The leather-bound book felt strangely warm in her hands. Eleanor traced the gold lettering: *Eleanor Ainsworth: A Life Unwritten*. She chuckled, a small sound that escaped before she could stop it. Her own life? Unwritten? That implied someone had gone and written it *for* her. This was just too delicious.
She settled into her favorite armchair, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Opening the book, she expected some bland, gossipy tome. Instead, the first sentence was, “Eleanor Ainsworth, a woman whose life was a tapestry woven with equal parts sunshine and spite, first learned to tie her own shoelaces at the age of five...” Eleanor’s shoulders shook. Sunshine *and* spite? Who knew her so well? Or, at least, who *thought* they knew her so well.
Later, she found herself grinning like a fool as she read about a supposedly scandalous affair she'd never had, and the subsequent "heartbreak" that was detailed with a theatrical flourish. She'd always been a bit theatrical herself, perhaps the author knew her better than she thought. She poured herself another glass of wine, settling back into her chair to enjoy the latest chapter of her life.