Two weeks after I'd hit "publish" on Steeped in Retail, my life was a dumpster fire with a bestseller sticker slapped on it—and a five-star rating glowing like a neon sign over the wreckage. What started as a tea-fueled rant in the dead of night, sparked by Zahir's magical meddling, had spiraled into a full-blown phenomenon. It kicked off on a writing forum I'd haunted since my fan fic days, racking up comments like "This is my soul in retail purgatory!" and "I laughed so hard I cried—genius!" Then X caught wind, threads exploding with "Every cashier's life, but funnier—read this NOW!" A small indie press—InkWitch Books—snagged it within days, and boom, it climbed to #5 on their list, complete with a snazzy cover I hadn't even picked. My inbox was a war zone: five-star reviews, fan emails begging for a sequel, a barista from my usual coffee haunt DMing, "Is this about Trendy Threads? Spill the tea, girl!" I was giddy, texting Zahir from the break room during a rare five-minute breather (he'd hijacked my phone with some Djinn trick—don't ask how I still don't get it). "I'm a writer! A real one! Can you believe this crap?"
His reply buzzed back instantly, the screen flashing with his smug, cryptic tone: "Beware, mortal. Fame draws eyes. And trouble. You've no idea what you've unleashed with your reckless scribbles." Cryptic ass."
I rolled my eyes, shoving the phone into my apron pocket as Greg's voice crackled over the PA, sharp and grating: "Mira, register three, NOW! Move it!" I muttered a curse under my breath, dodging a customer with a cart piled high with clearance socks, their kid trailing ketchup-stained fingers across a rack of scarves like a tiny vandal. Trouble? The only trouble was surviving this shift without throttling someone—Greg, preferably. My hands shook as I rang up a pack of gum, the buzz of success warring with the grind of Trendy Threads. But then my phone lit up again, a text from Greg that stopped me cold mid-transaction: "Mira, HR meeting. Now. Bring your damn book." My stomach dropped like I'd swallowed a brick, the giddy buzz curdling into a sour knot of dread. "Oh, crap," I whispered, fumbling the change so badly the customer—a harried mom with a screaming toddler—snapped, "Keep it together, hon!"
Zahir's voice hissed in my ear, invisible but sharp as a blade, a cool tingle brushing my neck: "You've woven me in too deep, you reckless fool! This is your doing—your words have betrayed us!"
"What are you on about?" I snapped under my breath, plastering a weak smile for the mom as I handed her the receipt, my hands trembling.
"Your book!" he growled, his presence prickling like static. " 'Ravi, the Pancake Prince'—that's me! My braids, my apron, my wit! You've painted me in ink for all to see—they'll sniff out the magic, and I'll be a lab rat for your cynical, science-obsessed age!"
I froze, coins clattering to the floor, the mom huffing as she stormed off. He was right—I'd been sloppy as hell. Greg was "Cologne Tyrant," Dave was "Oblivious Hunk," Jen was "Snarky Jen"—all too real, too close to the bone. The tea's buzz had made it effortless, words pouring out like a confession I couldn't stop, and I hadn't bothered to blur the lines. Too late now. I scooped up the change, muttered an apology to no one, and trudged to the meeting room, Zahir's invisible muttering trailing me like a bad conscience: "Foolish mortal, you've doomed us both—doomed us to exposure!"
The HR room was a tribunal straight out of a dystopian flick—fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps, a chipped conference table scarred with coffee rings, and a dozen Trendy Threads staffers packed in like sardines, their aprons a sea of faded teal. Greg stood at the head, waving my book like a guillotine blade, his cologne choking the air—sharp, chemical, a weapon of mass irritation that made my eyes water from ten feet away. " 'Greg the Cologne Tyrant'? Really, Mira?" he barked, slamming the paperback down so hard the table wobbled, a pen rolling off the edge. "You think this is funny? Defaming me—your boss—in print for the world to gawk at?"
I sank into a chair, sweat beading on my neck, my apron sticking to my skin like a second, clammy layer. "It's fiction," I lied, voice cracking like a teenager's under his glare. "Inspired by… life? You know, artistic license?"
"Bull!" he roared, jabbing a finger at me, his face flushing a dangerous shade of red. "This is personal! 'Cologne Tyrant'? My staff's laughing behind my back—customers too! I had a guy ask if I'd sign his receipt as 'the Tyrant' yesterday! And this—" He snatched the book up again, flipping to a dog-eared page, reading aloud in a mocking growl: " 'Dave, the hunk who doesn't know he's hot, moves boxes with a smile that could melt steel.' That's Dave!"
Dave slouched in the corner, blushed beet-red, his stock-boy arms flexing nervously under his faded Nirvana tee as every eye swiveled to him. "Uh, I didn't read it yet," he mumbled, scratching his neck, avoiding my gaze like I'd caught him raiding the snack machine.
