Fran’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “The best fiction often comes from those who understand the depths of what they’re writing about. Your expertise in history gives you a foundation most fiction writers can only dream of. And let’s not forget your recent work with MODA—it shows you’re not afraid to step outside your comfort zone.”
Aida’s gaze flickered to the floor, uncertainty knitting her brow. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“That’s what the agent is for,” Fran replied smoothly. “They’ll guide you, help you navigate this new path. And let’s be honest, Aida, you’re not in academia anymore. That world can be challenging to break back into when you’re on the outside. This new path frees you from those constraints. Think of it as an opportunity, not a departure from your current work. You’re not abandoning your past but building on it.”
Aida bit her lip. The memory of her unfinished manuscript tugged at her thoughts. She had loved creating that world, even if she hadn’t fully believed in her ability to bring it to life. “I don’t know... I’ve spent so much time in academia. I’m comfortable there. I understand it.”
Fran’s expression softened. “Comfort can be the enemy of growth, Aida. Think about it: With fiction, you can explore the human experience in ways you never could with purely academic writing. You’ve already shown a knack for capturing the subtleties of emotion and experience. Why not channel that into storytelling?”
Aida had spent years piecing together the lives of historical figures, reconstructing their worlds. And she really had loved writing that novel. Perhaps Fran had a point. Maybe this was the natural next step.
Fran seemed to sense her wavering resolve. “Just meet withthe agent,” she urged. “See what they have to say. You don’t have to commit to anything now. But you might find it’s not so different from what you’ve been doing all along.”
Aida nodded, though her mind was still spinning. “All right, I’ll meet with them,” she agreed. She glanced at Fran, then back to the door, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag. She was standing at a precipice, the unknown stretching out before her. Yet there was a small almost imperceptible thrill in the idea of a new beginning. “I’ll hear what they have to say.”
Fran’s smile broadened, a spark of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. I have a feeling this will be a turning point for you. Sometimes, the best stories are the ones we don’t plan.”
As she left the room, Aida’s thoughts raced. She had always trusted her instincts, and maybe, despite her hesitations, this was another moment to do just that. Things were shifting so drastically—with Graham and the plans they once shared fading into the background. Maybe this was her chance to redefine everything.
To not just write a new chapter, but an entirely different story.
Mo offered to walk her back to the lobby. The thought didn’t give Aida pleasure, but she wasn’t comfortable protesting.
“Bravo,” Mo said when they had closed the door to the main part of the suite behind them. “You even managed not to fall apart and cry.”
A chill tickled the back of Aida’s neck. What did Mo know about her and Graham? She put on a brave face. “Why would I have cried? For god’s sake, I was talking about happiness.”
“Yes, it was for the gods’ sake,” Mo said, “but that’s beside the point.” He pushed the button for the private elevator.
Aida had no idea what he meant but didn’t think it was worth the trouble of asking. He would only offer more sarcasm.
As the doors slid open and they stepped inside, Mo looked her up and down with a peculiar intensity. “So, your book didn’t sell.”
Aida’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The publisher folded. It’s not exactly a reflection on the book itself. And sure, it faced rejections before, but that’s how publishing works.”
Mo’s smirk was sharp, almost as if savoring a joke only he understood. “Right, the old ‘blame it on the market’ defense. Tried and true. Or maybe just tired.”
Aida narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
Mo chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to try your hand at something people actually want to read.”
Aida stared at him, taken aback. “What on earth do you know about publishing or what people want to read?”
“Not much, but I do know a thing or two about illusions. People don’t really want happiness; they want the semblance of it. That’s what sells, not just in publishing but in life.”
Aida blinked, confused. “Are you saying I should’ve written a self-help book instead?”
“No, but perhaps Fran is right. Perhaps a fiction where happiness is the villain, and despair the hero. That’d be closer to reality, wouldn’t it?”
Aida was about to retort but stopped herself when she saw the twitch at the corner of Mo’s lips. She folded her arms. “You enjoy trying to rile me up.”
Mo smirked. “It’s a skill I’ve honed over years of tedious interactions. You, however, make it remarkably easy.”
The doors opened and Aida strode out, glad she was no longer trapped in the little space with him. He didn’t follow.
“Buonviaggio, Miss Happiness!” He gave Aida a salute and the doors closed in front of him.
She breathed a huge sigh of relief when the light on the elevator showed it moving upward.
