Gold Coast Dilemma

Chapter 7 Ofosua

CHAPTER 7 OFOSUA

ADINKRA SAYING: (Kokuromotie) We don’t bypass the thumb to tie a knot.

HELEN ADDO: What can I tell you? Sometimes even the cleverest woman must work with fools.

SAMUEL ADDO: When it comes to women… men are always fools.

Following Cole’s infuriating visit that morning, I was in a hell of a mood, so when my phone vibrated in my hand and I saw who was calling, my stomach went into free fall.

Yofi.

I declined the call. I was not dealing with him right now. Seven months with no contact and then suddenly over the last month he wanted to reach out to me. There was a part of me that wanted to know why, but I wasn’t giving up one of my nine lives to find out. The phone buzzed again. The name on the screen a taunting reminder that I could not outrun my past. He’d been calling since church yesterday, when he’d seen me essentially vanish in the crowd. But whatever he wanted, I did not care about it.

I’d read an article in some women’s magazine that before you see an ex that hurt you, you needed to be the best version of yourself, and it didn’t hurt if you had a new relationship either.

I knew most relationship advice was retro bullshit. Still, it would feel good to know I’d at least moved on. Right now I felt stuck.

My personal life was such a goddamn mess.

But as I traversed the wide hallways of Drake Publishing, I clung to the fact that my job was not a mess. Drake was my home.

When I started at Drake Publishing, I had been a lowly editorial intern until the senior Mr. Drake had unexpectedly given me his agented submissions to read. Interns and assistants were usually assigned to read the slush pile, meaning un-agented submissions. Drake was one of the last major publishers to accept them, because Grandfather Drake had always wanted the industry to be as “democratic as possible” for writers. And he was of the generation of publishers and editors who viewed agents as an “unnecessary layer.” It was a different time. But also? His shining idea of democracy for writers mostly came in just one color.

My first stack of agented submissions was a trial by (incredibly dull) fire for the most part (and no doubt why Steven gave that particular set to me), but I’d found one manuscript that stood out from all the others. I couldn’t put it down. The story was fresh, and the writing sparkled. I moved it to the top, added a note that this was the only manuscript worth reading in the whole pile, and that I couldn’t wait to talk to him about it. I’d really been na?ve in thinking he’d want to hear from me personally.

When his assistant had moved the manuscript, untouched, to the stack on his shelf that I knew never got read, I waited outside the building for him to come out for his lunch, and walked with him four blocks into the subway, pitching it.

He’d called me tenacious. Determined. Driven. And I had told him that he needed to stop complimenting me and read the book.

At the time, I was pretty sure I was going to be fired.

Instead, the next morning, Mr. Drake had come looking for me in the maze of cubicles where the interns and assistants toiled away while praying for a chance to make it onto the editorial teams one day.

I hadn’t even noticed he’d been standing over me for five whole minutes, as I’d had my earbuds in, and I was busy editing a manuscript within an inch of its life. When he finally tapped me on the shoulder, I was so freaked out I spilled my entire water bottle all over my desk.

Way to make a great impression.

But Steven Drake laughed and said that I was clearly enjoying myself editing, and people like me were what he needed. And then, shockingly, he’d taken me to lunch and said I’d have a long future at Drake.

I’d made associate editor a year ago and had worked on some huge releases. I’d also been slowly pushing Drake toward bringing on more diverse authors as well as romance authors. I had the privilege of working alongside senior editors on books by major authors, and I hoped to sign my own star writers one day soon.

What they don’t tell you in the movies about plucky young women working at publishing houses was that publishing didn’t pay very well. Many of us in editorial, where the low-paying assistant years tended to stretch on and on, had parents with money or, in some cases, trust funds. I was lucky enough to have both, so I could really afford to say something as pretentious as, “I do it for the love of literature.” Which was the God’s honest truth.

The point was, that while my love life was up in flames, and my family life was stressful at best, at least I had work. I was busy telling myself that I loved everything about my job until I stopped in the doorway of the conference room and heard the deep chuckling.

Cole Drake.

He was holding court again, telling a story about his weekend.

