“I approve this decision! I’ve wanted you to reveal your identity from the beginning.” He laughs, smacking the table again. “Just imagine the headlines: ‘Bestselling author Devon Reid’s identity revealed.’ That will make the public go wild!”
Once the big boss shows his excitement, the rest of the room has no choice but to agree with my decision. I can sense that some are doubtful, but no one expresses it directly, so I brush it off.
“Aoi, tell me about this autobiography.” He wiggles his brows, stroking his thin beard. “What will it entail? Do you already have special requests for the cover?”
Everyone turns to me and eagerly awaits my answer. Among them, envious glares shoot through my skull.
Can’t I just jump out of the window?
Their gazes focus so intensely on my face that it riles up my anxiety. This is the part of the job that I despise the most because I’dalways rather spend time by myself, away from prying ears and judging eyes.
“Well, it’s an autobiography, sir. I will talk about my life, my childhood, and what I went through. I’ll also write about my time as an author and my accomplishments.” I avert my gaze, avoiding my colleagues’ questioning stares. “I haven’t decided on anything yet, but I do have ideas.”
That’s a lie. I have been working on this book for months. Everything is basically ready except for the ending.
Their stares turn critical, and some start muttering among themselves. I don’t want to hear what they have to say, and yet I catch shards of their unfiltered comments.
Mr. Williams strokes his chin and leans back in his seat, looking pensive. I notice one specific set of eyes staring daggers at me. He’s probably the only one who dares to show his contempt for me so openly.
Derek Cullenreese.
As he clearly wants to beat me down, Mr. Cullenreese raises his hand, and with his usual condescending tone, he inquires, “With all due respect, aren’t you too young to publish an autobiography?” He raises a brow, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Don’t you intend to wait a few more years until you experience more in your life?”
Oh, shut the fuck up, you old dog.
I have every right to speak about my grief and feelings in my own freaking book. My age shouldn’t have an influence on whether I can or can’t write an autobiography. I’m thirty-three, for fuck’s sake, not twelve.
“Thank you for this excellent question, Mr. Cullenreese, but you don’t need to worry about the content of the book because I can assure you it won’t disappoint. And if it were to, I’d take responsibility.” I turn to my superior, smiling confidently at him. “If Mr. Williams decides he doesn’t want to publish this autobiography, I’ll find a publisher who will.”
And we all know not a single publisher would pass on the opportunity to work with me.
His cheeks redden with shame, and he sinks into his chair, not daring to say more as Mr. Williams laughs loudly. “Always so feisty. That’s something I admire about you, son. You’re very determined to publish this book, hmm?”
I nod and clench my fists under the table, feeling the blood rush through my veins and my heart hammering in my chest. I hate the feeling of being observed and having to speak up when they’re just waiting for me to mess up. It’s as though I have to prove myself even after writing fifteen bestsellers. I’m not some amateur, and despite my young age, they should take me more seriously, as Mr. Williams does.
Although allhewants is to get me into bed with him, so technically speaking, his opinion has no value either.
“Very well. I will make sure you get what you want.” He turns to face the rest of the people around the long desk. “We should now discuss the press conference we must organize.”
I stop listening the moment one of them brings up doing a photo shoot because they claim my face would be advantageous for sales.
“I suppose my job here is done,” I say. “I have some more work to tend to, if you don’t mind.”
“Absolutely. Thank you for your hard work.” He claps his hands, smiling brightly and fiddling with his mustache. “Take the day off. You deserve it.”
“Thank you, sir, but that’s not necessary.”
He squeezes my shoulder, and I almost flinch. “Nonsense. Take the day off. It’s an order.”
“Thank you, sir,” I give in and force a polite smile. “I’ll take my leave then.”
Dixon follows me out toward the company cafeteria, where I buy a sandwich. The place is almost empty since lunchtime has ended and everyone has returned to their offices.
“I can’t for the life of me understand why Derek has to be such a jerk,” he groans, slurping his noodles.
I shrug. “He hates me because he wants to be me.”
“Man, you’re so full of yourself.”
