she thought, panic rising. She had forgotten to take her medication again.

Her heart raced as the anxiety attack began to take hold. Not in front of them. Not now.

"Can we reschedule?" she choked out, her voice barely audible as she gathered her things. "I'm not feeling well."

Without waiting for their response, she rushed out of the room, leaving behind her editor and publisher, who looked even more concerned.

In the safety of her car, she rolled up the tinted windows and dialed her psychiatrist Mr. White with shaking hands. The voice on the other end guided her through breathing exercises, calming her down enough to function.

She stopped by a pharmacy and took her medication. She made a mental note to always keep her meds in the car, as she had neglected to do so many times before.

She hated this. Hated that she couldn't keep it together. But she couldn't keep putting her health at risk either.

The meeting was called off, and the next one was rescheduled for next week. She could already feel the pity of her colleagues seeping into the air. And that was the last thing she wanted. Pity.

She didn't want anyone's sympathy, least of all from those who didn't understand what it was like.

With a deep sigh, she tried to push the negativity aside. Maybe she could salvage the day with a little escape.

A stop at the nearby bookstore cheered her up a little. There, on the shelves, were her books. Best Sellers, the sign said. She smiled to herself, pleased despite the morning's events.

But there was more to her love of books than just her own work. She was a huge fan of other writers. Sherlock Holmes, The Hardy Boys, and even Dan Brown's mysteries. She had always been fascinated by different writing styles, different approaches to storytelling.

For once, she thought, it would be nice to meet her favorite authors. To collaborate, perhaps. But no, that wasn't possible. Not when her true identity remained a secret.

Reece Gray, was her pen name, she was a ghost. No one knew who she really was, and she liked it that way. The mystery made her books more enticing, more intriguing to the readers.

No one, not even the people at her publishing house—apart from her editor and publisher—knew the truth. They all believed she was just an assistant working for Reece Gray.

Her true identity remained a mystery, just like the detective in her books whose identity is never revealed. Nobody knew who she was or what her real name was. Heck, people didn't even know her gender. Many assumed she was a man based on her writing style, which seemed so experienced, so seasoned. Some even speculated that she was quite old, based on the depth and maturity of her narratives. She found it all amusing—hearing the various theories people came up with about her. She loved the mystery surrounding her persona.

Today, though, she was going to buy something for herself. She picked up As Good As Dead by Holly Jackson, the third in a gripping trilogy.

She couldn't help but feel grateful for the books that allowed her to forget about her own world, even if just for a little while.