I ignored the jolt of adrenaline-fueled awareness. My skin prickled, and I had to shake my head to keep the mellow timbre of his laugh from slipping past my defenses. God, I loathed him.

Is “loathe” the right word?

If anyone had asked me during my internship if Cole Drake would be on my please don’t make me talk to him list, I’d have said no. Because I didn’t know back then that a Cole Drake existed.

But that had all changed after his first day in the office and that horrible “introduction” in the hallway. I wanted to forget the way he’d forgotten me. I was desperate to know what had happened. But I had some pride. Now we tolerated each other. Barely. He spent his time trying to shoot down my ideas and cutting budgets for my favorite authors. And I spent my time outperforming his expectations, which wasn’t hard.

There was no avoiding him, though. He was the heir apparent.

It was at the end of my intern year when Cole turned up as our new marketing director. Fresh out of his Yale graduate program. Full of smug Upper East Side upbringing and know-it-all privilege that rubbed me all the wrong ways.

Bet he’d rub you the right way too.

Another, more distant memory tickled my brain, and I shoved it aside.

I had to swallow hard at the unbidden thought. I was not hot for Cole.

Uh-huh, sure you’re not.

I slid my gaze over him, quickly cataloging everything about him before I took my usual seat. If I was being generous, I noted that Cole was, in fact, handsome. He had that classic jaw of someone who could have been a movie star. Shrewd, deep-set, dark gray eyes that were fanned with ridiculously thick lashes. Cheekbones that gave me a run for my money, and the hair…

He had that perfectly disheveled look. Like someone else had run their fingers through it during sex. And it was all made worse by the fact that he insisted on coming to work in a suit. Every. Goddamn. Day. Sometimes the suit had a vest, and some kind of tie.

Always drool-worthy. Ugh, such a pompous ass. Why was he so easy on the eyes?

And now, his whiskey-laced voice was recounting some story about his weekend on the water on a friend’s boat. I couldn’t help it, I rolled my eyes so hard, one of them nearly got stuck. But I knew the rules. When I was making a face, I had to make sure to turn away from anyone who could see it, lest I get the “unfriendly” label.

Emory Briggs plopped onto the seat next to mine. She’d started with me as an intern and been promoted last year as well. As work friends went, she was pretty great, but I tried not to get too close.

Nothing against Emory; I didn’t make a habit of getting close to anyone at work. It was easier that way.

She muttered under her breath. “Oh yes, the yachting story from the weekend. I feel like we’ve been here before. After every weekend.”

My lips twitched, but I schooled my expression. Drake Publishing, while my first and only real job out of school, had taught me a lot about how I needed to present myself in these almost-all-white professional environments. First and foremost, I remembered to never look too enthusiastic, because then you are too passionate, too emotional in your decisions. I saved my enthusiasm for when it was really needed. The next rule was to never appear sad or upset or even mildly irritated, because then you are angry and unapproachable. Unprofessional.

Angry Black woman.

I knew that simple, everyday emotions could be read as anger. And I could afford many if not most things in this life, but I could not afford that perception in the workplace.

To avoid that label at all costs, I’d learned to form this mask. One that kept me right in the middle of I am good at my job plus delighted to see you and I shall brook no arguments . That tightrope was exhausting. And some days, I wanted to relax my shoulders and breathe.

To my surprise, Cole left his friends behind, plopped into his chair, and rolled it over to my seat at the table. In shock, I squared my shoulders and scooted back several inches.

“I saw you yesterday.”

Immediately, my brows knit, but I forced them to smooth out.

Placid. Go for placid.

“That seems rather unlikely. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Drake ?”

His brows furrowed at that. “Why do you call me that? It’s weird. And I did see you. You must have been at a wedding or something. Everyone was really dressed up outside of a church.”

Oh, hell, just what had he seen? “Well, Mr. Drake , shouldn’t I be respectful to the future head of the company?”

My voice was saccharine, and it carried no edge to it. Anyone replaying this conversation couldn’t say that I’d said anything wrong.

He ignored my barb. Instead, with a voice like smoky whiskey, he asked, “So, was it a wedding?” He leveled a gaze on me like he wanted me to give him a direct answer.

“Why do you ask?”

“You know,” he said as he leaned forward, “I get the impression you don’t like me.”

