Chapter 4: The Ex Factor
1661 Words
Emma stared at her laptop screen, the glow casting harsh shadows across her cluttered
Brooklyn apartment. Sophia Lang’s email sat like a venomous snake in her inbox: “Emma, he’s
not yours. We have unfinished business. Back off.” The words stung, each one a jab at the
fragile hope she’d built since meeting Alex. Mr. Darcy, her tabby cat, perched on the windowsill,
his green eyes narrowing as if judging her for even considering a reply. Emma’s fingers hovered
over the keyboard, tempted to fire back something witty or scathing, but she hit delete instead.
No use engaging with a bestselling author who probably had a team of publicists ready to spin
her into a saint.
She sipped her coffee, wincing as it went cold, and glanced at the clock—9:17 a.m. She was
due at Harper & Quill in an hour, and her desk was buried under manuscripts, Post-its, and a
half-eaten bagel from yesterday. The memory of Alex’s touch at the café lingered—his fingers
brushing hers, the way his blue eyes seemed to see straight through her defenses. Was it real?
Or was she just a rebound from Sophia’s dazzling orbit? Sophia Lang was a literary
goddess—tall, poised, with a cascade of auburn hair and a knack for crafting romances that
made readers swoon. Emma, with her coffee-stained blouses and tendency to trip over air, felt
like a footnote in comparison.
She Googled Sophia, a decision she knew was self-sabotage. Images flooded the screen:
Sophia at a Paris book fair, Sophia in a sleek black dress at a gala, Sophia and Alex at a signing
last year, their arms linked, his smile bright. Emma’s stomach twisted. They’d been a power
couple, the kind that graced publishing blogs and fueled fan theories. Had he really moved on?
Or was Sophia’s “unfinished business” more than a jealous ex’s taunt?
Her phone buzzed—Lily, her best friend, demanding a post-date debrief. Emma typed a quick
summary of the café meeting and Sophia’s email. Lily’s reply was instant: “What a witch! Tell
Alex about the email. And if she shows up, I’ll handle her. You’re the heroine here, Em. He’s into
YOU.” Lily’s fierce loyalty made Emma smile, but the doubt lingered like a bad plot hole.
Work was a blur. Emma slogged through a historical romance manuscript, her red pen slashing
cliches, but her mind kept drifting to Alex’s email from that morning: “Party tonight at Harper &
Quill for that new thriller launch. Come as my guest? We can talk about more edits... and stuff.”
That “stuff” sent a thrill through her, but Sophia’s shadow loomed large. By 4 p.m., Emma was
home, her bedroom a warzone of discarded outfits. She FaceTimed Lily, holding up a red gown
that hugged her curves. “Too much?”
Lily grinned. “Perfect. Make him forget Sophia exists. Red heels, too—go big or go home.”
“It’s a work event,” Emma protested, but she was already slipping into the dress, the fabric
making her feel bold, maybe even beautiful. She curled her dark hair, applied mascara without
poking her eye, and headed to Manhattan, nerves jangling like loose change.
The venue was a chic rooftop ballroom, chandeliers glittering like stars, waiters weaving through
the crowd with champagne flutes and tiny quiches. The publishing elite mingled—agents in
sharp suits, authors air-kissing, editors whispering about deals. Emma felt like an impostor, her
heels clicking too loudly on the polished floor. She spotted Alex near the bar, looking unfairly
handsome in a tailored charcoal suit, his dark hair catching the light as he laughed with his
agent, a wiry man named Greg. Emma!” Alex’s face lit up as he crossed the room, kissing her cheek. His lips were warm, his
sandalwood cologne dizzying. “You look stunning. Red’s definitely your color.”
She blushed, smoothing the gown. “Thanks. You clean up nice too. No coffee stains tonight?”
He grinned. “Not yet. But with you around, I’m keeping my guard up.”
They mingled, Alex introducing her as “my brilliant editor” to a blur of faces—publishers,
bloggers, a poet with a questionable bow tie. Emma sipped champagne, trying to match Alex’s
easy charm, but her nerves buzzed. The crowd parted, and there she was—Sophia Lang,
gliding in like a queen in an emerald green dress that shimmered under the lights. Her auburn
hair cascaded in perfect waves, and her smile was a weapon, sharp and calculated.
“Alex, darling!” Sophia purred, ignoring Emma to kiss his cheek, her hand lingering on his arm.
“Missed you at the last conference. We should collaborate again—our chemistry was pure
magic.”
Alex tensed, stepping back. “Sophia. Didn’t expect you here.”
“Why not? Supporting the community.” Her eyes flicked to Emma, appraising her like a
manuscript she’d reject. “And who’s this?”
