Chapter 4
FOUR
Tomorrow, however, arrives faster than I would have liked and I am back in the office to find the publishing gods have conspired to ensure that there will be no gentle easing into the day. The email sits on my screen, a glowing harbinger of doom. Subject: Fully, Forever /R. Keane—Critical Revenue Stream . Subtle.
I skim the lines for the third time, but they don’t get any gentler with rereading. Phrases like “key fiscal quarter” and “projected profit margin” jump out and tighten around my chest like a vice. The numbers are staggering—high six figures, veering dangerously close to seven. It’s not even about Rory’s ego anymore; it’s the company’s bottom line. Fiona might as well have written, “No pressure, Lara, but if this book tanks, we’re all screwed. Have a nice day!”
This is what I signed up for, right? Fixing broken stories. Holding trembling authorial hands. Saving the publishing day, one misplaced subplot at a time. But Rory Keane? Bestselling, award-winning Rory Keane? He’s supposed to be untouchable. The man practically breathes success. And now it’s on me to ensure his latest manuscript doesn’t send Scott and two, he’s fidgeting with a pen, flipping it between his fingers. Rory Keane doesn’t fidget. He lounges. He smirks. He charms. This… nervous energy? Completely off-brand.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he says, flashing a quick grin. “It’s almost insulting.”
“Almost?” There’s something off—something raw beneath his usual polished exterior. The pen slips from his fingers, clattering against the table, and he swears under his breath, scooping it up like it holds the meaning of life.
“Rough morning?” I ask lightly, sliding into my seat. My tone is casual, professional even, but my editor brain is already cataloguing every detail: the tension in his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows, the way his knee bounces under the table like he’s trying to outrun a thought he doesn’t want to catch.
“Something like that,” he says, spinning the pen again.
“Well,” I say briskly, “let’s see if we can salvage this thing before your existential crisis gets any worse.”
“Lead the way, Yates,” he says, his voice smooth again. Polished. Back to brand.
“It’s Lara.” I remind him.
“I prefer Yates. Strong literary name. Suits you.”
I’ve got too much I want to say about his manuscript to fight him on this. If he heeds my advice and gets his revisions back to me quickly, he can call me anything he likes.
“Alright, let’s get to it. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we want this to resemble something publishable.”
His eyes flick back to me, but there’s something off about the way they focus. Like he’s here in body, but not entirely in spirit.
“Rory,” I prompt, keeping my voice pointedly professional, though my curiosity itches at the edges. “Any reason you’re looking at me like you’ve just remembered where you left your car keys?”
“Just thinking,” he says lightly, still spinning the pen. It’s an answer designed to be harmless, but the weight in his tone doesn’t match. Before I can decide whether to push or let it go, he adds, almost offhandedly, “You know, it’s funny. All of the changes you’re suggesting I make to Sophie’s character—remind me of you.”
The shift is so abrupt I blink. “Oh?” His tone is too casual, too calculated.
“Yeah.” His gaze zeros in on me with unnerving precision. “You want me to make Sophie so… sceptical about romance. Almost like she doesn’t believe in it at all.”
And there it is. The trap, perfectly baited. I feel my irritation bubble up before I can tamp it down.
“Are you seriously psychoanalysing your own character right now?” I shoot him a pointed look over the rim of my glasses. “Because if you are, I’d suggest saving it for therapy and focusing on fixing her motivation instead.”
“If anything, I’m psychoanalysing you,” he counters smoothly, one brow arching. “More to the point, you didn’t deny it.”
“That’s because it’s absurd,” I reply, my voice flinty, but amused despite myself. “Sophie’s scepticism is perfectly grounded in her backstory. It means she’s got further to travel on her emotional journey. It’s called character development . You might want to try it sometime.”
His grin widens, slow and infuriating. “I shall. Promise.”
“Good. Right. I have some more notes on the midpoint conflict. As it stands, there’s not enough tension driving the characters’ decisions. We need a stronger emotional catalyst—something that feels inevitable but still surprising.”
“You really know how to kill the mood, don’t you?”