“I don’t know why you would have that impression. I don’t think about you one way or the other.”

He clutched a hand over his heart. “Oh, ouch. Look, you can keep pretending that you don’t like me, but everybody likes me.”

I cocked my head and stared at him. What was it like to assume that the whole world was on your side? “If you say so, Mr. Drake .” I kept my placid smile firmly in place, added some innocent doe eyes too for good measure. There was nothing better than the satisfaction of watching him narrow his gaze.

Before he could retort, the senior Mr. Drake strolled in with a wide smile and a bounce to his step. I expected Cole to roll his chair back toward his cronies, but he stayed put, right next to me.

On my right, Emory bumped my knee with hers and kind of nodded in Cole’s direction. I shrugged in response. I didn’t know what the hell he was up to, but I supposed I’d find out sooner or later.

The meeting went as it normally did—company business, company news—but then Mr. Drake said something I didn’t expect. Actually, I think I can safely say that nobody expected what was coming.

He pushed to his feet, a beaming smile on his thin, over-Botoxed face. “I have an announcement. As you know, at Drake, we have some of the best young talent in the industry. And that talent is, among other things, forward-thinking. I like to think we reward such talent here. They are, after all, the future of the publishing industry.”

In the corner of the room, I watched Fiona Bloom preen. She’d been after a senior editor job since I’d been here as an intern. But she was still an associate. A delusional one, given her first list, if you asked me. Which nobody did, of course.

Mr. Drake continued. “With that in mind, Drake will be launching a new imprint meant to better align us editorially with our social values as a company.”

A new imprint? Social values? What social values? The hairs on my arm stood at attention. This could either be really good or really bad. Mr. Drake, while he’d always been mostly good to me, his token Black woman on staff, wasn’t exactly what anyone would call woke or socially conscious.

But lately, all kinds of people were trying to “do the work” and “be better.” I saw it all over social media, heard it on my favorite podcasts, and, yes, saw it happening in publishing houses. But it made me nervous. Why did people have to be forced to do what they should have done all along? And would they stay the course when things got hard? In my experience, the answer to that was “no.”

“It’s my honor to announce that Drake’s new imprint, still to be named, will elevate new voices in commercial African American women’s fiction. We’ll publish in trade paper original, and the imprint will be headed editorially by none other than our own Ofosua Addo.”

My world froze as my brain processed. Had he just said my name? And nearly correctly to boot? And he was giving me an imprint? Me? Holy shitballs, Batman.

I lifted my gaze, the knot of anxiety rising in my throat as I suddenly realized I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t until Emory started shaking my chair that the volume came back, accompanied by a tinny sound, like maybe I had lost part of my hearing from the anxiety.

I glanced around the room. Most people were smiling and clapping. Emory beamed and looked like she might hug me. Fiona looked murderous. Chad rolled his eyes and gave me a head nod, being the jackass that he was. And then there was Cole. While he clapped, his expression was neutral. Zero emotion.

Ouch.

Whatever. I didn’t need his approval. But I did wish Mr. Drake had given me this news in private first. Wasn’t that the way promotions usually went? Something felt very off. When Emory kicked me under the table, I cleared my throat. “Oh, wow, sir, thank you so much for believing in me. I won’t let you down.”

He beamed at me. “Of course you won’t. My door is always open for any questions you might have. And I’ll give you the best in-house support for your publicity, marketing, and sales.”

My stomach flipped. “Really?”

“Yes, Nazrin Harimi has worked on some of the biggest publicity campaigns we’ve had; she’ll be invaluable to you.”

Nazrin had recently been promoted to associate director of publicity. She was one of the youngest people in the industry at that level and also one of the best book publicists in the business.

“Of course, for sales and marketing support, Cole will work hand in hand with you. In fact, think of him as your partner. Every step of the way.”

And that was when the bottom fell out of my world. There was no way in hell Cole and I could peacefully work together.

Before this was over, one of us was going to die. I had to make sure it wouldn’t be me.

COLE

I knocked at my uncle’s door shortly after the meeting.

“Ah, Cole, come in. I was expecting you.”

