All He Asks 2

by Sparrow, Felicity

  I wonder if it even fits.

  “No,” I tell myself. “No. I’m not putting it on. I’ll never be able to give it back if I put it on.”

  And with that, I return to my laptop.

  My resolve lasts until five thirty.

  Five

  Raoul sends his car to pick me up at six o’clock, and I’m ready for it, though I promised myself I would not attend the party just an hour earlier.

  It’s strange going to work in an expensive car rather than my Kia or by using the subway; I feel like a celebrity arriving at an awards ceremony rather than an unassuming author’s assistant at her disdainful client’s launch party.

  Durand-Price has decked out the sidewalk outside our lobby and the press is waiting for all new arrivals. They hope to catch a glimpse of Sylvia Stone, who’s almost as famous for her personality as she is for her books. How disappointed they will be when they find that the new arrival in the blue dress is a nobody.

  I don’t feel like a nobody when I emerge from the car to camera flashes and shouts.

  They aren’t shouting at me. The reporters are shouting at Violetta Kilshaw as she strides toward the doors of the lobby.

  “Are the rumors true? Is the Moonlight Sonata imprint closing down?”

  “Has Durand-Price gone bankrupt?”

  “Is Sylvia Stone’s line canceled?”

  Violetta turns to address them. “No comment,” she says with the sort of ice in her tone that’s sure to make even the most hardened gossip blogger shrivel in her shoes.

  I know I feel like I’m freezing when her eyes fall on me.

  She says nothing else and continues inside.

  Grosvenor Lateen is the first to greet me inside the party.

  “You look lovely, Christine.” He kisses my knuckles in a courtly sort of way. There’s nothing quite like a woman wearing a designer gown that makes men want to behave like gentlemen.

  Even so, he doesn’t sound happy to see me.

  There are no secrets between us about the circumstances surrounding Sylvia Stone; I have no urge to play nice for the sake of politeness. I drop my voice to a whisper. “Are you crazy, throwing this party? And inviting the press? What if Sylvia decides this is a good time to explode? We’ll have the whole world as witness.”

  “She won’t explode.” He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leans in to whisper back. “We’ve decided to concede to her demands.”

  “Even shutting down the imprint?”

  “Her creative demands,” he amends, guiding me along the red carpet they’ve stretched across the lobby.

  Durand-Price spares no expense for the launches of Sylvia Stone books. The room is decked out with glittering lights and velvet; I wouldn’t be terribly surprised to see the likes of George Clooney and Brad Pitt in attendance, though we don’t get those kinds of celebrities at our launch parties.

  “What does it mean for me?” I ask.

  Grosvenor looks pained. “One of Sylvia’s creative demands is to have you continue to write for her.” I open my mouth to protest, and he adds, “Exclusively.”

  My mouth shuts hard. It feels like glass is shattering in my skull.

  “Exclusively?”

  “The non-compete clause Mario has drafted for your contract will mean you can’t write an email without passing it by Sylvia’s lawyers. It’s for life of copyright on everything you produce.”

  He’s trying to steer me toward the elevators, but I stop walking. “You’re not making this arrangement sound more appealing.”

  “You said that you would be willing to help Durand-Price in whatever way necessary,” Grosvenor says.

  I definitely had, and I had definitely meant it.

  But I hadn’t imagined at the time that it might mean Sylvia Stone owning everything I wrote for the rest of my life.

  “I need to think about it, Grosvenor.”

  “Don’t think long.” The elevator doors open. He pushes me inside. When a pair of interns tries to follow us on, he waves them away so that we’re alone on our way up the tower. “Sylvia will take everything back if she thinks we’re not marching in lockstep.”

  The number over the elevator doors climbs toward twenty, slowly but surely.

  Queasiness unfolds in my gut. “And what about Erik? Mr. Duke?”

  “What about him? He hates interacting with people. If we put him off long enough, he’ll get distracted by his work in progress and fall off the radar again.”

  Erik broke into my apartment just to deliver a laptop…among other things. Grosvenor is more confident in Erik’s lack of wherewithal than I am.

  “You’re underestimating him,” I say. “Be careful.”

  With a chime, the elevator doors slide open.

  “You look lovely, by the way,” Grosvenor says as an afterthought. “Your father would be proud.”

  I don’t have the opportunity to process that compliment. We’ve stepped out of the elevator into an office converted to a space similar to a swanky club, decorated in dim neon.

  The walls are decorated in large posters depicting the covers of Sylvia’s most popular books. I’m equal parts gratified and horrified to see that those flanking the author’s table are ones that I wrote. It’s like rubbing a reminder of my existence into Sylvia’s face.

  She doesn’t seem bothered by the reminder at the moment. She’s in her finest suit at the front of the room with her husband, Mario, and a couple of editors from other imprints.

  The necklace in her cleavage jiggles when she laughs. That’s a triumphant sound. She’s feels she’s won.

  If I sign that contract Mario is writing for me, then she has.

  At a glance, I can tell that the promotional party is the usual kind of affair. They’ve invited all of the important people in the industry, many of whom are only attending in the hopes of seeing a Sylvia meltdown, I’m certain. I’m grateful that Raoul sent me the dress; I would have looked horribly out of place among these people in even my nicest gown. Nobody is wearing anything off the rack.