“Emma Thompson, my editor,” Alex said, his voice firm, his hand brushing Emma’s back
protectively. “Emma, Sophia Lang.”
Sophia’s smile was razor-thin. “Oh, the one from the bookstore spill? Quaint.”
Emma’s face heated, but she forced a smile, channeling Lily’s bravado. “Nice to meet you. I'm a
big fan of your work. Hearts on Fire was... intense.”
Sophia laughed, a tinkling sound that grated on Emma’s nerves. “How sweet. Alex, let’s
dance—for old times’ sake.”
Alex glanced at Emma, his jaw tight. “Actually, I promised Emma the first dance.”
Sophia’s pout was theatrical. “Suit yourself. But don’t forget our unfinished business.” She
winked and sauntered off, leaving a trail of perfume and tension.
Emma excused herself to the bar, her heart pounding. She ordered a gin and tonic, gripping the
glass to steady her hands. Lily texted: “Kick her ass (metaphorically). You’re the heroine, not
her.” Emma smiled, but Sophia’s presence felt like a storm cloud.
Alex found her, handing her a fresh champagne. “Sorry about that. She’s persistent, but it’s
over. Done.”
“Is there unfinished business?” Emma asked, echoing the email, her voice quieter than she
intended.
Alex sighed, running a hand through his hair, a gesture she was starting to recognize as his tell
for discomfort. “She’s been pushing to co-write a book. I think it’ll revive her sales. I said no,
Emma. She’s jealous—of you, of us. Don’t let her get to you.”
Relief washed over her, but doubt lingered like a stubborn coffee stain. “Okay. Good.”
The band shifted to a slow jazz tune, and Alex held out his hand. “Dance with me?”
She took it, his palm warm and steady. They moved to the dance floor, bodies close, the world
blurring into a haze of light and music. His hand rested on her lower back, sending shivers up
her spine, and she let herself lean into him, her head resting on his shoulder. His cologne
enveloped her, and for a moment, it was just them—no Sophia, no gossip, no rules.
“You’re the one I want,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Not her. You.”
Her heart soared, but before she could respond, a flash blinded her. A photographer, grinning
like he’d won the lottery, snapped their photo. “For the blog!” he chirped, darting away.
Emma groaned. “This is bad.”
Alex squeezed her hand. “Let them talk. We’ll handle it.”
But by morning, the gossip site exploded: “Alex Hawthorne’s Forbidden Editor Romance?” The
article dissected their dance, speculating about “steamy chemistry” and “company policy
breaches.” Emma’s inbox flooded with notifications, her coworkers’ whispers echoing in the
office halls.
Ms. Hargrove called her in at 9 a.m. sharp. The older woman’s office was a fortress of
mahogany and manuscripts, her glasses perched on her nose like a judge’s gavel. “Is this true,
Emma? You and Hawthorne?”
Emma swallowed, her throat dry. “It’s new. We’re keeping it professional.”
Hargrove’s eyes narrowed. “Company policy frowns on this. No scandals, Emma. Fix it, or
you’re off the project.”
Emma nodded, her stomach churning. Back at her desk, she texted Alex: “Hargrove’s pissed.
Gossip’s out of control.”
He called immediately. “Ignore the blogs. Sophia’s behind this—I know her. Meet me for lunch,
Central Park. We’ll figure it out.”
At noon, they met near Bethesda Fountain, a picnic basket in tow. The park was alive with
autumn—leaves crunching underfoot, kids chasing pigeons, the air crisp with promise. They
spread a blanket, unpacking sandwiches and lemonade, and Emma felt the tension ease.
“This is crazy,” she said, biting into a turkey sandwich. “I didn’t sign up for the paparazzi.”
Alex grinned, handing her a napkin. “But it’s worth it, right?”
She looked at him, his blue eyes steady, and nodded. “Yeah.”
They ate, hands brushing, laughter flowing. Alex told her about his childhood in Chicago,
sneaking books under the covers when his parents fought. Emma shared her own stories—her
mom’s endless matchmaking attempts, her brother’s goofy support. The moment felt simple,
real, like a scene they’d write together.
But as they packed up, a camera clicked. Another photographer, hiding behind a tree. By
evening, the headline screamed: “Hawthorne and Editor’s Park Tryst!”
Emma groaned, flopping onto her couch. Mr. Darcy curled up beside her, purring as if to say,
“Told you so.” Her phone buzzed—Lily: “You’re famous! Also, Sophia’s toast. Keep him.”Emma
laughed, but the chaos was mounting. She and Alex were in deep, and the story was only
beginning.
- Writer
