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Me turning up at her house with flowers. Walking her dog with her in the snow, and almost fracturing my collarbone when an insecure Pomeranian tried to pick a fight with Greer’s two setters. Spilling my guts about Sophie and the stupid feeling I have that saving Inkspill will somehow heal the pain of letting Sophie go.

Or maybe it was the begging I did before leaving, while the cab was waiting for me outside, the blind, wild promise I threw out.

“If we fail, I’ll personally make sure KMG gives you a better deal elsewhere.”

Greer had let out a bark of surprised laughter, loud for such a small old lady.

“Jesus,” she’d said, shaking her head. “You’re either desperate or stupid.”

“Probably both.”

Now, I can’t stop staring at the email, blinking at the words like they might vanish. Mina and Matt have already bounced out of the office, arm in arm, eager to get to work onInk & Vellum. Inés sits back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“Well done,” she says. “None of us thought you’d be able to pull this off, you know.”

I finally look away from the email, laughing weakly. “Thanks.”

“Hey, look,” she says. She hesitates, tapping her fingernails against the black notebook she carries everywhere with her. “How would you feel about doing it again?”

I blink at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She rips out a piece of paper from her notebook and scribbles down a list of names. “These are all the people we’d really like to have on board. Do you think you could—you know. Talk them into it?”

The tension from earlier tightens once more in my stomach.

Talking Greer into staying with Inkspill was easy because, in the end, Greer already loved Inkspill. I could tell straightaway, from the simple fact that she let me into her home even though she looked at me like the devil himself had sent me to the door.

But if these people don’t care about Inkspill to begin with, then…

Then what? Then nothing.

I take the sheet of paper from Inés.

“Fuck it. Least I can do is try, right?”

The trick, I realise,isn’t convincing people; it’s making them convince themselves.

For weeks, I did what I thought I was supposed to do, the corporate solutions I thought I’d learned from my time in KMG: meticulous pitches, airtight financials, email after email trying to make the case for Inkspill on its own merit.

And for weeks, I got nothing but polite rejections, vague non-answers, and, in one particularly memorable case, an editor telling me tofuck off and let the imprint die with dignity.

That one was particularly tough; I deleted it before letting the team see it.

But Greer Manning changes everything.

The realisation doesn’t sink in straightaway. For the first few days after the email, I keep telling myself she’d already made up her mind, that I’d just happened to show up at the right time, say the right things. But the more I think about it, the more I realise that’s not what happened at all.

Greer didn’t stay with Inkspill because I wore her down with polished arguments and strategic pitches. She stayed because I sat in her living room, drinking milky coffee out of a chipped Cambridge University mug, listening to her talk about how publishing’s changed over the years, and about history, and about books.

She stayed because I admitted I had no fucking idea what I was doing but that I wasn’t willing to let Inkspill die without a fight. And when I walked out of her house, hands stuffed in my coat pockets, snow settling on my collar, she’d seen something in me that made her realise I was telling the truth.

I’ve spent myentire life thinking that winning means being the smartest guy in the room. That power comes from polish and practice and perfection, from being untouchable.

But that’s not the person Greer Manning saw when she looked at me. And the person she saw was enough to give her faith, to give Inkspill one last chance.

And I think I like that person.