Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
He approaches the door, and as if he can’t help himself, he looks over his shoulder.
“Don’t make me regret this…”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Four a.m.
For the fifth day in a row
The coffee burns bitter on my tongue, my eyes sting like sandpaper, and the laptop screen looks more like a spotlight than a blank page. Still, my fingers move.
One sentence. Then another. Then a paragraph.
Some mornings it feels like pulling teeth, others like drowning in words. But every day, by the time the interns stumble in at nine, I’ve stacked up pages of Wildwood I thought I’d never write again.
My characters have stopped glaring at me in silence. They’re talking. Running. Fighting. And I’m running with them.
It’s exhausting, but there are moments—tiny ones—where it feels good. Where the weight lifts and I almost believe I’m an author again.
For the first time in forever, the words are coming back—and as much as I want to deny it, Adrian Wolfson is the reason why.
THE CEO
ADRIAN
Two Weeks Later
Red Flag Day is here again, but this time I’m prepared for the worst.
I’m holding the meeting in neutral territory—the promotional and marketing library—and I have whiskey chilling in my office upstairs for the moment this is over. I also have Theresa helping me instead of Marcia, which is good—she pushes back a lot less.
“Lay it on me all at once,” I say to her. “Give me the numbers instead of the stories first.”
“Huh?” Theresa arches a brow.
“How many extensions do we need to consider, and how many release dates do we need to push back?”
“Zero.”
I pause. My brain scrambles to process. “Zero?”
“Yes, zero.” She smiles and tosses me the folder. “I couldn’t believe it myself, but I think your soft and gentle promo idea worked.”
“My what?”
“All the agents called and said no publisher has ever done anything like this before. They’re floored. One author sent us a crying selfie, saying she’d never felt so supported in her entire career. Another taped your note to her wall and wrote twenty pages straight.”
“I need you to start speaking words I can understand. What soft and gentle approach are you talking about?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about it, remember?” She winks. “I’ll keep that promise.”
“Theresa…” I grit my teeth. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll show you instead. That doesn’t count, I guess.”
She crosses the floor, opening the closet to reveal a stack of sleek, matte-black promo boxes. They aren’t labeled with titles or influencer tags. Instead, bold silver lettering sprawls across the lids:
For an incredibly talented author, from a publisher who is proud to support your books.
Confused, I grab one and flip it open.
Inside, a card addressed directly to an author, my signature copied in thick black ink beneath a note:
I believe in the power of storytelling, and I believe in you. I know how hard working and staying focused can be—especially when the characters aren’t behaving and the world-building feels like it’s collapsing—so here are some things that I hope will inspire you to write your best.
Beneath it sits a custom Grey Wolf Publishing tumbler and mug, a pound of coffee, bundles of tea, framed editor notes and glowing reviews, a playlist QR code, and a sleek set of Bluetooth earbuds.
“Can I see the email I supposedly sent you about this?” I ask flatly.
“Each box cost like five hundred dollars.” She beams. “But it was worth every cent. Every author is wowed.”
I snap the lid shut. “Tell Miss Barrett to haul her ass in here.”
“But I thought—”
“Now.”
I turn toward the wall of windows, clenching the edge of my desk to keep my temper in check. By the time she enters, heels clicking across the floor, I already feel the burn of irritation tangled with something else I don’t want to admit.
Her grey dress is fitted, soft fabric hugging curves it has no right to. When she crosses the room, I catch the familiar and faint imprint of pink lace beneath the fabric. My throat tightens, and I clear it roughly before lifting one of the boxes.
“What the hell is this?” My voice is clipped.
“It looks like something I supposedly sent out to your authors as some kind of goodwill stunt.”
“I didn’t give you permission to do this.”
“I know.” She shrugs, eyes sparking. “That’s why I didn’t ask. I felt inspired after getting back into writing to do it.”
“Do you have any idea how much money it costs to pull off what you did?”
“One less Audemars Piguet watch.” Her gaze flicks deliberately to my wrist before meeting my eyes again. “And let’s be honest—you already have enough of those.”
“Okay. I need you to formally apologize before I fire you.”
“I’ll pass. Just fire me.”
“Heather…”
“Asshole…”
Before I can bite back, she’s too close. The air between us ignites, and I don’t remember if I grab her or if she moves first.
Our mouths crash together, angry and hungry. The kiss is all teeth, tongue, and defiance. She tastes like rebellion, and it goes straight to my cock.