Chapter 34
NOVA
Ever since The Circle had made it abundantly clear they knew where I was at all times, I’d been getting the eerie feeling I was being watched. I’d even taken a page out of Wes’s tinfoil hat playbook and placed a sliding cover over my laptop and phone cameras.
Wes’s working theory was that they’d tampered with my phone while it was locked up during the soirée, which, of course, prompted him to insist on buying me a new one. Which led me to heavily protest due to my severe financial assistance discomfort.
I was feeling that familiar sensation now, as I left my cave for the first time in forty-eight hours to take a long artist’s walk.
I smiled at a woman’s stubborn pug, who refused to move out of my way even as his owner tugged on his leash.
I hopped over him, offering a cheerful no worries to the pug’s apologetic mother.
After rounding a corner, the feeling became undeniable. A black SUV slowly inched closer in my periphery, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. My head swiveled.
A car door opened.
“Get in.”
I glared at Roman, who sat in the back seat in a burgundy button-down, a black jacket, and sleek black loafers.
I was going to let Wes buy me a new fucking phone.
I raised my hands in exasperation. “No! You are a literal psychopath.”
Roman smiled. “That’s one of the first times I’ve heard someone use the word literal according to its traditional meaning.” He made another beckoning motion, unbothered by the onlookers eyeing us with mild concern. “Get in the car, Nova. We’re going to go get you what you want.”
My vision tunneled. I took a step toward him, then another.
I slid into the backseat. “You’re going to take me to Lorelei?”
Roman reached over me, pulling the door shut and sliding my seatbelt into place in two fluid movements. His face was blank, a single brow raised. “We’re going to meet with your dream publisher.”
Dread and confusion and excitement all warred in my body, battling for supremacy.
“What?” I asked. “That’s the reason you think I joined The Circle?”
The car started moving, and I panicked. Not only had I broken my promise to Wes, but now, I was alone with someone who had the power to kill me and cover it up with ease. Not to mention, he’d just admitted to me he was a psychopath.
“How would you even know who my dream publisher is?” I asked. My mouth was dry and my throat tightened. I needed to get out of this car. The driver was a brick wall of a man, bald and stoic as he headed toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
“We all want you to succeed, Nova,” Roman said. “Jayne hasn’t stopped raving about your new book all week, and she’s been talking about your business sense for longer.”
Of course. Of course, Jayne and Archer reported to their most valuable source of funding. I shouldn’t have revealed anything about the part of my life I held most sacred. Why the fuck had I mentioned the publisher by name? I’d been put on the spot and rambled.
“We’re meeting with an executive editor at…”
I closed my eyes, a shocked breath leaving my lips when Roman said the publisher’s name.
This was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
When I opened my eyes again, Roman’s lips were curved slightly, but his eyes were dark, calculated.
I shook my head. “I didn’t earn this. I don’t have an agent. They haven’t even read my writing. This has nothing to do with me.”
This was all about him.
Roman’s eyes narrowed, as if irritated by my response. “They will read it. And you’ll get an agent. It’s not a done deal. But if the book is as good as Jayne suspects, they will make an offer.”
The way he said it, his lips in a smirk, his posture relaxed, gave the distinct impression it was a done deal. Who would say no to a Graves, the heir to the platforms that kept the entire publishing industry afloat?
Roman sighed. “Nova, if you want to make it, you’re going to have to let go of these childish constructions of how the world works.”
I frowned, bracing myself for Roman’s frightening nepo baby worldview.
“The world does not dole out success based on fairness. No one earns anything. They just do. Countless talented artists die having never been noticed, and plenty of your industry idols merely knew the right person or seized the right opportunity. It doesn’t mean they didn’t deserve it.
But analyzing the world through the lens of what you think is deserved is irrational and will get you nowhere.
” He paused, softening his condescending approach.
“You’re a compelling character, given your past and evolution as a woman, so I’m sure the characters you write are just as intriguing. ”
The Circle knew too much about me, and yet, they didn’t know me. This was all just a fucking game to them.
“Publishers aren’t fairy godmothers,” he continued. “They’re just businesses. None of it is ever personal. I know you want to be chosen and told you’re special, angel, but that’s not their job. It’s mine.”
My stomach soured. He thought I could be bought just like he bought this publisher for me.
