Chapter 9 #2
“And there we have the snark. Now if there is anything that makes me happy, that’s it.”
“My apologies,” Aida said, not daring to look at him. “I’m a little tired and shouldn’t have been so rude.”
“I interrupted your work at the chapel. You were right to shoo me away,” Mo said with a laugh.
“I’m about ready to shoo you away now,” Fran said to him. Her voice held a dark warning. Aida was beginning to wonder if Fran
or Disa liked Mo. They seemed to barely tolerate him.
Mo cackled. “Fine. Fine.”
“He has a . . . certain effect on people,” Disa said to Aida. “Please, continue.”
Finally, after nearly two hours of what Aida eventually came to think of as interrogation, they concluded their questions. As Trista had indicated, she was asked to turn over the notes she had stored in her portfolio. Disa immediately swept them off the table and into a black metal file box.
Fran set a sheet of paper in front of her. “Now then, we need to discuss the continuation of your contract. We are pleased
with your work so far and would like to finalize the five-year extension.” She placed a pen on top of the paper.
Aida sucked in a breath. She had spent weeks rehearsing how she would tell MODA she had no intention of renewing the contract.
The weight of the decision pressed against her ribs. She scanned the contract again, but she knew its contents. She’d read
it cover to cover when it was first presented to her three months ago, scoffing at the absurd penalties for breaking it. Now,
the numbers weren’t just ink on a page, but a noose tightening around her future. If she took the job and later walked away,
she wouldn’t just be quitting. She’d be drowning in debt so deep she’d never claw her way out. MODA would come to collect
every cent they had invested in her—salary, housing, training, expenses she hadn’t even known were being tallied. With interest
and penalties, the total would be staggering, a sum so high it might as well be a life sentence.
A sharp current of panic flickered through her. For an instant, oxygen seemed a scarce commodity, each breath thin and useless
against the enormity of what she was about to do. But what did she have to go back to? No home, no job—only an ex-fiancé with
disapproving parents she had no desire to face again. Yumi, her one true lifeline to Boston, would support her no matter what,
but even that wouldn’t be enough. And the worst part? She wanted this. The job was everything she had ever dreamed of.
A finger jabbed her arm, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. Mo leaned across the empty chair, watching her with an
amused tilt of his head.
“Well?” he asked.
She swallowed hard, then picked up the pen and signed the paper.
“Excellent,” Fran said, handing the contract to Disa, who filed it into the same metal box. “Of course, you’ll need some time
off for the wedding. And we’ll need to make plans for Graham to join you here in Italy. Perhaps when the school year is finished?”
The question caught Aida off guard. Her heart thudded painfully. The room felt suddenly smaller, her chair more confining.
The image of Graham and Erin resurfaced. Pushing down the surge of emotion, Aida responded with finality. “Actually, I’d like
to return to Boston as soon as possible. And I plan on moving all my belongings. Graham will not be joining me.”
Fran hesitated briefly before nodding, her face placid as though this were a minor detail. “Very well. We’ll transfer your
bags back to the jet. The driver will be waiting downstairs. Have a good sleep on the plane, and you’ll be there first thing
in the morning. Trista will contact you to determine what you need for the move, but you can plan for the movers to arrive
in the morning.”
“Leave now?” The idea of it sounded so absurd.
“Yes. That’s no problem.” Fran almost sounded sympathetic, as though she understood Aida’s predicament.
At the thought of confronting Graham in person, Aida’s pulse quickened, her vision narrowing momentarily, the room blurring
at the edges like a vignette photo. How on earth could they arrange movers so quickly? It was almost as though they had been
prepared for this. None of what had happened to her in the last two hours made any sense.
She tried to focus on the rest of Fran’s words but found her attention beginning to wane.
She’d just signed away five years of her life.
The suddenness of it all made her head spin.
She had pivoted from ending her engagement to plunging into an uncharted future in just a short span.
It was hardly believable that a transatlantic flight awaited her, a literal journey toward a new undefined horizon.
But what would her life look like in Boston now, stripped of the man she thought she’d share it with?
Rome certainly seemed like the better option.
Yet, as she rose from her chair, a wave of vulnerability washed over her. What if she had made the wrong decision? Then she
caught Disa’s eye, and there was something in her piercing look and encouraging nod that gave Aida a newfound resilience.
She had made her choice. She could do this. One day at a time.
“Before you go, Aida, let’s discuss your publisher folding,” Fran said.
Aida turned, unsure why this was up for discussion. “What about it?”
“Trista will be helping you arrange for a literary agent to represent you,” Fran declared, as if it were the most natural
next step.
“An agent?” Aida was shocked. “It’s an academic book. I’m not sure an agent is ne—”
Fran didn’t let her finish. “Have you considered writing fiction?”
Fran’s question hung in the air, almost too casual, but with an edge that suggested this was more than a passing thought.
Aida’s chest tightened. “Fiction? I don’t think that’s quite my thing. I’ve always been focused on history and analysis, not
creating stories.”
