Excerpt from The Ending Writes Itself by Evelyn Clarke, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

But this email was something else entirely.

Cate—

You've so much potential.

It's time to let others see it, too.

Do us both a favor and say yes.

—Eleanor

Attached was a message from Arthur Fletch himself.

She opens it again now, just to make sure it's real.

And it is.

Not just a message but an invitation, summoning her to one of his exclusive and legendary literary salons.

On his private island, Skelbrae.

In Scotland.

In less than three weeks.

Cate's knee bobs as she reads it for the hundredth time, excitement washing over her all over again. Followed quickly by terror.

The fear that Arthur Fletch—and whoever else he's invited—will take one look at Cate Newhouse, twenty-two years old and plucked out of a slush pile by one of Eleanor Vandenberg's assistants, and know she doesn't belong.

She folds forward, head resting on her knees. And tries to remind herself what Eleanor said when she first signed her.

"You've a rare talent, Miss Newhouse. With a bit of work, I think you could be the next Arthur Fletch."

Cate lifts her head off her knees, takes a deep breath, and opens her drafted reply, deleting a block of text about what an honor it is, and how she doesn't feel worthy, and there must be some mistake. Instead, she types five short words.

Wouldn't miss it!

Thanks,

Cate

She forces the air from her lungs, and hits SEND.

A fist bangs on the bathroom door, and she shouts back that she'll be just a minute. As if her legs haven't gone to sleep from sitting on the porcelain for nearly half an hour.

She sets the phone on the sink and goes to wipe only to realize—

Of course.

There's no fucking loo roll.

Excerpted from The Ending Writes Itself by Evelyn Clarke. Copyright © 2026 by Evelyn Clarke. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.