“I’m not an idiot, Roman,” I hissed. “I know they’re businesses. But they still choose indie authors based on sales data, on merit and market potential. I want to make it on my own.”
Roman shook his head with a laugh. “By the time clueless publishers are fighting to acquire an independent author, that author no longer needs them.”
I stared at my hands in my lap, something inside me deflating. He was speaking to a truth I knew on some level but didn’t want to face.
“Then why are you even doing this? If you think publishers are clueless?” I asked.
Roman reached for my face, and I jerked away. His gaze darkened, his hand slowly falling. “Because it matters to you. I don’t mind if you live in a fairy tale, Nova. In fact, I find it rather endearing.”
I went silent. I was reminded of Lorelei’s final words to me, when she’d called me a coward. A loser. Delusional. Someone who moved from screen to screen, begging to be noticed.
“It’s just coffee,” Roman said. “You’ll tell her about the book and your author journey. Let her know you understand this industry and show you’re ready to break out. You do not need her. She needs you.”
It was absurd. An indie author making seven figures a year arguably didn’t need a publisher, depending on their goals, but Roman’s logic didn’t apply to an author on my level.
An executive editor at a major publishing house shouldn’t in a million years have any reason to meet with me for coffee.
Roman’s confidence was on full blast, shaking me out of my daze.
I thought of my depressing meals, my endless grind and tanking sales, all the hours I’d spent learning how to run a business and writing six books, waiting and praying and begging for a break.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the endless barrage of Publisher’s Marketplace deals on my feeds.
I saw my idealized future on the New York Times Bestseller List, talking strategy over coffee with my editor in Union Square.
God, I wanted it so badly, and I’d wanted it for an agonizingly long time.
I was so fucking tired.
“Okay,” I said. “I can do coffee.”
Roman grinned. “That’s a good girl.”
Guilt and disgust simmered beneath the surface, but I now only had ten minutes to mentally prepare so I didn’t ramble or say the wrong thing to the editor.
I leaned back in my seat and unclenched my jaw.
It wasn’t so much a deal with the devil as it was an exhausted surrender.
“Oh, she adored you,” Roman said after the meeting.
I was high off adrenaline and the buzz of a lively conversation.
The editor was sharp, gracious, and witty, and she did seem genuinely interested in my current novel and its potential.
She’d validated that it had strong comp titles and an even stronger hook, and though the conversation was far shorter than I’d expected, she’d ended it by saying she looked forward to seeing the finished draft.
“Impressive work,” Roman said. “Dinner?”
My smile fell, finally coming back to reality as I realized I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Roman fucking Graves. His hands were in his pockets, his smile arrogant, triumphant.
“No. I’ll take the subway home. Thanks for the introduction,” I forced out.
Roman didn’t exactly look surprised by my cold shoulder, but he didn’t look pleased either. “If you think being difficult will curb my appetite, I regret to inform you it’s having the opposite effect.”
“Sounds like someone was never told no as a child,” I muttered. “You can’t buy me, Roman. I didn’t join The Circle to become a sugar baby. I respect their hustle, but it’s not mine.”
His lips twitched, humor eclipsing the churning darkness in his soft brown irises. “Fine. I’ll see you at The Hunt.” He took a step closer, too close for comfort. “I do hope Wes is able to join us.”
The color drained from my face. My stomach twisted into knots. I didn’t like Wes’s name on Roman’s lips, especially not when Roman was wearing that cruel, taunting smirk.
“I’m not worried about my competition, angel,” he said in a low, compelling tone. “But maybe you should be.” He backed away, leaving me stunned.
My eyes widened in horror. “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, losing all previous strength from the meeting.
Roman only laughed. He joined the flow of foot traffic as he strode back to his black car.
Was Roman threatening Wes? Or was he saying I should feel threatened by Wes?
I glared after him for another ten seconds before huffing and speedwalking in the opposite direction. Fuck Roman and his mind games. He’d all but warned me I couldn’t trust a word he said.
Guilt haunted me my entire ride home. So, when I emerged from the underground to find myself in the midst of a torrential downpour, I merely sighed and accepted my punishment. By the time I made it back to my apartment, I felt like a soggy rat, physically and spiritually.
I needed to come clean to Wes.