“Someone has to,” I reply, jotting down a quick note before glancing up at him again. “And since you seem determined to avoid doing any actual work today, that someone is me.”
“Harsh,” he says, “but fair.”
“Glad we’re on the same page… finally,” I retort, flipping another page in the manuscript with a deliberate flourish. I keep my focus trained on the words in front of me, even as I feel his eyes lingering on me, studying me. Let him look. Let him think whatever he wants. I have a job to do, and I refuse to let him—or his maddening grin—distract me from it.
“If you’re not ready for the midpoint. Let’s at least tackle the opening scene.”
“You love it, don’t you?”
“I hate it.”
“Oh.”
“After three exquisite descriptive paragraphs, Sophie literally starts her morning by arguing with her cat over a burnt piece of toast. It’s not exactly the stuff of bestselling romance.”
“Hey, my readers love cats,” he counters, “and burnt toast is relatable. I’m going for authenticity here.”
“Authenticity is great,” I reply, scribbling a quick note in the margin of his manuscript. “But your readers aren’t picking up this book for flowery descriptive prose. They want conflict, stakes, something that grabs them by the throat and doesn’t let go. Right now, it’s more like a polite handshake.”
“Wait,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “What if—and hear me out—the cat isn’t just there for comic relief? Maybe I put it in because it’s… a metaphor?”
I blink at him. “A metaphor for what?”
“Loneliness,” he says seriously. “Think about it. The cat represents her fear of connection. It’s her safe, predictable companion because she’s too scared to let anyone else in.”
“Or, it’s just a cat. And instead of shoehorning in an unnecessary metaphor, we could use the space to actually establish her emotional wound. You know, the thing driving her arc?”
“Tell me something, Yates,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial, like we’re sharing some grand secret instead of sitting under the fluorescent lights of a soulless conference room. “Do you even believe in love?”
I blink at him, once, twice, letting the question hang in the air like a particularly bad smell.
“What?”
“Just curious,” he says smoothly, leaning closer, his gaze fixed on mine with unnerving intensity. Those stupid dark eyes of his are sparkling, and I hate that I notice. “You spend so much time breaking love stories into narrative beats that must be hit at a certain moment, I’m starting to wonder if you even think it’s real, or just manufactured.”
“Don’t,” I warn, holding up a hand like I’m warding off a bad idea.
But it’s too late. Rory Keane thinks he’s dug up a meaty bone, and he’s not about to let it go.
“I think it’s you who’s fallen out of love with love, and consciously or subconsciously, it’s guiding how you imagine Sophie’s character. Every single note urges caution, care, distrust… and fear. I think you see her in you… and you in her.” The grin tugging at his mouth is the kind that makes me want to throw something small, hard, and unbreakable at him. Preferably at his head.
“Love is very real,” I reply crisply. “It’s also subjective, highly marketable, and prone to cliché. That’s why it’s my job to make sure your version of it doesn’t send readers into diabetic shock. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Ah, and there it is.” He points the pen at me like he’s just cracked some ancient code. “The clinical detachment. ‘Love is subjective.’ ‘Love is marketable.’ ‘Love is a trope.’ You could put that on a coffee mug. Do you hear yourself? It’s no wonder you think Sophie is allergic to emotional vulnerability.”
“I didn’t say she’s allergic ,” I retort, scribbling something nonsensical in my notes just to avoid looking directly at him. “I said she needs to be more cautious. Realistic. And frankly, that’s what’s missing from your entire manuscript, realism.”
“Realism,” he repeats, dragging out the word. His expression shifts—less teasing now, more thoughtful. “Okay, then. Let’s test your realism, shall we?”
“Let’s not,” I say quickly, looking at him over the edge of my glasses. This feels like a setup, and I don’t like where it’s heading.
“Just hypothetically,” he presses, undeterred. “What if I could prove to you that love isn’t just some… construct or plot point to be analysed and edited into submission? What if I could show you it’s real? Tangible. Even for someone as… ‘cautious’ as you.”
