Chapter 1: The Ultimatum
904 Words
You've got to stop killing off your characters, Raven. Have you seen the hashtags? They're calling you a sadist, that you're allergic to romance and happy endings.
My editor has been lecturing me for the past thirty minutes, and I'm seriously considering adding her to my next body count. Fictional body count, of course. Probably.
"Diane, my readers know what they're getting when they pick up my books." I lean back in the chair across from her desk, trying for nonchalant when I'm actually calculating how screwed I am. "Death, tragedy, poetic suffering. It's my brand."
"Your brand is tanking." She slides her iPad across the table. The screen shows a Twitter thread with the hashtag #RMStormyHatesLove trending. Below it: #WhereIsOurHEA and my personal favorite, #StopKillingEveryone.
I scroll through the complaints. She killed the dog. THE DOG. I just wanted ONE happy ending. Just one. R.M. Stormy must have had a terrible childhood or something.
"My childhood was fine, thanks," I mutter.
"The publisher wants a guaranteed hit, Raven. Sales are not doing fine. Your last three books had the same trajectory…strong start, word-of-mouth dies when people find out everyone dies."
"Spoiler alert," I say, but didn’t mean it.
Diane's expression softens. She's been my editor for three years, since my first book deal, and she's seen me through worse than angry tweets. Break-ups, writer's block, that unfortunate incident with the coffee machine I'd rather not discuss. But right now, she's not looking at me like a friend. She's looking at me like a business investment that's not performing and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head.
"I need you to write a billionaire romance."
I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Billionaire romance. Happy ending. One hundred thousand words. You have six months."
The laugh that escapes me is borderline unhinged. "You're joking. You have to be joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She doesn't. Diane never jokes about books or money, and this involves both.
"I don't write billionaire romance. I write…"
"Literary fiction with romantic elements and a body count," she finishes. "Yes, I know. But the market wants something different from you. The publisher wants something different. They're willing to offer a significant advance for the right book."
The way she says significant makes my ears perk up despite the chaos. I'm not broke, but I'm also not not broke. Living in LA on a mid-list author's income means my apartment is the size of a shoebox and my car sounds like it's coughing up a lung.
"How significant?"
She names a number that makes me sit up straight.
"You're serious."
"Completely. But there are conditions. It has to be a true billionaire romance, the private jets, the penthouses, the sweeping gestures. And Raven?" She pins me with a look. "Happy. Ending. No one dies. No tragic sacrifices. No bittersweet nonsense. Happy."
The word tastes foreign in my mouth just thinking about it.
"I don't believe in happy endings."
"Then learn to fake it. You're a writer. Make me believe you believe."
I stare at her, then at the iPad still displaying my public execution via hashtag, then back at her. "And if I say no?"
"Then we'll have a conversation about whether your next contract gets renewed."
There it is. The ultimatum dressed up in professional politeness.
I stand, shoving my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. "Billionaire romance. Happy ending. Six months."
"Six months."
"Fine. I'll do it."
The smile that crosses Diane's face is pure relief mixed with a smirk. She already knew I'd say yes. She always does.
I'm halfway to the door when she calls out, "Raven? Make it good. Make it something even you would read."
I pause, hand on the doorframe. "I don't read billionaire romance. I watch horror movies and drink whiskey and maybe the tears of my readers too."
"Then maybe it's time to broaden your horizons."
I flip her off without turning around, but I hear her laugh as I leave.
Outside her building, the LA sun hits me like an angry ex. I pull out my phone and scroll through the hashtags one more time. The readers aren't wrong, I do kill everyone. It's not intentional wickedness; it's just that happy endings feel dishonest. Life doesn't tie up neatly. People don't get what they want just because they want it badly enough.
But apparently, people pay good money for the lie.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maya: Wine tonight? You look like you need wine.
I glance up at the building, wondering if Diane has cameras that reports directly to my best friend, then text back: How do you always know?
Because I know you. 7pm. Bring your credit card, you're buying.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and head for my car, a 2012 Honda Civic that's held together by duct tape and hopes. As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark circles under green eyes, hair in a knot that's more "gave up" than "messy bun," the kind of paleness that comes from living in a cave and only emerging for coffee runs.
I look exactly like someone who kills fictional characters for a living.
"Billionaire romance," I say to my reflection. "How hard can it be?"
The universe doesn't answer, but I have a feeling I'm about to find out.
- Writer
