Crash by luv234_luv on Wattpad

Blurb

Lyra Jay Kellie’s plane goes down in a violent Montana storm, leaving her stranded, injured, and completely alone. Her pilot is dead. Her satellite phone is useless. And the wilderness is closing in fast.

Then another crash lights the sky.

Nathan Wesley survives his own wreck—barely—thanks so Lyra, who drags him from the burning plane. Grateful and determined, he vows to get her back to civilization, no matter what it costs.

But the Rockies don’t forgive mistakes. Something is stalking the forest. Resources are vanishing. And the storm isn’t done with them yet.

Together, Lyra and Nathan must outrun the cold, the mountains, and the unseen danger hunting them.
Survival is the goal—falling for each other might be the only thing that saves them.

Original (First 500)

"Lyra! Come here now!" I yelled, irritatedly tapping the toe of my shoe. 

"What, what do you want?"

She stalked into the room as if she owned the place. Well, news flash, I own this place. Half of it, at least. It's my right and no one around here seems to act like it.

"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.

"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.

"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.

"It's not a mess. But don't worry, I know where everything is and I'll be out of here tomorrow," she smirked at me, putting a hand on her hip.

"Thank god..." she  muttered under her breath.

"You disrespectful, annoying little brat. Someone is going to have to teach you to have some manners," I said lowly.

"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said defiantly. I could feel my blood boil and my face redden.

"And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I said through clenched teeth.

"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal all of my father's money but let's face it, as long as I'm around, you won't touch it. Three, I just plain resent you. Do you need more reasons? I have a list," she chuckled.

We were far past civil commentary.

"I am not trying to take your fathers money!" I gasped. Lie, but she's only a witless teenager, she doesn't know any better.

Really, David is loaded. I would love to get in on more than what I'm privy to, but he's got little miss everything and would hand his still beating heart over to the little rat.

"You're a liar," Lyra spat flatly.

"That's it! Give me your phone, your grounded!" I held my hand out to take her phone.

I had to do something about this girl or I'll never get anything I need to do done, dammit.

Lyra let out a humorless guffaw "I'm twenty years old and pay my own phone bill. You've got no right."

She continued to laugh, making me angrier by the minute. This girl was a walking entity of sass and I was close to beating it out of her.

"Wow, you're really off your rocker now. Does dad know you're getting crazier by every year?" she chuckled and quirked the corner of her lips into that annoying little smirk of hers. 

My Edit

I descended the half of the double stairway that led from my and David's wing of the house -- okay, let's be real -- mansion. I swept my gaze over the flawless marble stairs, the miniature statue of Venus de Milo set into an arched niche halfway down, the perfectly polished ebony wood banister. I wore flowing pastel blue robe over matching frilly silk nightgown. Slippers with kitten heels like a heroine in a black-and-white movie, clicked with each step.

Then I saw that my husband's twenty-year-old brat had taken over my formal living room, entryway, and the stairs that led up to the guest wing. 

"Lyra!" I screamed in fury. I felt my beauty mask crack. I hated this girl. She ruined everything.

Lyra walked into the formal living room from the deck as if she'd earned the place, not me. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her blonde hair swept back in a neat ponytail. The toes of her red socks dotted with white hearts peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.

"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.

"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned. 

"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in."

"It's not that bad," she said. She looked around again. "Don't worry, I know where everything is. And, I'll be out of here tomorrow." She turned to fuss with a make-up bag that she'd left open on my foyer table. She'd shoved the enormous bouquet out of center in order to make space for her crap. "Thank God..." she muttered under her breath.

"You disrespectful brat," I spat. "Someone needs to teach you some manners." My mask cracked even more with my scowl and started sliding down my face. I pulled at the pieces, collecting them with the French-tipped fingernails of my left hand, and piling them neatly in the palm of my right hand. If I'd been born rich, I'd probably just toss them onto the floor for the staff to clean up, but unlike this monster who had been spoiled every second of her twenty years, I had respect for my possessions.

"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said with a faux sweet smile. She finally turned to look me directly in the eye. 

That born-rich, nose-in-the-air expression made my blood boil. I took a step toward her. "And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I asked, through clenched teeth. As though we hadn't had this fight a million times.

"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal my father's money. Three, you're lazy. It's almost noon and you're still in your pajamas," she added, with a sweeping gesture toward my elegant nightwear. "Do you want more? I have a list," she said, disgust twisting her pretty face.