“Prove it?” I repeat, incredulous. A laugh escapes before I can stop it—short and entirely dismissive. “What exactly are you suggesting? A field study? Should I expect a slide deck with stats and bar charts by the end of the week?”
“Maybe,” he shoots back without missing a beat, his grin returning full force. “Or maybe something a little more… experiential.”
“Experiential,” I echo flatly, because apparently, I’ve been reduced to parroting his nonsense now. “And what does that entail, exactly? Romantic scavenger hunts? Candlelit dinners? Long walks on the beach where you regale me with poetry about moonlight and destiny?”
“Could be fun,” he says with an infuriating shrug. “But no. I was thinking something simpler. A deal, of sorts.”
“Absolutely not,” I say instantly, slapping the cap back onto my pen with finality. Whatever this is, it needs to end before it gets any more ridiculous.
“Come on, Yates.” His tone is light, almost playful, but there’s something lurking beneath it—a challenge, barely veiled. “Humour me. If I win, you have to admit you’re wrong about love. Just once. Out loud. To me.”
“And if I win?” I ask, mostly to humour him .
“Then I’ll rewrite Sophie’s entire character arc however you want. No arguments.”
I narrow my eyes, searching his face for cracks in his armour, but all I find is confidence. Too much confidence. It’s maddening.
“This hypothetical deal of yours has no basis in logic or professionalism,” I point out, already reaching for my notes. “So naturally, I’m rejecting it.”
“Naturally,” he echoes, as if he’s already won something. And somehow, that’s more aggravating than anything he’s said so far.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say flatly.
A deal. He wants me to make a deal . As if this manuscript—this project that’s dangling precariously between disaster and redemption—isn’t already enough pressure without adding personal stakes.
My mind races, unspooling every possible consequence. If I say yes, I’m indulging him, giving him permission to derail us further—and for what? To prove some abstract point about love? And yet… if I say no, will he dig his heels in even harder? Will Sophie’s character arc remain the same flimsy mess because I refused to play along?
“You’re thinking about it,” he says, breaking into my spiralling thoughts with infuriating accuracy.
“Absolutely not.” I snap the words out instinctively, but they feel hollow, even to me.
“Sure you’re not,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “That furrow in your brow? Totally unrelated. Probably just thinking about… comma placement.”
“Comma placement matters ,” I retort, because it’s easier than addressing the truth hanging between us. I’m hesitating. God help me, I’m actually hesitating.
I tell myself it’s because of the deadline. That’s all this is—the story needs fixing, and if playing along with Rory gets him to cooperate, maybe it’s worth considering. But somewhere, deep in the quiet corner of my brain I try not to visit too often another thought flickers: What if he’s right? About me. About love. About everything I’ve spent years cynically dissecting and dismissing.
“Okay,” I say finally, dragging the word out as I force myself to meet his gaze. “Here’s the thing, Keane —I don’t have time for whatever romantic comedy subplot you think we’re living in. I’m here to fix your book, not entertain your whims.”
“Noted,” he says, but his grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows wider, more insufferable. “But you didn’t say no.”
“Because it’s beneath me to dignify this nonsense with an actual answer,” I shoot back. “Now, let’s get back to the part where I save your career from its inevitable nosedive, shall we?”
“Deflection,” he muses, tapping a finger against his chin like he’s solving a puzzle. “Interesting strategy, Yates.”
“Observation,” I counter. “Not your strong suit, apparently.”
He laughs—a low, genuine sound that lightens the mood immediately. “You’re good at this, you know. The whole icy-editor thing. Very convincing. Almost had me fooled there for a second.”
“Glad to see you’re finally catching on.”
“Fine, you win,” he says at last. “Let’s talk about the manuscript. For now.”
“Thank you,” I reply, already scribbling notes in the margins of the page in front of me. My voice is steady, professional, exactly what it needs to be. But in the back of my mind, his words linger, unsettling as they are undeniable: You didn’t say no . He knows. Somehow, he knows he’s gotten under my skin, and worse, he’s enjoying it. Smug bastard.