"What are you thinking for the new book?" Thomas asked. "Another tech thriller? We could go bigger—global conspiracy, multiple POVs, really blow out the scale."
I thought about the manuscript on my laptop. About Jason's face when he'd read his vulnerable, honest work to a room full of strangers.
"Actually," I said slowly, "I've been working on something different."
The energy in the room shifted immediately. I watched it happen—the subtle exchange of glances, the way people's fingers stilled on their tablets.
"Different how?" Thomas asked, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"More character-driven. Literary elements. A thriller, still, but focused on the emotional truth of the characters rather than just plot mechanics."
Silence.
"Brent," Thomas said carefully, "your readers expect a certain type of book from you. High-concept, fast-paced, the B.L. Cross experience. That's what they're paying for."
"What if I want to give them something more?" I looked around the table. "Something that actually means something beyond just keeping them turning pages?"
The marketing woman jumped in. "Literary thrillers are a tough market. They don't have the broad appeal of commercial fiction. Your sales numbers would almost certainly drop—"
"What if I don't care about the sales numbers?"
The room went silent. Even the HVAC seemed to quiet.
Thomas leaned back in his chair. "Brent. Let's be realistic here. You've built a very successful career writing commercial thrillers. You have readers who expect a certain product from you. A brand to maintain. This isn't the time to experiment with literary fiction."
There it was again. Product. Brand. Like I was selling soap instead of stories.
"What if that's exactly what I want to do?" I asked quietly. "Experiment. Try something true instead of just something marketable."
Cassandra made a noise that might have been a warning or a plea. I ignored her.
"We're offering you seven figures," Thomas said, his voice taking on an edge. "For three books in a proven genre with built-in audience expectations. Most authors would kill for this opportunity."
"I know." I looked down at the folder, at all those zeros, at everything I was supposed to want. "But I don't think I can write those books anymore."
"Can't or won't?" he asked.
"Does it matter?"
He exchanged looks with the rest of his team. "Brent, if you're feeling burned out, we can push the deadlines. Give you more time—"
"It's not about time." I closed the folder and pushed it back across the table. The sound of paper on polished wood seemed very loud. "It's about what I'm willing to spend my life writing. And I don't think it's this anymore."
"You're walking away from a seven-figure deal because you want to write literary fiction?" Thomas's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Do you understand what you're saying?"
"I think I'm saying I'd rather write something that matters than something that sells." I stood up. My legs feltsteadier than I expected. "Thank you for the offer. I mean that. But I can't accept it."
Thomas stood too. "Brent, sit down. Let's talk about this—"
"There's nothing to talk about." I was already moving toward the door. "I need to figure out what I actually want to write. And it's not going to happen under a contract that expects me to produce the same thing over and over."
"You're making a huge mistake," someone said from behind me.
"Maybe." I reached the door, my hand on the handle. Tinsel brushed my shoulder. "But at least it'll be my mistake."
I walked out.
Cassandra caught me in the hallway, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
