September 18, Wednesday

I WOKE up with a knot in my stomach, memories of last night's full moon ceremony haunting my dreams. Despite my better judgment, I found myself reaching for my phone before I'd even gotten out of bed. With trembling fingers, I opened Instagram, telling myself I was just checking to see if the curse had worked.

Curtis's profile loaded, and my heart sank. There he was, tanned and grinning, posing on a white sand beach with his arm around his new fiancée. The caption read, "Living our best life! #blessed #noregrets"

I scrolled further, each post feeling like a dagger to my heart. Curtis parasailing, Curtis sipping cocktails at sunset, Curtis and his fiancée making kissy faces at the camera. It was a parade of happiness and success, all while I sat here in a dusty old house, surrounded by chickens and gravestones.

Then I saw it – a post that made my blood boil. Curtis, lounging on a yacht, holding up a book. My book. The caption: "Throwback to when I helped craft this bestseller. Some people just can't handle success, I guess. #ghostwriter #thetruthwillout"

I threw my phone across the room, where it landed with a soft thud on a pile of laundry. How could I have been so stupid? Thinking a spell would actually work? I was a grown woman, for crying out loud, not some teenage witch wannabe.

With a groan, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled downstairs to make coffee, only to realize that the full moon had, as usual, fried the electricity. After counting to ten to calm down, I placed a call to the long-suffering power company, who promised to get a crew out as soon as possible. I tried to console myself with "iced" coffee, but it was just yesterday's bitter leftover brew poured over a cup of melting ice. I drank it while blinking back hot tears of frustration.

I tried to shake off my self-pity. I was tired of wallowing—I needed to act.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and dialed my mother's attorney, Vivian Steele.

"Vivian Steele's office," a crisp voice answered.

"Hi, this is Josephine Vanguard, Vanessa Vanguard's daughter. Is Vivian available?"

A moment later, Vivian's no-nonsense tone filled my ear. "Josephine, your mother filled me in on your situation. What can I do to help?"

I took a deep breath. "I need you to reach out to Curtis. Threaten him with a libel suit unless he retracts his statements about writing my book."

Vivian was quiet for a moment. "Are you sure that's the route you want to take? Once we go legal, there's no turning back."

"I'm sure," I said, surprising myself with the resolve in my voice. "He's making false claims that could ruin my career. It has to stop."

"Okay. I'll draft a cease and desist letter today. But Josephine, you should be prepared for retaliation. In my experience, when threatened with a lawsuit, people like your ex usually escalate before they back down."

I swallowed hard. "Okay. Just do what you need to do."

I ended the call, then walked down to the graveyard to open the gate, ever watchful for snakes which I hoped were now hibernating, or whatever snakes do in colder weather. At the cemetery, the morning mist was just starting to lift, revealing rows of weathered headstones. For a moment, I envied the peace of the departed souls resting there.

But then I straightened my shoulders. I'd written heroines who faced down far worse than a lying ex-boyfriend. It was time I channeled some of that strength for myself.