Her promise to her father lasted about as long as I had expected. Lyra hated me as much as I hated her.

My husband is still handsome for his age, but his best feature is his money. But his worst feature is his devotion to this little rat. He'd hand his still-beating heart over to her, if she asked for it.

I have to do something about this girl.

(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~677)

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Critique

For an intro to a brand new story, we look for setting, characterization, and conflict/tension. To be honest, tension is the most important, so the compelling blurb and opening with a confrontation is a good start.

Slowing down a bit and describing the setting will add a ton of dimension to the scene, and in a case like this, because luxury is such an extreme setting, the way the characters interact with it automatically adds characterization.

Setting
We know that these characters are a) in Alexandra and David's home and b) Lyra is visiting. Other than that, we're not given a lot of context for the scene. Based on Alexandra throwing a conniption over the mess, we would expect to be in a smaller apartment or condo. But the mention of how rich David is suggests otherwise, which could be confusing to a reader.

For my edit, I created a classic mansion with a marble double staircase. I threw in a foyer, and a fancy living room, and I had Lyra take over all of this space. In a house this big, with Lyra having her own suite, taking over the living room is a pointed choice, one that the would make specifically to make Alexandra angry.

A cute little vacation condo or cottage would also work, but the effect would be less extreme, and I thought it was fun to play up the wealth aspect.

Characterization
In the original excerpt, the stepmother, Alexandra reads as an exaggerated evil stepmother. If she was as deeply unstable as her demanding Lyra's phone suggests, her husband would notice. Even if Alexandra is "crazy", she's still intelligent. Like, having the same argument with your twenty-year-old stepdaughter every time you see her is pretty immature, but we all behave irrationally when we're jealous. If we want to ground Alexandra's emotional immaturity, an easy way to do that is to give her a quick back story where she had to fight for what she has whereas Lyra takes it for granted. 

Alexandra should also be smarter than to defend herself against the gold-digging accusation. She's been married to David for six years, so this accusation isn't new, and people don't react to old accusations with the same horror and defensiveness as new ones. 

In the original excerpt, Alexandra remarks on Lyra not needing to destroy the whole house just to pack a few bags. This is a good observation that I think got a little lost in the original, so I just highlighted it in my version. Compare:

"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.

"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.

"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.

With:

"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.

"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned.

"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in.".

The underlined parts are where I embellished from the original. So, instead of "filth", in the first paragraph, which is a word that suggests actual dirt, I listed clothes and such. I also played up Alexandra's possessiveness of the house with "my flawlessly-decorated home".

In the second paragraph, instead of just describing Lyra as having an "attitude" that David is lax about, I created a conversation for Alexandra to overhear. This does a few things. It makes David a more involved parent and husband, even though he's not physically present in the scene, it makes Lyra passive-aggressive for making a mess instead of picking a verbal fight, and it makes Alexandra smart for observing Lyra's passive aggression. 

In the third paragraph, I added a sensory detail with the fluffy sleeves, which also serves as a reminder of Alexandra's flamboyant opulence. 

For Lyra's characterization, in the original excerpt, she does come off as a bit bratty and entitled. It's not until the end of the excerpt that the reason she's acting like this is because she thinks that Alexandra is a gold digger. Even though cultural awareness of soap operas suggests this dynamic, nothing in the text does. So, by giving Lyra a basic outfit of a t-shirt and jeans along with a pair of heart-patterned socks, we have a visual indicator that Lyra is down-to-earth, but still youthful, as well as a contrasting image to her stepmother's over-the-top outfit.

Conflict/Tension

An argument between Lyra and Alexandra about Lyra leaving a mess is a great way to explore characters dynamics, unspoken versus spoken resentments. Since we're in Alexandra's POV, we get to know her hidden motivations, all the things she doesn't say to Lyra. The interesting this about this excerpt is that both women seem to be pretty up front with how they feel, nothing held back. 

An easy and effective way to exaggerate this dynamic is to play up the contradictions in the scene. Lyra is wearing a t-shirt and jeans and packing to go camping whereas Alexandra is still in her PJs at noon and there isn't even an indication of a plan for her day, even though we're in her POV. Lyra is quiet, where Alexandra is loud, Lyra's presence (through her scattered belongings) is large, whereas Alexandra is small (she carefully collects the pieces of her cracking mask in one hand).