“Right.” I stepped in. I’d always liked my uncle. Even though my aunt Ruby was the Drake, when they got married, he took her name. He said Drake had more gravitas than his name of Waincot. He’d come to Drake from a small, distinguished British publishing house where he had been the managing editor for years. After Grandpa died, he’d dutifully moved home to New York to take the helm without complaint, even though he’d loved the freedom of living in London and working in the family business but not for it. Which we’d all known couldn’t last. Because Drake Publishing would always be in the Drake family, and my father was in no shape to take over for his generation.

I was still young when my grandfather died, but I was promised to join Drake as soon as I could. Steven and my aunt Ruby never had children of their own. So it was just the two of us Drakes for the foreseeable future at Drake Publishing. My uncle and I were equally determined that I’d learn this business from the ground up like he had. The last thing I ever wanted was for anyone to accuse me of being like my father and expecting the world on a silver platter.

“Close the door behind you.”

I did as asked, and simply said, “Ofosua Addo and I can’t work together.”

My uncle lifted a brow. “Why?”

“Besides the fact that she’s obstinate, picky, emotional, doesn’t listen, thinks she knows everything and she’s always right? Need I go on?” Fine, she wasn’t really emotional, but not the point. I left out “gorgeous,” “distracting,” “brilliant,” and all those other things that would’ve been telling. What was he even thinking? Associate editors didn’t get their own imprints. That career plum was reserved for successful, mega-moneymaking editors with decades of experience under their belts.

“I’m well aware of the tensions between the two of you. However, this could still be a good partnership. She does have a specific kind of talent that Drake happens to need.”

And I needed to make him hear me. “Listen, I know that she is one of your protégés. I get it. I’ve heard the story a thousand times of how she came running after you, forcing you to read a book.”

“I like that kind of tenacity. You should too.”

I knew my uncle. Something was off. No matter how tenacious Ofosua was, she was still a mostly green associate editor. She’d acquired all of one book on her own. “What gives? You can’t possibly expect me to launch an imprint with her. My workload is already insane, and she hates me.”

“She does not hate you. You’re perfectly likable. It’ll be good for you two to work together.”

“In what universe would it be good for us to work together? Something is going on, Uncle Steven. It’s almost like you want this division to fail. Because the two of us will be at each other’s throats and one of us will end up dead. News flash, I’m not certain that it won’t be me. There are other, better choices for this. Letty, for example. She’s very good. Also a woman of color, which is perfect for the line. They know each other and worked together on a release last year. Letty is a better fit.”

My uncle chuckled as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it on the back of his chair before easing into his chair, Central Park acting as the tapestry behind him as he settled in for a lecture. “Cole. This is an easy ask. Just do your job. You might be the heir apparent, but let me remind you, nothing is guaranteed. Earn your place. Show me you can do this. It’ll be easy. You’ll see.”

I took a seat opposite of him, folded my arms, and sat waiting. I was aware I was the only person in the building that could do this. Really push him to give me the true lay of the land. I’d seen the stats. Our numbers were down for the year. Now we were launching a new African American commercial fiction imprint? And he was forcing me to work with Ofosua? What was his plan? Was this a test?

Did my uncle even know what the term “African American” meant? There were venerable, Black-run publishers and imprints all over town, brand-new ones popping up alongside the handful of legacy imprints. Drake was known for pretty much the opposite.

We published a lot of great books, but they were mostly by old white literary types. Academics. And the Evan Mileses of the world. In recent years we’d begun to branch out to other categories of genre fiction aside from his kind of hard-boiled detective story, but that was as radical as we’d become, give or take a few titles. I was all for diversifying our list, but only if we knew what we were doing. And I was pretty damn sure we did not at Drake Publishing.

Uncle Steven sighed and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the massive oak desk. A large photograph of my grandfather at the very same desk, surrounded by books, stacks of paper, and mugs of coffee, was behind him. Not for the first time, I wished Grandpa were still here.

Uncle Steven hadn’t changed much about the office. The heavy furniture, the dark colors and upholstery on the couch and accent chair, the wood. If I closed my eyes, I could smell the faint hint of wood polish and the sandalwood of the old man’s cologne.

