Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
The day after the symposium, Nate stared at his phone screen, reading Melody's text for the tenth time. Her words, "We need to talk. Professionally," glared back at him, a mix of hope and dread swirling in his stomach.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he sent his response: "Absolutely. Name the time and place." But there had been no reply.
The urge to double-text her was nearly nuclear.
On the verge of imploding, he started writing out a second text.
Something like “Don’t make me beg.” Or the more stalker-ish “I’m not above showing up on your doorstep with an apology and a vat of the good espresso” when his office door swung open with enough force to rattle the framed publishing awards on his wall.
His father, Liam Carlisle, strode in like a storm cloud in an expensive suit.
"Nathaniel," he boomed, "we need to discuss the Archer situation."
Nate suppressed a groan. "Good morning to you too, Dad. Please, come in. Make yourself at home."
His father ignored his sarcasm, settling into the chair across from his desk. "This is no time for jokes. The board is breathing down my neck about Melody Archer's book. We need results, and we need them now."
Nate leaned back, steeling himself for the battle ahead. "I'm working on it. In fact, I just scheduled a meeting with Melody to discuss—"
"Discuss?" his father interrupted, his eyebrows shooting up. "There's nothing to discuss. Either she makes the changes we want, or we drop her. It's that simple."
A bolt of anger burned hot and deep in Nate's chest. "It's not that simple, Dad. Melody's not just another author we can push around. Her work has integrity, depth. If we force her to change everything, we'll lose what makes her special."
"Special doesn't pay the bills, son. Like I said before, we’re running a business here, not a goddamned charity.”
Nate stood up, pacing behind his desk. "I know that. But what if there's a way to maintain Melody's voice while still making her work more…marketable?"
"And how do you propose to do that?" his father asked, skepticism dripping from every word.
"I've been researching alternative publishing models. Hybrid approaches that give authors more creative control while still meeting market demands."
"Sounds like a recipe for chaos. Next, you'll be suggesting we let the interns pick our bestsellers."
“For God’s sake, Dad," Nate said, trying to keep his voice level. "Just hear me out. What if we create a new imprint? One that focuses on unconventional, boundary-pushing fiction? We could tap into a whole new market."
For a moment, Nate saw a flicker of interest in his father's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual stern expression. "And who would run this... experimental imprint? You?"
Nate nodded. "Yes. I've got the business background, but I also understand the creative side. I could bridge the gap between art and commerce."
His father stood, straightening his tie. "I'll think about it. But in the meantime, you get Melody Archer on board with our original plan. I want a proposal on my desk by the end of the week. One that guarantees bestseller numbers, understood?"
Nate swallowed hard, nodding again. "Understood."
As the door closed behind his father, Nate slumped back into his chair. The task ahead felt like trying to square a circle—impossible and likely to give him a migraine.
He turned back to his computer, pulling up every article he could find on innovative publishing strategies. Hours flew by as he dove deep into the world of hybrid publishing, profit-sharing models, and multi-platform storytelling.
By the time the sun started to set, deepening the hues of golden sky across his office, he had the bones of a proposal.
It was risky, unconventional, and might just get him fired.
But it was also the best chance he had of keeping Melody's creative vision intact while satisfying the board's hunger for profits.
He was putting the finishing touches on his presentation when his phone buzzed.
It was a text—finally—from Melody: "Tomorrow, 2 PM, at The Inkwell Café. Don't be late, Carlisle."
Nate smiled, imagining her demanding expression as she typed it. The Inkwell Café—neutral territory. Smart move, Archer.
As he packed up his things, his mind raced with all the ways tomorrow's meeting could go. Would Melody even listen to his proposal? Or would she shut him down before he could get a word in edgewise?
He stepped into the elevator, his reflection in the polished doors looking more uncertain than he'd like. The man staring back at him was caught between two worlds—the cut-throat business realm of his father and the passionate, creative sphere that Melody inhabited.
For the first time in his career, he wasn't sure which world he belonged in. Or if it was possible to exist in both.
As he drove home through Seattle's wintry, rain-slicked streets, he rehearsed his pitch in his head. "Melody, what if I told you there's a way to maintain your artistic integrity while still reaching a wider audience?"
He grimaced. Too corporate. Too slick.
"Look, Archer, I know I screwed up. But I've got an idea that might just save both our asses."
Better, but still not quite right.
By the time he reached his apartment, he had gone through a dozen variations, each one feeling more inadequate than the last. He tossed his keys on the counter and loosened his tie, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.
As he poured himself a generous whiskey, his eyes landed on the copy of Melody's manuscript sitting on his coffee table. He picked it up, flipping through the pages he had read a dozen times now.
Her words leaped off the page, full of life and raw emotion. This is what he was fighting for, he realized. Not just Melody's career or his own, but the right for stories like this to exist in a world obsessed with formulaic bestsellers.
He settled onto his couch, manuscript in one hand, whiskey in the other. Tomorrow, he would face Melody with his new proposal. He would lay all his cards on the table and hope that she could see past her anger to the potential of what they could create together.
But tonight? Tonight, he would lose himself in her words one more time. He would remind himself why this fight was worth it.
As he began to read, he could almost hear Melody's voice in his head, passionate and defiant. "You better bring your A-game tomorrow, Carlisle," it seemed to say. "I'm not going down without a fight."
Nate grinned, raising his glass in a silent toast. "Wouldn't have it any other way, Archer," he murmured. "Wouldn't have it any other way."