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Final Thoughts

The author's note suggests that she was fourteen when she wrote this. I think that explains the lack of nuance in the argument in the original excerpt. It definitely reads like an argument a fourteen-year-old would think that a twenty-year-old would have with her stepmother. 

That said, at its core, a good story is one that we want to keep reading. The author, even at fourteen, starts with a compelling hook and an instinct for Drama. What else do we need?

Psycho Billionaire by kittykash92 at Inkitt

Blurb

Life has never been easy for Kiara Reeves — she’s trading dreams for tips, bussing tables to keep everything from falling apart. Then one stormy night, she's rescued by a handsome stranger in a tailored suit. Blue-eyed, dark-haired, and utterly out of her world, Jasper Lockhart comes from wealth and power.

When their worlds collide, their friendship blooms into something deeper. But the universe has other plans. Kiara finds herself in over her head — and Jasper swoops in to save her — again. Only, this time, it’s not a free rescue. It comes at a price.

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Original (First 500)

I was panting by the time I ran out of the forest. Howls of unknown creatures could be heard through the eerie silence of the forest. I reached the empty road where there was no sign of life. My legs throbbed from the pain, I couldn’t even walk properly. It felt like I had huge sacks of rice attacked to my ankle.

I jogged farther down the road. It was like one of those scenes they showed in horror movies. Even the trees stopped whooshing.

I almost limped. I wouldn’t die without fighting. You see, I had committed a crime. I grew up and lived in a trailer park. To say I was from an underprivileged family would be an understatement. My mother worked a minimum wage job that paid our bills with much difficulty. I, on the other hand, went to university, all thanks to a scholarship and I also worked part time at a diner. They told me if I worked in a stripper club, with my kind of face and body, I could easily get paid thrice the amount my mom and I made but I never considered it.

Although we had a hard time getting by each day, I still had hope that I would make something out of my future by studying, but all of that was about to get thrown out of the window because my crack headed father decided to stop by. He  usually dropped by every once a month, to collect his allowance from mom and me like a fucking pimp. My mom usually gave up all our savings. It pissed me off so much, but she was my mother. She opted to get a swollen face while she told me to lock myself in the kitchen because like any other mother, she didn’t want her child to get hurt.

Rage. That emotion had so much power. I had grabbed for a flower vase and swung the door open. When father saw me, he uttered the nastiest curses his drunk mind could come up with. My mind had blurred and all I could think of was hitting him. I came back to my senses when it was too late. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, I just wanted him to shut his mouth, but I’d silenced him for life. It was an accident and although he was a pain in the butt, he was still my father.

I fled from the scene and my mother assured me she would take care of it. I’d managed to survive for two days until the police tracked my location. I’d been on the run since then. A part of me wanted to surrender and put an end to this, the other part of me knew that if I was ever convicted of the murder, my life would be over within the four walls of prison which meant no university, which equated no career.

I ran faster as I heard the sirens closing in. Cars zoomed by and I waved my arm out to them for a lift. I just wanted to be out of this godforsaken place. I saw another car come forward so I walked towards the middle of the road, waving my arms for it to stop.

To my surprise, the car came to an abrupt halt. It was a slick black BMW SUV. I moved towards the driver’s side and waited until the person rolled down the window.

I just had a couple of seconds to convince this man to let me in his car.

“It’s a little late for a beautiful woman like yourself to be prowling around in the middle of nowhere. Would you like me to drop you somewhere?” The man asked in the most polite way that I had ever heard a man speak. I noticed the way his eyes lingered over me in a quick once over.

He was a very attractive man with dark hair and electrifying blue eyes. His skin was a light shade of bronze. A small scar cutting through his eyebrow, but that little imperfection didn’t stop hi from looking like a women magnet.

“Please. I would really appreciate it.” I said as I walked to the passenger side of the car. I sank into the soft leather chair, the man drove away into the dark night.

The car was filled with awkward silence, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable. I wondered if taking a ride in a total stranger’s card was a bad decision since I’d heard of some gruesome horror stories of hitch-hiking.

“What’s your name?” He decided to break the silence.

“Ki…Kiara.”

“Kiara is a beautiful name.” He complimented me with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“So, where to?”

“I don’t care. Anywhere that you are going.” I responded meekly.

He sniggered. “Well, sweetheart, I’m going home.”

