Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
I’ve spent the last three months pretending Rory Keane doesn’t exist. It’s been easier than I expected. Routine is a reliable thing, and mine has swallowed me whole—morning coffee, new author manuscripts to work on, meetings that blur into each other. I’ve buried myself in other people’s words, fixing, refining, perfecting stories that aren’t his. It’s what I do best.
After completing the final copy edit of his book, after signing my name on the last page and sending it to the proofreaders, I told myself that was it. Done. Over. A closed chapter—one that never should’ve been written in the first place.
And yet, it lingers. Not in the obvious ways. I don’t Google his name or check for industry buzz. I don’t wonder where he is, what he’s doing. I certainly don’t think about how it felt to work alongside him, argue with him, want him. But every now and then, I’ll catch a passing comment in the office, a casual mention of his book, or the upcoming launch . And it hits like a paper cut—small, sharp, invisible until it stings.
I shove the thought away as I take my seat in the weekly acquisitions meeting. Rory Keane is old news. Right now, my job is to focus on what comes next. And whatever that is, it has nothing to do with him.
“…What we’re really looking at here is the market’s saturation with billionaire redemption arcs,” Claire says, her voice zipping across the conference room like a well-aimed dart.
I nod, my pen poised over my notebook like I might actually write something down. Billionaires finding their hearts in unlikely places—a dog park, a cupcake shop, a goat yoga retreat. It’s all very been there, edited that . Normally, I’d be contributing to this meeting with precision insight and a touch of sardonic flair because, let’s face it, nothing screams “engaged” like a clever quip about the improbability of a Wall Street tycoon knowing how to bake scones. But today, my brain feels like it’s buffering.
“Thoughts, Lara?” Fiona’s tone is neutral, but her raised eyebrow—not so much.
“Uh, yes,” I say, straightening in my chair. I flick through the bullet points on the literary agent’s submission letter, trying to conjure something coherent. “I think… if we’re going to move forward with stories in this vein, we need to focus on unique settings or stakes that feel fresh.”
“Such as?” Fiona wants more. Like a dog with a bone, she isn’t going to let up. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, waiting for me to deliver.
“Well…” I hesitate—just for a second, but long enough to feel a prickle of heat crawl up my neck. Think, Lara. Think. “We could request the author sets her book in a… less conventional industry. Maybe a tech billionaire who left it all behind to run a vineyard?”
“Interesting,” Fiona says, though her expression remains inscrutable. The kind of inscrutable that makes you want to question every decision you’ve ever made, starting with your career choice.
“Or,” Claire, one of the editorial assistants, chimes in, mercifully redirecting the spotlight, “we lean into nostalgia. A billionaire who buys his hometown library to save it from being turned into a block of flats.”
The room hums with agreement, and I manage a small, professional smile. Crisis averted. For now. But the gnawing frustration at myself lingers.
I shouldn’t have hesitated. I shouldn’t have needed Claire to swoop in. I’m supposed to be the one who’s unshakable, who always has the smartest take in the room. That’s my thing. Except, apparently, my thing is currently on holiday somewhere far away from this conference room—I’m a mess and I can’t seem to snap out of it.
* * *
“Walk with me,” Fiona says as soon as the meeting adjourns, her clipped tone leaving no room for argument.
“Of course,” I reply, falling into step beside her as she strides down the hallway.
“You did a good job on Rory’s book. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Thanks. I am.”
An actual compliment from Fiona. If I was a betting woman, then there’s likely to be a follow-up?—
“So, how do you think that meeting went?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Fine,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady. “We’ve chosen some strong titles, and I think our offers are compelling.”
“Did we?” Fiona stops abruptly, turning to face me. “Because what I saw was Claire making the bold choices and you just going along for the ride.”
Ouch. Direct hit. I resist the urge to adjust my glasses—a tell Fiona knows too well—and force myself to meet her eyes. “I’ll admit I wasn’t at my best just now.”
“Not just today,” Fiona says, her voice softening just enough to make the words land harder. “Lara, you helped Rory Keane deliver his strongest manuscript yet. It was genuinely unputdownable. You’re one of the most talented editors I’ve ever worked with. But for the last couple of months, since he submitted in fact, you’ve seemed… distracted. Uncharacteristically so.”
“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” I say, the excuse tasting hollow even as I offer it.
“Everyone has a lot on their plate,” Fiona counters. “That’s the nature of this job. And while juggling plates, we also have to make sure none of them shatter. I need you on your A-game every day, especially with our mid-list authors who depend on us to elevate their work. Not every client is a Rory Keane, but they all deserve the same level of attention.”