“Fine. We’ve only got two flagship authors. One of whom could die at any moment. It pains me greatly to say that about Colton Downs, but the man is seventy and still smokes three packs a day. And it doesn’t look like the estate will want to publish new books under his brand by a collaborator, as we’d hoped. We needed the injection of new blood and new ideas. New authors. New readers. New revenue streams.”

“I understand all that. But a new African American fiction imprint? While it potentially could be a smart move, is Drake the house that should be making that move?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“Uncle Steven, have you seen you? Have you seen most of our publicity, marketing, and sales staff? You’re an old white man. Drake hasn’t exactly been moving into the future with our acquisitions or with our employees. This just seems out of left field. While diversifying Drake’s list is the right thing to do, I can’t help but feel there’s more going on here. And why am I only hearing about this now?”

He sighed. “It’s supposed to be confidential and it’s not a done deal, but Cosmos Film and Media wants to give us a massive investment. As you know, they’ve been very successful over the years with their adaptation of the Queens of a Distant Galaxy series we publish. They like working with us to co-promote the tie-in editions with the films. And Cosmos has always dreamed of having more of a hand in the book industry. There’s a clear runway for that to happen here at Drake. We have the potential for a very healthy partnership. And we could certainly use the influx of money to take Drake into the future.”

I nodded. This all made sense. The Queens series was our other flagship series. Not written by a seventy-year-old chain-smoker, thankfully. But it was still just one author and one series, and she could only write so fast.

“All right, so what does a new imprint run by Ofosua and me have to do with any of this?”

My uncle sat back and stroked his chin. “Brian Cosmos. You know he’s Black.”

I lifted my brow, wondering why that mattered.

My uncle continued. “He says he needs to see some color at Drake, or we won’t get the investment. He’ll take his money elsewhere. He was very clear about that.”

I blinked rapidly. “He said he needed to see more color at Drake? What does that mean?”

Uncle Steven rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. How he put it was he had concerns about our lack of diversity and that we weren’t socially conscious enough. He said that, as far as he could tell, Drake was making no moves to be more in line with modern publishing on the editorial side, on the author side, or on the executive management side, and it made him hesitate about investing in us. Even with the success of Queens .”

I winced. He wasn’t wrong. “All right, so all of this is a ploy to make Brian Cosmos happy?”

My uncle nodded. “Also, X and BookTok.”

Was he serious? My uncle spent no time on either one.

I rolled my eyes. “There’s no making everyone happy, Uncle Steven.”

“Look, by pairing you with Ofosua, we look like we’re really trying. A Drake himself will be taking this seriously. Of course, her picks probably won’t perform like Queens or even some of the thrillers, so things might be a little quieter day-to-day than you’re used to. She’s not bad at picking mid-list gems, so you could have one or two that aren’t complete write-offs. It’s not personal. Just take one for the team while we get this investment, and then afterward, I’ll move you back to the big guns like Colton Downs.”

Was this how my uncle talked about a junior colleague who was, by his own estimation, one of his rising stars and the future of Drake? This didn’t seem like the Uncle Steven I knew. Everything was just off today.

I blinked at him. “This is bullshit. For a lot of reasons.”

“Don’t get dramatic. This is good for the company. And it’ll be good press.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Uncle Steven, I’m good at my job. Really fucking good at it. And I know you think Ofosua won’t be able to make this imprint a smashing success, that this is just some tedious hoop you need to jump through to get the investment, but you’re underestimating her. If I know anything about her, she’ll succeed.”

Why was I defending Ofosua Addo? Shut up, Cole.

“Well, then it’ll be a win-win. You just do your job. And like I said, if she falls on her face, we’ll quietly shuffle her away, but we’ll have the investment by then. And then you get to go back to doing what you love most.”

Wow. Shuffle away his protégé? I really, really didn’t like what I was hearing. Ofosua may not have been my favorite colleague, but I was damn sure this was not the company culture I wanted at Drake. I had a lot to think about.

I stood to leave but asked one last question. “What did Nazrin want earlier?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Chad said that she’d met with you earlier. Since she reports directly to me, and I didn’t have anything for her to discuss with you, I was wondering what she wanted.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest. I haven’t even been here half the day.”