“Then maybe you can drop me to a motel on your way?”

“Or, you could come home with me, stay the night and I’ll drop you off tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”

It sounded tempting since beggars can’t be choosers, not when a hot gentleman was offering me a roof for a night, but trusting a complete stranger wasn’t an option.

“I don’t think I can…”

A police officer waved his hands to us ahead. I panicked and grabbed the man’s hand. “Please don’t let the police take me. I need your help.” I begged him.

He pinned me with the calmest stare. “Have you gone against the law before, Kiara?”

“I can explain everything later, but please just help me out of this situation. I beg you. Don’t stop the car.” My eyes brimmed with tears.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to me. “Get in the back seat, there’s plenty of space below the seat. Lie down and cover yourself with my jacket.”

I did exactly as I was told as slid into the backseat floor and pulled the dark jacket over myself so I was hidden from view.

The car came to a stop, and I heard the man speak, “Is there a problem, officer?”

“Mr. Lockhart.” The officer addressed him. “We have information that a woman is on the run after she murdered her father. She is about five feet four, long black hair and brown eyes. Is it possible you may have seen her on the road?”

“I’m sure a woman with that description wouldn’t go unnoticed. Haven’t seen a soul.”

Some more exchange of words and then Lockhart said, “you have a great night too, and say hello to Marie for me.”

The car was back on its way on the road. I heard him say something but I couldn’t understand because my eyelids felt very heavy, it was difficult for me to even keep my eyes open. Being on the run for two continuous days had exhausted my body. I drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

My Edit

I burst out of the forest, panting. The air rang with howls—unearthly cries battling the rise of sirens closing in. The road was empty—for now—and it was easier to run on potholed pavement than uneven mud and twigs. 

The hum of an engine behind me made me stop and turn. Not a cop car. Thank God. Or whatever. I stumbled into the middle of the road, waving my arms.

A sleek black BMW SUV braked hard in front of me. I rushed to the driver’s side, lungs burning, sirens swelling, too close.

The window rolled down. The man inside had dark hair, electrifying blue eyes, and wore an expensive suit.

He smiled. “A beautiful woman like yourself shouldn’t be wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Need a ride?” His tone was polite, but his eyes lingered too long. 

He seemed oblivious to my sweat and dust, the panic in my eyes. The sirens. Men. Did he think I was just out for a jog? “Please,” I panted. I tried to look normal, like I wasn’t seconds away from collapsing.

He nodded. I jogged around to the passenger side and climbed in. The leather seat hugged me, cool and soft. I almost moaned at the luxury. The car smelled new, and the air-conditioning was heaven.

My breathing sounded way too loud in the silence. What kind of weirdo drove without music?

“What’s your name?" he asked, smiling. I noticed that he had a sexy scar cutting through his left eyebrow. 

I tried to catch my breath. “Kiara.”

“Beautiful name.” he smiled again. Goddamn. This guy was so hot, I didn't understand how he was alone, instead of under a pile of writhing, naked women 24/7.

His icy blue eyes and the blast of cool air on my damp skin made me shiver. “Th-thanks,” I stuttered.

“So, where to?”

I shrugged. “Anywhere you’re going.”

“Sweetheart, I’m going home.” His gaze lingered a second too long.

“Ah.” I flushed. Did he think I was hitting on him? “Can you drop me at a motel?” I could only afford a couple of nights, but as long as it was far enough out of town, I would be safe long enough to figure out what to do next. Judging by his grin, the word ‘motel’ only encouraged him. 

He grinned. “Would you like me to join you? Or, you could come home with me…”

I was irritated — and tempted. He was hot, and if his house was anything like his car, I’d be more comfortable there than in a roach-infested motel. But all I wanted was a shower and a bed, and not for the same reasons he did. He wasn't offering a friendly pillow fight in matching pajamas and a gossip sesh all about how I murdered my father. 

I turned to watch the forest blur by — and saw the roadblock we were zooming toward. “Oh, shit!” Two police cruisers blocked the road ahead. I clenched the door handle, ready to bolt.

He hit the door locks. “What’s going on, Kiara?” His sharp gaze froze me to the spot.

“I—” I didn’t even know where to start  — and locked in, I couldn’t even run.

He studied me, finally noticing my sweat and grime, the rips in my clothes, the scratches on my skin. The guilt on my face. Calmly, he shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to me. “Get in the back, on the floor. Cover yourself with this.”

