"Are you insane?" She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging in even through the suit jacket. "Do you have any idea what you just did in there?"
"Yeah." I kept walking toward the elevators. "I turned down a deal that would have killed me creatively."
"That deal was your career!" She was practically vibrating with fury. "Seven figures, Brent. Three books with the best marketing push in the industry. Authors would sell their souls for what you just walked away from."
"Then maybe they should have offered it to someone who wanted to sell their soul." The elevator dinged. I stepped inside.
She followed me in. "You think you can just write whatever you want? Literary fiction with no guaranteed audience? Do you know how many debut authors publish literary novels to crickets every year?"
"I'm not a debut author."
"You will be if you change genres. Your thriller readers won't follow you to literary fiction. You'll be starting fromscratch." The doors closed, just the two of us in the small space. "And what publisher is going to take a chance on you now? Word spreads fast. You just walked out on the biggest offer of your career. That makes you unreliable."
"Or maybe it makes me an artist instead of a content creator."
Her laugh was sharp. "You think there's a difference? This is publishing, Brent. It's a business. Art is what you do on your own time."
"What if I don't want to separate them anymore?" The elevator descended, floor numbers ticking down. "What if I want to write something I'm actually proud of instead of just something that hits the bestseller list?"
"Then you're a fool." The doors opened on the lobby. She stepped out but turned back to face me. "You had it all. Success, security, readers who loved your work. And you just threw it away for what? Some romantic notion about being a real writer?"
"Yeah," I said. "I guess I did."
"Don't call me when you can't pay your rent." She turned and walked away, her heels echoing across the marble.
I stood there in the lobby for a moment, watching her go. Someone had set up a massive Christmas tree near the entrance, at least twenty feet tall, covered in silver and blue ornaments.
Then I walked out into the December cold.
***
I walked for hours.
Not heading anywhere in particular, just moving through the city I'd called home for a decade. The afternoon sun was weak, filtered through clouds that threatened snow. My breath fogged with every exhale.
Fifth Avenue was packed with holiday shoppers, everyone bundled in coats and scarves, shopping bags from Saksand Bergdorf weighing down their arms. The store windows competed for attention with elaborate displays—Cartier's was wrapped like a giant red bow, Lord & Taylor had a winter wonderland with moving figures.
I walked through it all like a ghost.
Past Rockefeller Center where the massive tree was lit even in daylight, skaters circling the rink below while tourists pressed against the railings taking photos. Past Radio City where the Rockettes were performing their Christmas show. Past Bryant Park where the winter village was in full swing—wooden stalls selling everything from blown glass ornaments to Belgian waffles, the smell of roasted nuts heavy on the air.
The city at Christmas was supposed to be magical. Everyone said so. The movies, the songs, the whole mythology of New York in December.
All I felt was tired.
My phone buzzed. Jason:How'd the meeting go?
I stopped on a corner, watching the light change. Watching people hurry past me, everyone going somewhere with purpose while I stood still.
I walked out, I texted back.Turned down the deal. Probably torpedoed my career.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:Call me. Now.
I found a quieter side street and hit call.
"Brent." Jason's voice was worried. "What happened?"
I told him everything. The meeting, the contract, the way they'd talked about my writing like it was laundry detergent with a proven formula. The way I'd walked out. Cassandra's fury in the elevator.