"Liar," Jen cut in, perched on the table's edge, smirking like a cat with a canary in its claws. She waved her phone, her blunt bob swinging as she scrolled X with a flourish. "I'm 'Snarky Jen'—nailed it, cuz. You're famous, Mira. Own it, girl."
Greg whirled on her, his cologne cloud advancing like a storm front. "Shut it, Jen! This isn't a game—legal's involved! Defamation, Mira—you're done!"
"Defamation?" I sputtered, clutching my apron strings so tight they bit into my palms. "It's a story! You can't sue me for—for writing!"
"Too real a story!" he snapped, leaning over the table, his breath a mix of coffee and rage. " 'Cologne Tyrant'? My wife saw that trending on X—she's pissed, Mira! She says I smell fine! And Dave—" He turned to him again, voice rising. "Say something, man! Defend yourself!"
Dave shrugged, dimples flashing despite his flush, his voice a low mumble. "I dunno, Greg. Kinda flattered? I mean, 'hunk' ain't bad—beats 'stock boy.' Could be worse."
Jen cackled, hopping off the table with a bounce, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "See? Dave's cool with it. Chill, Greg—you're trending for once. Sales are up ten percent since the book dropped—people wanna meet the Tyrant in the flesh."
"Enough!" Greg roared, face purple, veins bulging in his neck. "This is insubordination! And what's with—" He froze mid-rant as my desk plant—a sad little fern I'd potted last week to brighten my register station—erupted like a green volcano. Vines shot out, thick and glossy, curling toward him like they had a personal vendetta, leaves brushing his khakis with a rustle. He yelped, leaping back, the book tumbling to the floor with a thud. "What the hell is this?!"
"New fertilizer," I croaked, heart pounding so loud I thought it'd burst through my ribcage. Zahir's whisper slithered in, urgent and panicked: "The tea's leaking, you idiot! Your success amplifies it—control this, or we're exposed!"
"Fertilizer?!" Greg screeched, kicking at a vine that snaked toward his polished loafer, his voice hitting a pitch I didn't know he could reach. "This is sabotage! You're fired, Mira—fired! Pack your crap and go!"
"Wait!" Jen interjected, stepping between us with a swagger, hands on hips, her confidence a wall against his fury. "You can't fire her—HR's here, and sales are up because of her. She's a goldmine, Tyrant—suck it up."
HR Lady—Karen, with her pinched face, wire-rimmed glasses, and clipboard—cleared her throat, her voice dry as stale bread. "Jen's right, Greg. No grounds yet—legal's reviewing, but firing's premature without cause. The plant's… odd, but not termination-worthy."
Greg glared, panting like a bull ready to charge, his cologne mixing with the fern's earthy tang. "This isn't over," he hissed, storming out, vines trailing him like a bad date, snagging on his pant leg until he shook them off in the hall. The room erupted—Jen snickered, Dave muttered something about "cool plants," and others whispered behind their hands. My phone pinged: a blog post. "SereniTea: Muse of Bestselling Author?" Someone had clocked my tea runs, linking the shop to my "inspiration," complete with a blurry photo of me leaving with the tin.
I bolted upright, head spinning, but Jen grabbed my arm before I could flee, dragging me to the break room with a grip like a vice. She slammed the door shut, the thud echoing off the vending machine, and spun on me, eyes gleaming. "Spill," she demanded, crossing her arms, her teal apron clashing with her neon pink shirt. "You've been a ghost for months—barely texting, dodging family dinners—then bam, bestseller? What's the juice, cuz? I know you're hiding something."
I flinched, slumping into a plastic chair, the fern fiasco still replaying in my head like a bad sitcom. "It's just… tea," I mumbled, dodging her stare, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve.
"Tea?" She arched a brow, smirking, her confidence a stark mirror to my jittery mess. Jen was my opposite—bold where I was anxious, loud where I was quiet, the cousin who'd once talked me into sneaking out for a midnight diner run, laughing while I panicked about curfew. "Don't play me, Mira. You're glowing—writing like a pro overnight. That's not chamomile. Spill it, or I'll tell Greg you rigged that plant with some hipster voodoo."
I groaned, rubbing my temples, the headache creeping back. "Fine. It's… complicated. There's this tea from SereniTea—it's magic, okay? I drank it, and—"
"Magic?" she cut in, smirking wider, leaning forward like a kid at storytime. "Like, fairy-dust magic? Glitter and sparkles?"
"More like Djinn magic," I snapped, then froze as Zahir materialized behind her, smirking, his bells jingling softly. Jen spun, yelping, then grinned like she'd won the lottery, her eyes raking over his misty blue form—braids, tunic, the whole dramatic package.
"Holy crap, a Genie?!" she said, circling him like he was a new car on a lot. "You're hotter than Dave—and blue! What's your deal, big guy?"
