“Then why are you even doing this? If you think publishers are clueless?” I asked.
Roman reached for my face, and I jerked away. His gaze darkened, his hand slowly falling. “Because it matters toyou.I don’t mind if you live in a fairy tale, Nova. In fact, I find it rather endearing.”
I went silent. I was reminded of Lorelei’s final words to me, when she’d called me a coward. A loser.Delusional.Someone who moved from screen to screen, begging to be noticed.
“It’s just coffee,” Roman said. “You’ll tell her about the book and your author journey. Let her know you understand this industry and show you’re ready to break out. You do not need her. She needsyou.”
It was absurd. An indie author making seven figures a year arguably didn’tneeda publisher, depending on their goals, but Roman’s logic didn’t apply to an author on my level.
An executive editor at a major publishing house shouldn’t in a million years have any reason to meet withmefor coffee.
Roman’s confidence was on full blast, shaking me out of my daze. I thought of my depressing meals, my endless grind and tanking sales, all the hours I’d spent learning how to run a business and writing six books, waiting and praying andbeggingfor a break. In my mind’s eye, I saw the endless barrage of Publisher’s Marketplace deals on my feeds. I saw my idealized future on the New York Times Bestseller List, talking strategy over coffee with my editor in Union Square. God, I wanted it so badly, and I’d wanted it for an agonizingly long time.
I was so fuckingtired.
“Okay,” I said. “I can do coffee.”
Roman grinned. “That’s a good girl.”
Guilt and disgust simmered beneath the surface, but I now only had ten minutes to mentally prepare so I didn’t ramble or say the wrong thing to the editor.
I leaned back in my seat and unclenched my jaw.
It wasn’t so much a deal with the devil as it was an exhausted surrender.
“Oh, sheadoredyou,” Roman said after the meeting.
I was high off adrenaline and the buzz of a lively conversation. The editor was sharp, gracious, and witty, and she did seem genuinely interested in my current novel and its potential. She’d validated that it had strong comp titles and an even stronger hook, and though the conversation was far shorterthan I’d expected, she’d ended it by saying she looked forward to seeing the finished draft.
“Impressive work,” Roman said. “Dinner?”
My smile fell, finally coming back to reality as I realized I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Roman fucking Graves. His hands were in his pockets, his smile arrogant, triumphant.
“No. I’ll take the subway home. Thanks for the introduction,” I forced out.
Roman didn’t exactly look surprised by my cold shoulder, but he didn’t look pleased either. “If you think being difficult will curb my appetite, I regret to inform you it’s having the opposite effect.”
“Sounds like someone was never toldnoas a child,” I muttered. “You can’t buy me, Roman. I didn’t join The Circle to become a sugar baby. I respect their hustle, but it’s not mine.”
His lips twitched, humor eclipsing the churning darkness in his soft brown irises. “Fine. I’ll see you at The Hunt.” He took a step closer, too close for comfort. “I do hope Wes is able to join us.”
The color drained from my face. My stomach twisted into knots. I didn’t like Wes’s name on Roman’s lips, especially not when Roman was wearing that cruel, taunting smirk.
“I’m not worried about my competition, angel,” he said in a low, compelling tone. “But maybeyoushould be.” He backed away, leaving me stunned.
My eyes widened in horror. “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, losing all previous strength from the meeting.
Roman only laughed. He joined the flow of foot traffic as he strode back to his black car.
Was Roman threatening Wes? Or was he sayingIshould feel threatenedbyWes?
I glared after him for another ten seconds before huffing and speedwalking in the opposite direction. Fuck Roman and hismind games. He’d all but warned me I couldn’t trust a word he said.
Guilt haunted me my entire ride home. So, when I emerged from the underground to find myself in the midst of a torrential downpour, I merely sighed and accepted my punishment. By the time I made it back to my apartment, I felt like a soggy rat, physically and spiritually.
I needed to come clean to Wes.
35
