Page 6

Callie

The restaurant is all glass and gold, like a beacon to the extremely wealthy clients that frequent its dining rooms. I hover just outside the entrance, half-hiding behind a planter overflowing with something green and manicured, and try not to let the nerves win.

My dress is the best one I own. Slate blue, vintage-inspired, a little frayed at the hem if you look too close. When I’d left my dorm room twenty minutes ago, I’d thought I looked pretty enough not to stand out too much in a place this nice.

But now? Watching sleek-haired women in expensive heels and designer tailoring float through the restaurant doors without a second glace, I feel like a paper doll in a world made of silk.

I cross my arms over my chest, my signature move whenever I’m feeling self-conscious, and try to stop thinking about Roman.

It’s useless, though. He’s everywhere. In my body that still aches in the sweetest ways, in the best places.

In my head, his voice playing on a loop.

And in my heart, which seems to have lost all sense of timing and logic.

The way he looked at me this morning was devastating. Hungry and raw, but also soft and awestruck, like he couldn’t believe I was real.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

What if this isn’t real? What if this is just sex to him? A fling. A spark that will fizzle as fast as it caught fire.

What if I’m just a novelty? What if he saw my filthy stories and thought I’d be willing to let him do anything to me? And all I’ve done is prove to him that he was right.

The thought hits harder than I expect. I blink fast, throat tightening. I shouldn’t care. I barely know him. But I do care. Stupidly, deeply, recklessly.

I take a breath. Try to pull myself back to the present. Focus on why I’m here.

My agent said this meeting was important. That he’s got real movement happening on the manuscript. “Big five kind of movement,” he promised. And tonight’s dinner is part celebration, part strategy session. At the nicest restaurant in town.

It’s nice of him, I guess, bringing me somewhere this fancy.

God knows I couldn’t afford it myself. I’ve been living on cheap coffee and microwave rice bowls for the past two months, scraping the bottom of every budget just to pay for all the fees that apparently come with getting a book published.

My bank account has been in the negatives more than once this month since I sent the manuscript out, and every time I look at the red numbers, the anxiety claws a little deeper.

But Gideon has promised big things. Once my book has been accepted by a publisher, all my money worries will be gone. All the debt, all the stress, all the panic attacks that keep me awake night after night, they’ll all be a thing of the past.

Or at least, that’s the hope.

“Callie!”

I turn, and there he is. Gideon Marks, grinning widely like a politician, already moving in for the hug before I can fully register him.

He smells like something expensive; sharp and spicy, aggressively masculine; and there’s just…

too much of it. Like he stood in a cloud of cologne and spun around until he was coated head to toe.

His smile glints too white, and the gold rings on his fingers catch the light like they’re trying to make a statement.

Everything about him is just slightly too much.

“You look absolutely ravishing,” he says, holding me by the shoulders as he pulls back to get a look at me. His eyes skim over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl, and I fight the urge to step away.

“Hi, Gideon,” I say, aiming for cheerful. Polite. I press a smile to my lips, even though my nerves are tangling tighter by the second. I wish I knew why I always felt this way around him. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss a chance to see you, Callie.” He winks, then offers his arm like we’re at some kind of gala. I take it because I don’t know what else to do.

Inside, the ma?tre d’ seats us at a private table near the back, all low lighting and velvet booths. Gideon slides in across from me, already waving down the sommelier before I can even get my napkin in my lap.

“I’ll take the 2016 C?te-R?tie,” he says smoothly, not glancing at me once. “Something bold for a bold night, am I right?”

I nod, even though I’ve never heard of it. The wine list looked terrifying, and now I’m grateful he’s promised to pay for everything tonight.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers like he’s settling in for something serious.

“Big, big things happening, Callie. That manuscript you gave me? It’s gold.

Pure, emotional, marketable gold. I shared it with a friend of mine who works with a few major publishers, and he went fucking wild for it.

He said there’s nothing out there quite like it. ”

My shoulders loosen a fraction. The praise helps. Maybe I was just overthinking things. Maybe he’s just… an eccentric industry guy. There are a lot of those, right?

I fold my hands in my lap and smile again. “I’m really glad you think so.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says, leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “I know so.”

His voice lowers, like we’re co-conspirators in something brilliant and rare. “And that’s why I wanted to meet in person. I’ve got a plan, Callie. A real one. You’re not gonna be stuck in some slush pile, praying for scraps. You’ve got a voice that deserves a spotlight.”

My heart lifts a little, but it’s cautious. Bracing.

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms like this whole thing is just too exciting for his body to contain.

“So here’s what we do. We get a custom cover designed, with bold colors, professional typography, real polish.

Something that stops an editor in their tracks when they open your file.

The big five? They get thousands of submissions a month.

You’ve got one shot to stand out. You with me? ”

I nod slowly, unsure. “Okay. That makes sense…”

“Exactly!” he says, as if I’ve given him a green light. “I’ve got a guy. He’s the best. Normally charges five grand minimum, but I got him down to two for you.”

I blink. “Two… thousand?”

He waves it off like it’s nothing. “A steal. For what you’re getting? Totally worth it.”

I stare at the tablecloth, heart thudding. “I… I can’t afford that.”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Didn’t you say you really want to be published?”

“I do,” I say quickly, guilt prickling at my throat. “But I’ve already skipped meals for this. I’ve taken on tutoring jobs, late shifts. Every spare dollar I have goes into my writing.”

He nods sympathetically. “Maybe your family can help you out?”

I glance up. “No. My dad left a year ago and my mom’s been struggling to take care of my younger siblings ever since. This book was supposed to be my way to help my family out, so Mom wouldn’t have to worry anymore.”

His smile tightens just slightly, but he recovers fast.

“Look, I think it’s great you want to do this for your mom,” he says smoothly, lowering his voice like we’re sharing something intimate now. “This isn’t ideal. But maybe… we can work something out.”

His hand touches my arm and I freeze.

His fingers linger, too familiar. Too comfortable. His eyes drag over my face with a calculated slowness, and my skin begins to crawl.

“I could front the cost for you,” he says, voice low. “And you can pay me back. Not in money. In… other ways.”

My stomach plunges.

“What?”

“You’re gorgeous, Callie. Bright. Talented. I believe in you. And all I’m saying is, there are… options. Ways to repay a favor that don’t involve emptying your wallet.”

My whole body goes cold.

I try to move my arm. His grip tightens just slightly, and he’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, laugh soft but off. “I’m trying to help you here. You said your mom’s barely scraping by, right? You want to help her or not?”

I go still. Every nerve in me buzzing with disbelief and shame and a flicker of fear I didn’t expect.

“Let go of me,” I whisper.

But he leans in closer, and his voice is syrup-slick now. “Don’t be na?ve. You think some publisher’s gonna hand you a six-figure deal just because your story’s sweet? The world doesn’t work like that, sweetheart. If you want to succeed, you’ve got to put in the work.”

My breath comes fast and shallow. My heart is pounding. My chair scrapes faintly as I shift back, trying to create even the smallest distance between us.

And then, from across the restaurant, a familiar voice cuts through the low murmur of conversation.

“Get your hands off her.”