Shaking, and not sure why he was helping me, I climbed between the seats and slid to the floor behind his. I pulled the jacket over me. His clean, musky, expensive smell mingled with my sour sweat and forest mud.

The car slowed. His window whirred down. “Is there a problem, officer?”

“Mr. Lockhart,” the cop said. “We on the lookout for a woman on the run — five-four, long black hair, brown eyes. Murdered her father. Have you seen anyone like that?”

I cringed as he described me.

“Haven’t seen a soul,” Mr. Lockhart said smoothly.

Relief flooded me, followed by shame. I didn't deserve his help. But I was too exhausted to move, now that I'd finally stopped running.

The car rolled forward. Lockhart said something, but his words blurred into darkness as sleep dragged me under.

(Original word count: ~500 → Edited: ~565)

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Critique

Good Lord, what a great premise. A murderer on the run gets rescued by a handsome, psychotic billionaire. Sounds like this guy’s about to get a run for his money. The original first 500 words are rife with danger, backstory, motive, and the first meeting with the mysterious savior/villain/love interest.

Writers often hear that you should “start with action.” Many do—for a paragraph or two—then slip back into their comfort zone: backstory and exposition. Honestly, that’s valid. If you don’t want to start with action, don’t. Start with a haunting, beautifully written prologue—something the reader can skip on the first read and savor years later on a reread.

Here, though, the author slows down an otherwise tense action scene with too much backstory. If Kiara runs down the road and jumps into this stranger’s car, that’s plenty of opportunity for reflection later—while she’s lying in the back seat with nothing to do but think. Or, she could fall asleep and save the explanations for Lockheart. It’s a natural way to weave in backstory and reveal character dynamics at the same time.

Setting
The settings are great; running through the forest, with sirens and animal noises, to the plush, cold interior of the car. With the only sound being Kiara's breathing, she gets creeped out and starts to wonder if she may have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. 

Characterization

Lockheart is a red flag factory. The first thing he does when he finds a dirty, panicked woman in the middle of the road is comment on her appearance. The second is to proposition her. And when he learns she’s wanted for murdering her father? He lies to the cops and keeps her in his car. Yeah, I trust this guy.

I'm not sure if Lockheart is supposed to come off as creepy. Kiara doesn't seem to pick up on most of his red flags, and probably younger readers wouldn't either. I did add some nuance to the way that she responds to his flirting. Instead of just being flattered or not reacting at all, I let her be a little bit exasperated. It matches better with the cynical tone she uses to describe her backstory.

In the original, Kiara is way too okay with being so openly propositioned when she's clearly in distress. 

“Or, you could come home with me, stay the night and I’ll drop you off tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”

It sounded tempting since beggars can’t be choosers, not when a hot gentleman was offering me a roof for a night, but trusting a complete stranger wasn’t an option.

“I don’t think I can…”

I don't know why Kiara's response makes me giggle. It just sounds like a little kid response. Here's how I had her respond:

I was irritated — and tempted. He was hot, and if his house was anything like his car, I’d be more comfortable there than in a roach-infested motel. But all I wanted was a shower and a bed, and not for the same reasons he did. He wasn't offering a friendly pillow fight in matching pajamas and a gossip sesh all about how I murdered my father. 

This matches her cynical voice better, and now that she's had a second to breathe, her natural snarkiness can show back up. Throwing in the "murdered my father thing" allows the reader to react to the reveal before Lockheart does. 

I'm always jawing on and on about not having POV characters hold back on important reveals. My only caveat is that something more important needs to be happening. This is a good example of that. Everything before this moment is her running, flagging down the car, getting settled in. This is the first time in my edit where it makes sense to slip in that little detail.

Kiara's world weary even before she murders her father. Her description of him is: 

He usually dropped by once a month, to collect his allowance from mom and me like a fucking pimp.

I cut that line in my edit only because it’s not relevant to the immediate scene, but it’s perfect for later—when she’s opening up to Lockheart and the emotional stakes are higher.

Honestly, between the sirens and her flagging him down, it’s hard to believe Lockheart doesn’t pick up on her distress sooner. Too horny, I guess. If he’s not supposed to be creepy, I’d have him recognize she’s in trouble, skip the flirtation, and realize the roadblock ahead is for her, without being tipped off by her panicking.

