Chapter 10
TEN
The next morning, Nate leaned back in his office chair, flipping through his notes from the Melody meeting.
Her passion practically leaped off the page, each scribbled idea a testament to her creative fire.
A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered her animated gestures, the way her eyelids fluttered when they discussed character development.
"Well, well, Nathaniel," he mused aloud. "You're in deep, aren't you?"
Janet's call came as he was reviewing the latest numbers on Melody's previous books. "Your father wants to discuss the Archer project. He's waiting at the Madison Club courts."
Of course he is, Nate thought. The tennis club had been his father's preferred battleground since Nate was old enough to hold a racquet.
Every major confrontation in his life had played out on those courts—college choices, career moves, failed relationships.
His father believed you could tell everything about a man by how he played the game.
"Did he say when?" Nate asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Now." Janet's voice carried a note of warning. "And Mr. Carlisle, Sandra Kim is already there."
Perfect. Their Marketing Director never missed a chance to watch the Carlisle men go to war. Nate had lost count of how many times she had been the audience to their "friendly matches" over the years.
"Thanks, Janet. Clear my morning."
Thirty minutes later, Nate was crossing the club's pristine grounds, his six-foot-three frame casting long shadows across the perfectly maintained resin of the indoor court.
Sandra Kim sat in her usual spot, designer tennis whites impeccable despite the early hour.
Her presence wasn't an accident—she had been his father's most reliable ally since before Nate took over editorial.
"Nathaniel," she called out, her smile sharp as a paper cut. "Here to discuss quarterly projections?"
"Just a friendly game between father and son," Nate replied, though they both knew better.
His father was already on Court One, practicing his serve with the same precision he used to dismantle underperforming executives. Even at nearly 70, he moved with the economical grace of a man who had spent his life controlling every situation.
"You're late," his father said without turning around.
"Traffic was terrible." Nate set down his bag, pulling out his racquet. It was the same one he had used the last time they had a "friendly match"—right before he took over the financial department. He had won that day too. "Or maybe I was just reviewing Melody Archer's sales figures."
That got his father's attention. He caught the ball mid-bounce, finally turning to face Nate. "Interesting reading?"
"Very. Did you know her last book outperformed our supposedly 'safe' romance titles in the crucial 25-45 demographic?"
"Statistics can be manipulated, son." His father bounced the ball with metronomic precision. "Just like readers."
"Warm up first?" Nate asked, though he had been stretching since he arrived.
"Why bother? We both know what this is about." His father eyed Nate's racquet. "Best of three sets?"
“Of course. And I absolutely know what this is about. Every time you don’t like an author’s direction, you use the same ghostwriter band-aid.
Someone to come in and rewrite every word.
” Nate gripped the handle tighter, muscle memory from a thousand matches kicking in.
“But why not make the game interesting this go-round?
If I win, Melody gets complete creative control. "
Sandra made a small sound—surprise or amusement, Nate couldn't tell. His father's expression didn't change, but his grip on the ball tightened slightly.
"And if I win?"
"Then I'll bring in the ghostwriter myself. Hell, I'll even let you pick them."
A predatory smile crossed his father's face. "Bold gambit. Your mother said you'd fight for this one."
Of course she did. Nothing happened in the Carlisle family without his mother knowing about it first.
"Shall we?" Nate gestured to the court.
The game started brutally fast. His father had always been a tactical player, wearing down opponents with precise shots and calculated patience. But Nate had twenty years of pent-up rebellion and three inches of height advantage on him.
"Melody Archer's numbers are soft," his father said, returning Nate's serve with a vicious backhand. "Down twelve percent from projections."
Nate cut off his shot with a decisive volley. "Maybe because we're measuring the wrong metrics. Her reader engagement is off the charts."
"Engagement doesn't pay the bills." His father charged the net, but Nate was ready.
"No? Tell that to the publishers who passed on Fifty Shades of Grey.” Nate smashed the ball past him, taking the first game. "When's the last time you actually read one of our books, Dad? Or are you too busy counting profit margins?"
Sandra scribbled something in her ever-present notebook. More ammunition for the next board meeting, no doubt.
The first set moved like a chess match, each point carrying the weight of years of father-son dynamics. Around them, other club members pretended not to watch—the Carlisle family drama was better than their usual morning entertainment.
"Your grandfather built this company on commercial fiction," his father panted, missing a return. "Mass market paperbacks that paid for your prep school education."
"Grandfather also took chances." Nate served an ace, his height advantage proving decisive. "Remember when you wanted to pass on Harry Potter? Said children's fantasy was dead?"
That drew blood. His father returned Nate's next serve with unnecessary force, sending it long. "Ancient history."
"Like your publishing model?"
The first set went to Nate, 6-4. As they changed sides, he caught snippets of conversation from the growing crowd.
"Just like the Sullivan merger fight..."
"Remember when young Nate was in college..."
"Liam's losing his grip..."
His father heard them too. His next serve nearly took Nate's head off.
"You're letting personal feelings cloud your judgment," his father said during a rally. "This Archer woman—"
"Has more talent in her little finger than half our romance department." Nate returned with a crosscourt winner. "But you'd know that if you'd actually read her work."
"I read the sales reports. That's all I need to know."
The second set turned brutal. Every shot carried decades of history—missed Little League games, disappointed looks, conditional approval always just out of reach. His father fought like a cornered lion, his experience making up for Nate's physical advantages.
Sandra’s phone buzzed—probably the office wondering where everyone was. She silenced it without looking. Nothing could make her miss this match.
"You're just like your mother," his father growled, finally taking the second set 7-5. "Always fighting for the underdogs."
"Someone has to." Nate toweled off, noting his father's slightly labored breathing. "Otherwise we'd still be publishing nothing but safe, soulless drivel."
"Watch yourself, son." His father's voice carried that warning tone Nate remembered from childhood. "You're not too old to be taught respect."
"Respect is earned," Nate replied, meeting his gaze. "Just like loyalty."
The final set started with both of them trading shots like prizefighters. Neither willing to yield, both knowing this was about more than just one author or one book.
"The board won't support this," his father said between points.
"The board will support success." Nate returned his serve with interest. "And Melody's book will succeed. If we let her tell her story her way."
"And if it fails?"
"Then I'll step aside. Let you take the reins.” The words rang across the court, drawing gasps from their audience. Even Sandra looked up from her notes.
His father missed his next return, staring at Nate. "You'd risk your editorial position for this?"
"For the future of publishing? For authors who deserve a chance to be heard?" Nate served another ace. "In a heartbeat."
Something shifted in the air—in his father. His grip seemed to tighten on his racquet.
And maybe that’s why this final rally seemed to last forever. Every shot carried the weight of their complicated relationship—his father's need to control, Nate's need to break free, their shared love for the company that had defined both their lives.
When his father's last return hit the net, the silence was deafening.
"Well played," his father said finally, meeting Nate at the net. His handshake was firm, but something was different in his eyes. Not quite respect, not yet. But recognition. "Four weeks, Nathaniel. Show me what this brave new world of yours looks like."
Nate held his gaze, standing his full height. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you the future of publishing."
Her dark eyes narrowing, Sandra approached as Nate was packing up his gear. "Impressive match," she said, her tone neutral. "Of course, the real game is just beginning."
"I know." Nate shouldered his bag, already thinking ahead to his next move. "Looking forward to it."
As he walked off the court and to the locker rooms, victory thrumming through his veins, he resisted the urge to text Melody.
Because this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. But for the first time, Melody and he might be playing a game where both of them might win.
Game, set, match.
The prince had just dethroned the king—at least for today.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow the real war would begin.