Zahir bowed, theatrical as ever, mist swirling with a flourish. "Zahir, Djinn of the Peace Bloom, trapped by a faithless love in the Indus Valley, freed by this one's open heart." He nodded at me, his ember eyes glinting. "She's trouble incarnate."
"Love it!" Jen clapped, turning to me with a grin that could light a stadium. "You've got a Genie muse? That's the boom—your writing's popping 'cause of him! How'd you snag this?"
"It's not a snag!" I protested, standing, my chair scraping the floor. "I drank the tea, he popped out, and now I'm stuck with him!"
"Stuck?" Zahir interjected, crossing his arms, bells clanging. "You wished me into your kitchen, mortal—I'm the victim here!"
"Victim?!" I shot back, glaring. "You're the one whining about Jasmin 24/7—' Oh, my tragic love!'—and now I've got vines attacking Greg!"
"Jasmin?" Jen cut in, head whipping between us. "Who's that? Spill more, Blue!"
Zahir sighed, dramatic as a soap opera star. "A cultivator's daughter—beautiful, faithless, sharper than a dagger. We tended the Peace Bloom together, a gift from Lashame, goddess of passion, to Hiva, lord of creation. She was my muse—until she chose a warlord's gold over me. I cursed the bloom, and it trapped me. Until this one." He jerked a thumb at me.
Jen whistled, low and impressed. "Epic. So Mira's your new muse? That's why she's killing it?"
"No!" I said, but Zahir smirked, leaning closer.
"Perhaps," he purred, his voice a tease. "She's cracked but open—rare for your kind."
"Cracked?!" I snapped, but Jen was already pacing, eyes alight with a scheme.
"Yes! This is gold—'Get with the Genie!' We promo this, Mira. You're not just a writer—you're a legend! Think X posts, signings, a whole vibe—'Magic Tea Muse!' "
"No!" Zahir and I shouted in unison. He glared, stepping forward, mist swirling. "Mortals can't know—I'll be caged again, dissected by your skeptics! My freedom's at stake!"
"Chill, Blue," Jen said, waving him off like he was a pesky fly. "We keep it subtle—hint at the magic, not the guy. 'Inspired by SereniTea'—no Djinn pics. Mira, you in?"
I stared, torn, my pulse racing. "I… maybe? But the tea's unstable—look at the fern! It's chaos!"
"Unstable's hot," she shot back, grinning like a shark. "Chaos sells—people love a mess. Say yes, cuz—I'll handle Greg, you handle the Genie. We're a team."
Zahir groaned, bells clanging like a tantrum. "You're both mad—your cousin's a hurricane, Mira!"
"She's Jen," I said, smirking despite myself. "She's always been the storm—I'm the puddle."
"Puddle?" Jen laughed, slinging an arm around me. "You're a tidal wave now, babe. Get with the Genie—we're live!"
"Live?!" Zahir sputtered, pacing faster. "This is a disaster—you'll ruin us!"
"Or save us," I muttered, the buzz returning, electric and wild. "Let's see how messy this gets."
Jen fist-pumped, her energy a supernova. "Get with the Genie, baby! X is gonna eat this up—I'll post tonight!"
Back home, I collapsed onto the couch, Zahir materializing fully, pacing my tiny living room, his braids swinging like pendulums. "She'll ruin us," he ranted, bells clanging with every step. "Your cousin's a hurricane—a reckless, loud-mouthed force of nature! 'Get with the Genie'—what's next, a billboard?!"
"She's Jen," I said, grinning at the tea tin on my counter, its faint glow pulsing like a heartbeat. "She's been dragging me into chaos since we were kids—once convinced me to TP our neighbor's house, then blamed me when we got caught. This is her wheelhouse."
"Wheelhouse?!" he snapped, whirling on me. "This is my freedom, Mira—not a game for her amusement!"
"Relax," I said, kicking my feet up. "She's subtle when it counts—well, subtle-ish. We'll keep you safe."
"Safe?" he scoffed, but his pacing slowed, his eyes softening as they met mine. "You're impossible, my lady. Reckless, cracked, and—"
"Open," I finished, smirking. "You said it yourself. We're in deep now—get with it, Zahir."
He sighed, a long, theatrical exhale, but a smile tugged at his lips. "You're mad, and I'm madder for staying. Fine—let's ride this storm."
I laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden, as the tin's glow pulsed brighter, daring us on. Greg was plotting, Dave was blushing, Jen was scheming, and my fern was probably unionizing back at the store. My secret—Zahir, the tea, all of it—was a thread from unraveling, teetering on the edge of chaos. And I couldn't stop grinning, the buzz of it all—writing, magic, family—thrumming in my veins like a song I'd forgotten I knew.
"Deal," I said, meeting his gaze. "But if Jen gets us a billboard, you're posing for it."
His bells jingled with his groan. "Disaster, I tell you."
"Disaster's my brand now," I shot back, and the glow flared, sealing the madness.