I’d also love to see Kiara take more agency in this moment. It doesn't fit with her character to just look at him with tears in her eyes and beg him not to pull over. Maybe she tries to convince him she’s innocent or just blurts out, “I killed my father. He was hurting my mom. Again.” This would give him agency to choose to help her, rather than assuming that a pretty girl couldn't have done anything too terrible.

Conflict/Tension

There's a ton of conflict here. We move from the chaos of sirens and running through the woods to the eerie calm of luxury leather seats and air conditioning. Lockheart: rich, powerful, predatory. Kiara: poor, traumatized, freshly patricidal. Then you layer in sexual tension just to make things even messier. Perfect.

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Final Thoughts

When I first read this story a few years ago, I didn’t know dark romance was its own genre—I thought, from the title, it might be a parody or reversal of the billionaire trope. Now that I do know the genre, I kind of wish this story were that. Nobody should fall in love with this man. He’s the perfect target for a female-rage thriller.

That said, as a dark romance, the writing is compelling, the premise is great, and I hope that Kiara gives Lockheart hell. We already know she doesn't take kindly to overtly abusive men. It will be interesting to see how she handles a covertly abusive one.

For full transparency, the “first 500 words” here are actually closer to the second 500. The original opening was even heavier on exposition, and we didn’t reach Lockheart until much later. I don’t plan to do that often, but in this case, the end of the chapter was too good to ignore.

Triangle Opportunity by Alex Beyman on Substack

Blurb

Eight years after Samantha Whitaker ghosted out of his orbit, Jack thought he’d deleted that file for good. Then her name flashes across his cracked screen — a relic from a life that ran smoother on caffeine and bad decisions.

The city’s running on cheap tech and unpaid labor now, and Jack’s just another freelancer drowning in algorithmic debt when the call comes through. She’s working for a “promising startup,” the kind that smells like ozone and trouble.

He knows he should hang up. Instead, he says yes. With enthusiasm.

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Original (First 500)

When Samantha called me for the first time in eight years, it was surprising for two reasons. The first is that roughly 90% of the calls I receive these days are from debt collectors after me to pay down my student loans. The other being that we parted on pretty ugly terms, most of that was my fault and I honestly never expected to hear from her again.

I scolded myself afterwards for being so eager. Fell out of bed, tangled up in the sheets trying to get my hands on the phone, then tapped the green icon and breathlessly answered. It’s been eight years, I shouldn’t give a shit. She should be like any other person to me.

“Jack? You sound so different. But then, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.” I struggled to sound composed but nonetheless stammered a little bit as I searched for words. “Y-yeah Sam, it’s…you sound different too. It’s nice to hear from you though. You must’ve Googled me, right?” She said that she had, and congratulated me on the trip to Africa I’d taken in my first year interning for the local paper.

“That must’ve been so fulfilling. If you don’t mind me asking, what are they paying you?” I assumed she knew it was unpaid if she’d bothered to ask, so I didn’t sugar coat it. “Wow,” that sucks. But that’s the economy, right? Plenty of people are working for free just to get their foot in the door. Then they let you go right before they’d have to hire you and taken on new interns.” Technically the law prevents that, but I was aware of loopholes.

“You know, I might be able to help. I’m working for this promising new tech startup, it’s right up your alley. There’s plenty of opportunities for someone like you, maybe we could meet for coffee and I’ll tell you about it? Sounded just similar enough to a date that my heart skipped a beat. Reflexively, I blurted out yes. She supplied the day and time, which I dutifully recorded in my calendar app after she’d hung up.

Long after the call ended, my heart was still racing. I’d gone through hell after the breakup. I think only because I was dumped. Something about rejection makes you cling to that person, even if they are nothing special to begin with. I’d seen a local therapist about it for three years before I felt put together enough to stop. Well, not a real therapist. Psych students in training. That’s why it’s free.

Clarity began returning to me, and I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake. Seeing her in person would only rekindle feelings I’d spent most of a decade trying to extinguish. The therapist, insofar as it was right to use that word, urged me to cut off all contact for my own good. That seemed logical at the time. But then, doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?

My Edit

I was lying in bed, debating whether to get ready for work or call in and quit.
The light sneaking through my blinds was already taking sides, bright and judgmental.

My phone buzzed. I sighed and groped for it. The screen said Samantha Whitaker.

