Chapter One
CHARLOTTE
Love is a beautiful thing and should be celebrated.
Love is a beautiful thing and should be celebrated.
Love is ? —
Shit.
It wasn’t working.
No matter how many times I repeated that line to myself, trying to use the reiteration as some sort of calming, recalibration mechanism for my negative thoughts, I couldn’t help coming back to the same, sad conclusion.
The personal lives were getting in the way of the show.
And I hated it.
Not the fact that my stars were falling in love— that was honestly cute, and they were being…probably as professional as they could. On set, they operated like friends, keeping the public displays of affection tucked away, out of respect for the work we were trying to do.
Which I appreciated.
It wasn’t any of their faults that most of their latest headlines were “tea” about their relationships and any related scandals—mentions of the show I so desperately needed strong— John Henry strong— ratings for were nothing more than an aside.
A problem no one except me seemed to understand.
Well—not no one.
Not even an hour ago, a production assistant had dropped a sealed envelope off to me in my trailer—a memo from some network executive that didn’t believe in email or some bullshit. I’d read the first few lines and tossed it aside, appalled that something like that was even being presented to me.
Was it the network’s money making this show happen?
Well, of course it was.
But that shouldn’t mean they had the right to step into my lane.
I’d produced and directed too, but most importantly on this set, I was a major award-winning writer. Head writer, on this show. This was my brainchild, my story, my script.
So why in the world would anyone—let alone a bunch of people who were not writers and couldn’t pick a good script out of a lineup if they tried—endeavor to tell me how the last two episodes, arguably among the most important of the season, should go.
Because they didn’t like that the show wasn’t “trending.”
Trending was the bane of my fucking existence.
Of course we wanted people talking about Kinfolk, bringing new viewers into the fold, but as with anything, there was going to be ebb and flow. It wasn’t…flashy, high action, gory, vulgar, or based on existing property for previous fans to think piece and pick apart. Our fanbase was being built from the ground up, on the basis of a great cast, a great story, and great writing.
As such, we’d had great streaming numbers.
But suddenly it was a flop and needed intervention because we weren’t trending .
It was enough to make me want to scream.
Maybe I should scream?
I was gearing up for a cute little work-appropriate shriek when a knock sounded at the door, prompting me to push out a sigh. I was due on set, not sulking in my office, so as I moved to answer, it was an easy deduction that a production assistant had come looking for me.
It was not a production assistant.
Nolan Brinkley strode into my office like he’d been invited—hands on his hips, looking around to analyze his surroundings. I was still standing at the open door, glaring at him, when he finally decided to take a break from nosiness to look at me.
He flashed a perfect white smile that most heterosexual women would—and had, ad nauseum—describe as panty wetting.
It was just annoying to me.
“Char—what’s going with you today?” he asked, taking it upon himself to get comfortable, propping a hip against my desk instead of following what I felt was a perfectly clear invitation to take his ass back outside my office. “I heard you’re not feeling some of the network’s proposed changes?”
I frowned, pushing the door closed. “I haven’t even looked at the changes, let alone responded to them,” I explained, but then, “Why the hell am I explaining myself to you?”
One thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Well, considering we’re talking about my show?—”
“ Your show ?”
Shit.
That devil-approved smirk I’d grown to hate so much spread over his lips, barely contained.
He was trying to get under my skin, and as always, he was doing a masterful job.
“Do you have an actual point for being in my office?” I asked. “Or are you just here to work my damn nerves? Because I’m due on set ten minutes ago, and I don’t need this shit right now.”
“Pump your brakes, mama, no need to get hostile,” he countered, raising his hands.
“Did you just call me mama ?” I sneered. “My name is Char—let’s stick to that.”
“A couple days ago, you insisted I call you Charlotte, ’cause Char was for people you liked. You like me now?” he asked, wagging his eyebrows, and I had to quite literally bite my tongue to suppress my frustration.
“Nolan… again, I do not have time to go back and forth with you. What do you want ?”
Wrong question.
Thank goodness for a patterned, loose-fitting top—otherwise, my nipples would’ve been on undeniable display as they pebbled into hard peaks in response to the look Nolan gave me.
It was a particular specialty of his—his eyes were absolutely on my face, not lingering anywhere that could be called inappropriate.
And yet, somehow, the thoughts behind his eyes certainly were.
He broke the gaze with another smirk, scraping those perfect teeth over perfectly full, velvet-soft-looking lips. “I need to know you’re on board with the changes from the network going into these last two episodes. They want to play into the hype, keep our name in people’s mouths. We’ve gotta up the stakes and finish strong if we want to call this a successful show.”
“It’s already a successful show,” I argued, crossing my arms over my chest.
I was still feeling exposed.
“People are talking more about Alec and Vanessa as a couple than they are about Kinfolk. Hell, Elodie and Shaw are trending higher, and they outed themselves weeks ago.”
My fists flexed over the sound of that word again.
Trending.
