CALL ME NOW
I picked up my phone. It rang twice.
"Brent. Finally." Cassandra's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you know how many times I've called?"
"I was at the retreat."
"I suggested you go to clear your head and get inspired—not to fall off the face of the earth. Your publisher is waiting for an answer on a very generous contract offer." Papers rustled on her end. "Three books. Seven figures. Aggressive marketing push. They want to position you as the next big thing incommercial thrillers. But they need an answer by end of week. And they want a proposal for book one within the month."
My stomach tightened. "What kind of book are they expecting?"
"More of what sells, obviously. They loved the last one—the tech thriller with the government conspiracy. They want that energy. High concept, twisty plot, the whole package."
I thought about the manuscript I'd been working on. The literary thriller with its quiet moments and emotional honesty. The kind of writing Jason did naturally, that made readers feel something real instead of just keeping them turning pages.
"What if I want to try something different?" I asked.
Silence. Then: "Different how?"
"More character-driven. Literary elements. Something that matters beyond just entertainment."
"Brent." Her tone shifted to the one she used when she was about to tell me something she thought I didn't want to hear. "You've built a very successful career writing commercial thrillers. Your readers expect a certain product from you. The market expects it. This is not the time to experiment."
Product. There was that word again.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"There's nothing to think about. This is a seven-figure deal. Do you know how many authors would kill for this opportunity?" A pause. "I've set up a meeting with your publisher for tomorrow morning at ten. You'll pitch them on the new book, they'll make it official, and we can all move forward. Okay?"
It wasn't really a question.
"Fine," I said. "Tomorrow."
***
The next morning, I put on a suit. Navy blue, perfectly tailored, the armor I wore to publisher meetings and awardceremonies and all the places where I had to be B.L. Cross instead of just Brent.
The publisher's offices were on the twenty-third floor of a glass tower in Midtown. The conference room they'd put me in was all windows and intimidation. Twenty-third floor views of the city, the Empire State Building visible in the distance. A massive table that could seat fourteen, though only six chairs were occupied. Someone had hung tinsel around the doorframe.
"Brent!" My editor, Thomas—fifty, wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of expensive casual that cost more than most people's suits—stood to shake my hand. "Good to see you. Productive retreat?"
"Very." I shook hands with the others as he introduced them—marketing, publicity, a couple of other departments I didn't catch. They all had tablets open, ready to pitch me on my own career.
Cassandra sat at the far end of the table, giving me a look that saiddon't fuck this up.
"So," Thomas said once everyone was settled. "We're excited about the next phase of your career. The last book exceeded expectations—two hundred thousand copies in the first month, strong international sales, film options in discussion. The market is primed for more."
"That's great," I said, because what else was there to say?
"We've drawn up a very competitive offer. Three books, aggressive publication schedule, major marketing push for each one." He slid a folder across the table. "Take a look."
I opened it. The number at the top made my eyes water. Seven figures. Book tour budget. Co-op advertising. Everything an author was supposed to want.
"This is generous," I said carefully.
"You've earned it." Linda from marketing leaned forward. "Your brand is strong. Readers trust the B.L. Cross name to deliver. We want to capitalize on that momentum."
Brand. Product. Deliver. The language of commerce, not art.