I’m still not sure whether the phone slipped out of my suddenly sweaty hands or if I threw it, but it skidded across the dusty hardwood and came to rest at the base of Mount Sock. The buzzing stopped.

My heart was pounding, which was stupid. It was just Sam. A shame I’d missed her call, though. Would’ve been nice to catch up—after eight years.

The phone buzzed again.

Oh no. I scrambled up, tangling in the sheets, not sure if I was trying to reach the phone or flee from it. I hit my head on the ceiling and crashed down hard, catching my fall with my elbow. Pain shot up my arm, through my shoulder. My heart felt no pain -- she'd destroyed that by leaving.

I lay there on my back, blankets half on, half off. The phone stopped buzzing again. Thank God.

It started buzzing again.

Groaning, I crawled to it and accepted the call. “Sam?” I croaked.

“Jack? Are you okay?” Her voice slid into my head, light and lilting.

“Sure,” I wheezed. “What’s up?”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.”

Why?

“I—uh—just got back from Manakara,” I said. “Africa.” Nailed it. Almost sounded human.

“I know,” she said, her tone a little self-conscious. “I Googled you. That piece about the fading spice trade — really enlightening.”

Enlightening, huh? What did that mean? Had my insight into the plight of the Malagasy people renewed her faith in me? 

I could talk about the vanilla fields outside of Manakara forever. The resin stains on the workers’ hands, the smell of smoke and sugar that made the air too heavy — sweet to the point of nausea when the sun got high. The cyclones -- 

I realized that I'd been silent for too long. "Oh. Uh -- th-thanks," I stuttered.

"How much did that pay?" she asked.

Her question zapped me back from the fields and onto my apartment floor. “Intern,” I managed. I kicked my legs free of the blankets, annoyed that she was still all about the bottom line. 

“Oh, wow,” she said, her tone edged with irony. “That sounds fulfilling. What are they paying you, now that you're back?”

I coughed. “Still nothing.” Heat flared in my face. I tried to sit up, failed, and let the sock pile cradle my head. They didn't smell good.

“Wow, that sucks,” she said. “You should write a story about how companies exploit unpaid interns.”

“Yeah. But then they'd fire me. How would I not pay my bills?”

We both laughed — me pathetically, her sympathetically. It was kind of nice.

“You know,” Sam said, “I might be able to help. I’m working for a new tech startup. Right up your alley. Maybe we could meet for coffee, and I’ll tell you about it?”

No. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Tuesday at three?”

No! “Yes!”

She laughed again, and my chest filled with bubbles. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

She ended the call. The bubbles slowly fizzed out.

I added the appointment to my calendar with shaking fingers. Like I’d forget. Should I show up? No. Would I? Yes.

(Original word count: ~501 → Edited: ~558)

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Critique

We've got an interesting premise, a flawed but relatable protagonist who is basically set up to fall into whatever pyramid scheme/medical experiment his ex-girlfriend is about to lead him into, and a mystery to solve. 

First, let’s look at the dialogue structure. In this excerpt, the dialogue of both characters are mixed into shared paragraphs. I imagine that this is a stylistic choice, to show that he's still enmeshed in the way that she thinks about him, but I think in this case, the standard way of separating dialogue from different characters into different paragraphs works better, for clarity.

I was also a little confused by this passage:

“Jack? You sound so different. But then, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.” I struggled to sound composed but nonetheless stammered a little bit as I searched for words. “Y-yeah Sam, it’s…you sound different too. It’s nice to hear from you though. You must’ve Googled me, right?”

How does Sam asking Jack, "what's up", essentially, result in an assumption that she's Googled Jack? Was Jack speaking from wishful thinking or because every time he cyber stalks Sam, he's hit with the urge to call her? If so, that should be stated, because otherwise, this is a bizarre response from him.

This is a piece of dialogue from Sam:

“Wow, that sucks. But that’s the economy, right? Plenty of people are working for free just to get their foot in the door. Then they let you go right before they’d have to hire you and taken on new interns.”

This is way too articulate to be believable. in my edit, I went with:

“Wow, that sucks,” she said. “You should write a story about how companies exploit unpaid interns.”

This reads still a bit more articulate than how people speak, but more natural, with some characterization -- she's always looking for an angle.

Setting

We have two locations, Jack's apartment and Jack's head. This has a noir-ish, pulpy vibe, so this is told in past tense, which means that the location of Jack's head exists in the future. This gives him an opportunity for regret. 