Fran leaned back in her chair, gaze unwavering. “But you’ve been gathering stories your entire career, haven’t you? Cataloging
them, interpreting them, and making them resonate with readers. Fiction is just another way of doing that—of exploring truth,
just through a different lens.”
Aida’s mind churned. She had once dabbled in fiction—a mystery novel set in the Tuscan countryside, drawing from the rich historical tapestry she knew so well.
But she had shelved it years ago. The manuscript still sat in a file on her computer, untouched, a relic of a different time.
“I appreciate the suggestion, but I’m not sure I’m suited for it.
Writing fiction requires a whole different skill set. ”
Fran’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “The best fiction often comes from those who understand the depths of what they’re
writing about. Your expertise in history gives you a foundation most fiction writers can only dream of. And let’s not forget
your recent work with MODA—it shows you’re not afraid to step outside your comfort zone.”
Aida’s gaze flickered to the floor, uncertainty knitting her brow. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she murmured, her
voice barely audible.
“That’s what the agent is for,” Fran replied smoothly. “They’ll guide you, help you navigate this new path. And let’s be honest,
Aida, you’re not in academia anymore. That world can be challenging to break back into when you’re on the outside. This new
path frees you from those constraints. Think of it as an opportunity, not a departure from your current work. You’re not abandoning
your past but building on it.”
Aida bit her lip. The memory of her unfinished manuscript tugged at her thoughts. She had loved creating that world, even
if she hadn’t fully believed in her ability to bring it to life. “I don’t know . . . I’ve spent so much time in academia.
I’m comfortable there. I understand it.”
Fran’s expression softened. “Comfort can be the enemy of growth, Aida. Think about it: With fiction, you can explore the human
experience in ways you never could with purely academic writing. You’ve already shown a knack for capturing the subtleties
of emotion and experience. Why not channel that into storytelling?”
Aida had spent years piecing together the lives of historical figures, reconstructing their worlds. And she really had loved
writing that novel. Perhaps Fran had a point. Maybe this was the natural next step.
Fran seemed to sense her wavering resolve. “Just meet with the agent,” she urged. “See what they have to say. You don’t have to commit to anything now. But you might find it’s not so different from what you’ve been doing all along.”
Aida nodded, though her mind was still spinning. “All right, I’ll meet with them,” she agreed. She glanced at Fran, then back
to the door, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag. She was standing at a precipice, the unknown stretching out
before her. Yet there was a small almost imperceptible thrill in the idea of a new beginning. “I’ll hear what they have to
say.”
Fran’s smile broadened, a spark of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. I have a feeling this will be a turning point for you.
Sometimes, the best stories are the ones we don’t plan.”
As she left the room, Aida’s thoughts raced. She had always trusted her instincts, and maybe, despite her hesitations, this
was another moment to do just that. Things were shifting so drastically—with Graham and the plans they once shared fading
into the background. Maybe this was her chance to redefine everything.
To not just write a new chapter, but an entirely different story.
Mo offered to walk her back to the lobby. The thought didn’t give Aida pleasure, but she wasn’t comfortable protesting.
“Bravo,” Mo said when they had closed the door to the main part of the suite behind them. “You even managed not to fall apart
and cry.”
A chill tickled the back of Aida’s neck. What did Mo know about her and Graham? She put on a brave face. “Why would I have
cried? For god’s sake, I was talking about happiness.”
“Yes, it was for the gods’ sake,” Mo said, “but that’s beside the point.” He pushed the button for the private elevator.
Aida had no idea what he meant but didn’t think it was worth the trouble of asking. He would only offer more sarcasm.
As the doors slid open and they stepped inside, Mo looked her up and down with a peculiar intensity. “So, your book didn’t
sell.”
Aida’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The publisher folded. It’s not exactly a reflection on the book itself. And sure, it faced rejections before, but that’s how publishing works.”
Mo’s smirk was sharp, almost as if savoring a joke only he understood. “Right, the old ‘blame it on the market’ defense. Tried
and true. Or maybe just tired.”
Aida narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
Mo chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to try your hand at something people actually want to read.”
Aida stared at him, taken aback. “What on earth do you know about publishing or what people want to read?”
“Not much, but I do know a thing or two about illusions. People don’t really want happiness; they want the semblance of it.
That’s what sells, not just in publishing but in life.”
Aida blinked, confused. “Are you saying I should’ve written a self-help book instead?”
“No, but perhaps Fran is right. Perhaps a fiction where happiness is the villain, and despair the hero. That’d be closer to
reality, wouldn’t it?”
Aida was about to retort but stopped herself when she saw the twitch at the corner of Mo’s lips. She folded her arms. “You
enjoy trying to rile me up.”
Mo smirked. “It’s a skill I’ve honed over years of tedious interactions. You, however, make it remarkably easy.”
The doors opened and Aida strode out, glad she was no longer trapped in the little space with him. He didn’t follow.
“Buon viaggio, Miss Happiness!” He gave Aida a salute and the doors closed in front of him.
She breathed a huge sigh of relief when the light on the elevator showed it moving upward.