There it is again. His name dropped like a grenade between us. My stomach knots, but I keep my expression neutral.
“Understood,” I say crisply, even though the word feels like swallowing glass.
“Good,” Fiona says, her tone brisk again. “Because I don’t want to have this conversation twice. You’re better than this, Lara. Don’t prove me wrong.”
With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a boulder. Better than this. Am I? Or have I been fooling everyone—including myself—all along?
Fiona’s words echo in my head as I push open the door to my office and step inside, closing it firmly behind me like I’m trying to keep her voice—and the gnawing doubt—on the other side. The familiarity of my office normally soothes me, but it feels stale, like someone else’s life. Not mine.
I drop into my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and stare at the stack of manuscripts on my desk. They’re neatly arranged, the way I always insist, spines aligned like soldiers awaiting orders. Normally, this would be satisfying—a tangible sign of control in a chaotic industry. Today? I just see clutter. Pages upon pages of other people’s stories that I’m supposed to polish, perfect, elevate.
“Be better,” Fiona had said. As if it were that simple. As if all I need to do is snap my fingers and become some editorial wizard again, untouchable and unshakable. But there’s no snapping happening here. Only the sound of my breath—shallow and uneven—as I sit frozen, hands limp in my lap.
“Pull it together, Yates,” I say under my breath, glancing at the manuscript on top of the pile. A romance. God help me. The title, Windswept Desires , is splayed across the cover page in swirly font. I pick it up, flipping through the first few pages. Tropes everywhere—star-crossed lovers, forbidden passion, a stormy night where everything changes. Ordinarily, I’d be ruthless, tearing through clichés with my red pen and relishing the process.
Today, I can’t even muster the energy to find it funny.
Instead, Rory’s face flashes in my mind—his crooked smile, his stupid dimples, his absurd confidence that somehow made vulnerability look easy. And then, worse, his voice: You’re so quick to fix everyone else’s work, Lara. Ever thought about why you don’t take a chance on your own?
“Stop it,” I hiss, slamming the manuscript down. The sound reverberates off the walls, startling me. My hand trembles as I pull it back.
The thing is… he wasn’t wrong. That’s what burns the most. Beneath the charm and the half-truths and the infuriating ability to see too much too quickly, he saw me. And I hated it. Still hate it.
Dammit . The room still feels too small, the walls hemmed in too close, the weight of expectation pressing down on my chest.
This job used to thrill me. Used to make me feel alive. Now, all I feel is stuck—like I’m running in circles, chasing deadlines, avoiding mistakes, fixing things for everyone else but myself. Maybe Fiona’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore.
No. No. I refuse to spiral.
I press my palms to my temples, willing the doubt away. Outside, I hear muffled laughter from a neighbouring office. Someone else is thriving—probably closing a deal or delivering brilliant feedback or whatever it is that “better” editors do.
I glance at Windswept Desires again. Then at the rest of the submission pile—every manuscript represents an author’s dreams, their ambitions, their souls. Each one represents months and possibly years of the writer’s life. It’s my job to work through them and decide if they’re good enough for Scott it just needs tweaking to improve the pacing.
Buried under the awkwardness, something glimmers. A turn of phrase here, an unexpected observation there. Tiny sparks of something powerful, unpolished but alive. It’s like rummaging through a dusty attic and finding an old box of forgotten treasures—half of it junk, sure, but the other half? The other half is intriguing.
“Okay, not terrible,” I admit grudgingly. “Definitely salvageable.”
My hands find the keyboard almost without thinking. It starts with small fixes—tightening up the prose, cutting the fluff, swapping out clichés for more specific imagery. Then, before I realise it, I’m rewriting entire chunks, weaving in details and introspection I never would’ve dared to include back then. Things I’ve seen, felt, lived through since. A sideways jab about the weight of expectations. An awkward, too-honest confession in the middle of an argument. A moment of silence that says more than words ever could.
The more I work, the less it feels like editing and the more it feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years. I let myself write messy and imperfect, not caring if it’s polished or marketable or any of the things I’d demand from one of my authors. For once, I’m not worrying about who’s going to read it—I’m just writing for me.
“She didn’t fall gracefully,” I type, deleting the original, cringe-worthy opening line without ceremony. “She fell like a tree struck by lightning—suddenly, violently, and impossible to ignore.”
I pause, rereading the sentence. Is it perfect? No. But it’s honest and intriguing. And right now, that feels like enough.