However, it's only utilized twice for these two lines, "I scolded myself afterwards for being so eager." and "Long after the call ended, my heart was still racing." I think if we're going to use an older, wiser Jack as the narrator, this POV could be used for foreshadowing, following the noir-ish vibe. Since it wasn't used that way, I just kept to a closer, real time POV in my edit.

For Jack's apartment, we don't get much information. We have a bed that he falls out of, and that's it. I tried to fill in the details a bit -- just the stuff that he would notice, with his focus mostly being on the call.

Characterization
We get to see Jack in several heightened emotional states. We go from shock to nostalgia to self-doubt to regret. With the re-write, I added a little bit of depression, partly because I wanted to start with setting, rather than dialogue, and that's how I feel in the mornings. 

I also added a bit toward the end where his internal voice is saying no to her but his physical voice is saying yes. I did this to replace the explanation of it taking him three years of therapy in order to cut all contact. This more effectively conveys the fact that he knows he shouldn't see her, but she still has a hold on him.

Being a journalist is about objectivity, focus, and a kind of delayed empathy. Depending on his focus, as an intern, he likely would have covered human interest stories, stories focused on the environment, or lighter travel stories. Any of these would shed light onto Jack's character, but we don't get anything more specific than "Africa". 

Choosing Manakara grounds the story in specificity, and having Jack cover the vanilla and clove trade makes him sound worldly and idealistic — but his lack of follow-through once he’s home undercuts that image. He’s more interested in appearing deep than in actually engaging deeply.

Sam is more of a mystery. She seems nice...

We know that she just started working for a start-up, and is trying to get Jack involved. Without relying on the blurb, let's look at the clues in the original excerpt that she's about to drag him into something untoward:

• They haven't spoken in eight years, and she calls him for no reason -- just thinking about him. 
• Her opening line is a generic question about how he's been -- this could indicate a lack of interest in him personally and the fact that she's calling for her own benefit. Also, she doesn't congratulate Jack on his internship in Africa until he brings it up first.
• Her second line immediately asks him what kind of money he's making. Jack assumes she knows it's nothing, but confirms it.
• She jumps on the confirmation to offer an "opportunity". To her ex, whose heart she broke. Nothing in it for her, obviously.
• The ending inner monologue mentions three years of therapy to  get over her and Jack seems to be in and out of denial about the affect she still has on him. This suggests some sort of psychological warfare happening on her end, but not conclusive.

Sam’s call mirrors the cadence of a pyramid scheme pitch: generic small talk, a casual inquiry about money, then the irresistible ‘opportunity.’ Readers who are aware this pattern will catch on immediately. 

But those not familiar with these tactics, can still rely on Jack's reaction to Sam calling. She's not saying anything interesting or unusual, it's pretty basic small talk, especially at the beginning. But he's a wreck. Not sure if he's happy to hear from her or not, falling out of bed, blurting out a "yes" to coffee because it sounds enough like a date, his heart still racing long after the conversation is over. 

Even without the internal monologue about three years of therapy, you can tell that Jack's reaction to Sam is not healthy. That doesn't mean that Sam is a bad person -- just like the people from college call you after eight years aren't bad people. She would most likely be genuinely excited to share this opportunity with her friends. But I don't think she would have called Jack unless body count affected her bottom line. 

I do wish that Sam was a bit more of a human being. In my edit, I tried to make her sound a little more human. Instead of being prompted to congratulate him on going to Africa, she compliments him on his article. She at least read the title. 

Also, since we can't see Sam, more description of her voice would be helpful. I gave her a "lilt" which has a connotation to me of Irish or Scottish. I didn't want to go overboard, though, since this scene is a fast-paced dialogue sequence.

Conflict/Tension

This excerpt is a mass of conflict, inside and out. We have Jack lying to himself that he's totally over her, but falling over himself to answer the phone so that he can talk to her. When he does talk to her, he can't string more than a few words together, and when she asks him for coffee, he blurts his assent, and then when he hangs up, it takes several minutes for him to recover from the conversation, and start to wonder if he should have turned her down.

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Final Thoughts

With a premise this strong, a little bit of awkwardness with the structure and some of the dialogue, but at the end of the day, there is a man desperate for a good opportunity and it's being offered by the person he wants it from the most. That's a great way to start a story. We need just a few touches of setting and a tiny bit more characterization, and we're good to go.