“I thought our metric was streams and new subscribers, retention rates from one episode to the next. Not how many people are posting about the show at any given time,” I countered. “Have those numbers fallen and I missed it or something?”
“Are you trying to say the trends don’t matter? Because that doesn’t hold up to scrutiny,” he said.
Not answering my damn question.
“No, I’m not—I’m asking if the metrics I was given at the beginning for what would constitute a success and trigger potential bonus thresholds are no longer what we’re following.”
“Yes, we’re still following those, and you’ve earned your way into your contracted bonus stages. But there are opportunities to push further—and earn more. Don’t you want that? I don’t see the problem.”
I scoffed. “ Of course you don’t see the problem—all you see is dollar signs and bottom lines.”
“It’s what I’m good at, mam—I mean… Charlotte .”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not cute.”
“I disagree.”
“ Nolan ,” I huffed. “This may be amusing to you, but to me—it’s not. I wrote a great script, that everybody approved of. I’ve made the adjustments here and there to stay in, even under budget. I rolled with the last-minute changes to the cast. Despite everything that has been thrown at me, including bullshit everybody swore I’d never have to deal with, it’s a great show. We’re hitting our numbers. By all accounts…it’s successful. Why is that not good enough anymore?”
“It’s never about being good enough—it’s about stretching to be the best .”
“We’ve got the best numbers in our category right now.”
“And it’s not good enough to outpace celebrity dating rumors,” he retorted, shrugging. “Doesn’t sound quite as good when you think about it like that, does it?”
“ Why the fuck would I ever think about it like that ?!” I snapped, and his eyes went wide before he grinned.
“Damn—this has you really bothered, huh?”
“No, I’m just talking to you for no good reason.”
Nolan put a hand to his chest, mouth open, pretending to be offended by my words. “Charlotte, that’s downright mean ,” he drawled. “I would think, at some point along the way, you and I could’ve been good friends. Besties even,” he chuckled. “How many times have we worked together now?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Who keeps up with that?”
Me.
I kept up with that.
Four times now, I’d been subjected to working under the unfortunate, penny-pinching rule of Nolan Brinkley. He got on my nerves a little bit worse every time.
We’d made magic though.
And money.
For ourselves, and the network.
This time was lining up to be the most successful endeavor—we’d never had a budget this big, an audience this large, and watch numbers so… astronomical.
The show was doing great.
Which was why it was so baffling to me, so deeply annoying, that instead of letting me do what I did best—whatever I wanted, as long as it was under the budget and wouldn’t get us fined—all of a sudden, I was getting “suggestions” from the network about the script.
Scary times.
“This is basic stuff,” Nolan spoke up again, pushing off from the desk. “Everybody is talking about these couples in real life, then they’re watching them on the show. We have an opportunity in front of us to get them talking even more— except, about the show this time.”
“Phenomenal acting and polished, well-written scripts will get us talked about enough.”
“Enough to trend higher than?—”
“ Do not say that word to me again! ” I shrieked, completely and utterly over it. “Why can’t the stuff that’s always been markers of good TV still be that? Why do I have to write in unnecessary drama?!”
“Because that is what viewers want—and more importantly, it’s what the network wants. Somebody dies, somebody breaks up, and it will be all the internet is talking about. For a good long while.”
“It is emotional manipulation, and I have too much respect for my audience and my craft to create bullshit drama just to generate more views. This network is better than that, this show is better than that, and I’m better than that. And I think our audience will appreciate it.”
“I think they’ll appreciate not being subjected to a damn snooze fest for the last couple episodes.”
“ Snooze fest ?!”
Before I could help it, I was right in his face, finger sharply pointed, barely an inch from actually touching him with it.
Maybe too much, but I didn’t care.
“Charlotte, I?—”
“ Shut up ,” I hissed, nostrils flaring. “How dare you stand in my face and insult the work I’ve put into this. If Kinfolk was a snooze fest , we wouldn’t even be having this conversation—it would’ve just been canceled, or better yet, not greenlit in the first place. If neither you nor this network believe in my ability to pull this shit off, what am I doing here?! ”
“It has nothing to do with not believing in you,” he scoffed, but I shook my head.
“Yes, actually, it does. It has everything to do with. I have poured my everything into this show, and any other show I’ve done for this network. And you know what I’ve never done?!”
He sighed, not backing away from my sharply wielded finger. “What’s that?”
“ Flopped! ” I answered. “Or folded , for that matter.”
“You’re making this shit way bigger than it has to be,” he said, frowning. “I know for a fact you’ve got other networks in your inbox, studios trying to get first-look deals with you. This is a damn layup—make the changes, get this thing over with, and move the hell on.”
My mouth dropped. “Get this thing over with and move on?” I half-whispered, stepping back. “You know what—I’m done talking about this. Get the hell out of my office.”
“This isn’t?—”
“ Get the hell out! ” I shouted, jabbing my finger at the door now instead of his face.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he said, hands up, as he headed for the door.
I shook my head. “The hell it isn’t. Now leave me alone. I’ve got a show to finish.”