When I reach the midpoint—a charged argument between Ashley and James that ends in a kiss neither of them admits they wanted—I have to stop reading. My heart’s pounding, my head spinning. It’s so obvious what needs fixing. The dialogue is stiff, the tension diluted. I didn’t let them feel enough, didn’t let myself feel enough when I wrote it. If I were to add a few extra chapters at the end of Act One, it would better explain the emotional wound Ashley carries, and that would provide a bigger payoff later in the novel.
Just some comments , I try to convince myself as I switch the document into review mode. My fingers begin to type out new comments almost automatically, capturing ideas, writing snippets of dialogue that can be input later. The words fill the right margin like a stream of consciousness, faster than I can organise them, but I don’t stop. If I stop, the doubt will creep in again, whispering that I’m wasting my time. That I’ll never measure up to real professional writers, like Rory, who seem to bleed brilliance onto every page.
Rory. His name alone tightens something in my chest. I shake it off, focusing on the notes in front of me. This isn’t about him. Not completely, anyway. But as much as I hate to admit it, meeting him—the arguments, the intimacy, the way he seems to just get me—has changed something in me. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I needed to finally get this story right.
I highlight sections of prose, add more and more comments, and delete entire scenes as if I’m trying to outrun my own second-guessing.
“Ashley wouldn’t say that.” I highlight a passage of dialogue in bright yellow. She’d… she’d deflect. Make some sarcastic comment instead of admitting what she’s feeling .
I type out a new conversation. The first act is coming together piece by jagged piece, pacier now, more alive. I add a comment to come back to later: More tension here. Let her want him, but fight it harder .
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I keep going, shaping the story into something that feels closer to mine. Rory’s stupid voice drifts into my head again— You’re afraid of being seen.
“Yeah, well,” I say, my fingers flying over the keys, “maybe I’m ready to be seen.”
The cursor blinks at me, expectant and unrelenting. My fingers ache faintly from typing—I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here, hunched over my keyboard like some kind of caffeinated gremlin. The mug beside me is empty, a smudge of lipstick dried on the rim. There are probably coffee grounds in my teeth. Glamorous.
I lean back against my chair, stretching my arms over my head until my spine cracks in protest. A breath escapes me—long, deep, shaky in a way that feels too personal for an empty office. My gaze falls to the screen. Words. My words. Pages of them. Some polished, some rougher than Rory’s five o’clock shadow, but they’re there. Real. Mine.
A nervous laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, tinged with disbelief. It’s not perfect—not even close—but for once, that doesn’t feel like failure. It feels… honest. Like I’ve pulled back some protective layer I didn’t even know I was wearing and let something raw slip through.
“Well,” I whisper, adjusting my glasses as if that’ll somehow make me see straighter, clearer. “There you are, you messy little thing.”
The manuscript stares back at me, unapologetic, daring me to keep going. I should be terrified. And I am. A little. But beneath that fear is something else, something warmer, stronger: resolve.
For years, I’ve been the quiet one—the fixer, the polisher, the invisible scaffolding propping up someone else’s masterpiece. I’ve told myself I’m fine with that, that being in the background suits me. But sitting here now, staring at these imperfect, fiercely alive sentences, I feel the lie collapsing. Maybe Rory was right. Maybe I’ve spent so much time hiding behind other people’s stories that I forgot I had one of my own.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to change that.
I hover the mouse over the save icon, my hand trembling slightly. It’s ridiculous, really. Saving a Word document shouldn’t feel this monumental, but it does. It feels like choosing something—like choosing me . I click.
The screen blinks once, confirming the file is safe. There’s more to edit, of course. I haven’t even revisited the last one hundred pages yet. There are pacing issues, especially in the midsection, and I might yet change the female best friend into a male best friend to play more on the male protagonist’s jealous streak. But there’s a clear path. A way forward.
My heartbeat slows. I sit back again, hands resting uselessly in my lap as a strange, unfamiliar calm settles over me. Not the absence of nerves—I still have plenty of those buzzing around—but a quiet certainty underneath them. I’m doing this. For better or worse, I’m finally working on my manuscript after an eight-year hiatus. To what end? I’m not quite sure yet, but it just feels good to be back in the weeds.
As I glance toward the window, the late afternoon sunlight cuts through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across my desk. Outside, the city hums along, indifferent to this tiny revolution happening in the corner office of Scott & Drake Publishing. But I feel it—a flicker of hope, stubborn and new, taking root inside me.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one in particular, the word soft but steady, a promise to myself. “Let’s see.”