  Grosvenor steps aside, letting me make my way down the short set of stairs on my own. Halfway down, a familiar face catches my eye.

  Raoul.

  He’s standing by the bar, transfixed by my every move.

  I hope he’s satisfied with his investment into the dress.

  Raoul pardons himself from his conversation and meets me halfway across the room. The crowd seems to part effortlessly for him. Everyone recognizes the new editor for Moonlight Sonata at this point—he’s made his presence well-known.

  As a waiter passes, Raoul grabs two champagne flutes and offers one to me. “You look stunning, Little Christy.”

  My cheeks warm. I take the champagne but don’t drink, allowing my eyes to travel over Raoul’s tuxedo. It’s perfect, of course, even with his long hair tumbling around his broad shoulders in a coppery wave. He doesn’t need to wear black to look fancier than everyone else at the black tie affair; he’s made his white suit into a statement, and he wears it with confidence.

  “You look great too,” I say, and then I have to fortify myself with a drink. It fizzes pleasantly down my throat.

  “Ah, Mr. Chance.” Violetta has joined us. At a closer look, I see that she hasn’t exactly dressed for the launch party either; she’s wearing one of her usual spartan suits. “A pleasure to see you here. We have business to discuss.”

  “Such as why Sylvia looks so happy?” Raoul wraps an arm around my waist. I feel safe from even Violetta’s scrutiny against his side.

  “Among other things.” She gestures toward the elevators. “Can we discuss it in your office?”

  “Fine.” Raoul begins to walk me toward the stairs.

  Violetta stops him. “Ms. Durand won’t be necessary.”

  He tenses beside me. He and Violetta exchange a long stare, and I’m grateful not to be between them.

  Even Raoul’s warmth may not be enough to stand up against Violetta’s chill.

  “You realize
that her family made this company,” he says.

  I wish he wouldn’t talk about that. It makes my heart hurt.

  “Her family also sold their stake in it. Ms. Durand is an assistant by our good graces, nothing more. And nothing personal.” That last part is aimed at me. Cold as Violetta is, there’s no ill will between us.

  Yet she’s allowed me to sit in on more than my fair share of serious business meetings. It does seem strange that she’s suddenly so staunch about this one.

  “I invited Christine to this party. We’ll be spending the evening together. If that’s a problem, then business can wait for tomorrow.” Raoul’s tone is light, but his expression is hard as stone.

  Violetta’s eyes flick between us.

  I can almost feel her thinking of ways to separate Raoul and me.

  But why? There’s no reason for her to care about what happens in our relationship…unless she knows why Erik Duke wanted me to have my own series.

  “Perhaps later tonight. I don’t think Ms. Durand can stay for long,” Violetta says.

  I wonder if that’s a threat I hear in her tone. Would she really tell Raoul what had happened between Erik and me? I’m not brave enough to find out. “She’s right. I have an early morning.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Raoul nods to Violetta in a clear dismissal. “Talk to you later.”

  She inclines her head. “Until later.”

  The floor is practically frosted in her wake as she drifts away.

  Violetta vanishes into the crowd. Grosvenor Lateen takes the microphone at the front of the room, and it’s only then that I notice he’s wearing a suit in Sylvia’s favorite color again. This party is about appeasing the beast. I can tell I won’t want to hear his speech.

  “Hello, there, your attention please.” He raps his champagne glass with a knife from the buffet. The crowd’s conversation drops to a murmur. “Thank you all for coming. As you know, I’m Grosvenor Lateen—”

  “Let’s talk,” Raoul murmurs, pulling me toward him so that his lips brush my ear lightly. “It’s too crowded in here.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Okay.”

  Grosvenor is still speaking. “We’re celebrating the newest entry in a distinguished career tonight: Sylvia Stone’s upcoming masterpiece, Heart and Harmony.” Just hearing the title puts me on the verge of hysterical laughter. How would everyone politely golf-clapping in the party react to the news that the book is still unfinished, with its wreckage sitting on my hard drive?

  “Interesting conversation with Violetta.” Raoul has led me to the back of the crowd where we don’t have to bump shoulders with people listening to Grosvenor. The path to the stairs are clear.

  “Not so interesting,” I say.

  “They’ve been keeping you from me deliberately,” Raoul says. “I have to wonder why that might be.”

  My cheeks heat. “I don’t know.” I’m talking to the floor rather than to Raoul himself. He used to know me so well. It feels like if I meet his eyes, he’ll see right through me and know everything that I’ve done.

  “It’s because of Duke. Isn’t it?”

  Shock draws my gaze to his, despite my attempts to keep everything walled away. Raoul’s eyes are just as penetrating as I feared. I am transparent. My soul is naked. He sees it all.

  Raoul breathes out something that might be a growl.

  “I knew it,” he whispers. “They’re keeping you away from me so that I don’t interfere with Erik Duke’s demands.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Raoul.”

  “Violetta Kilshaw cornered me this afternoon, after Lateen told me about the ultimatums his authors have issued,” Raoul said. “She seemed to know about our history. She knows what you mean to me.”

  Heat flushes over my body.

  “I mean something to you?”

  Raoul’s hand cups my cheek. “Don’t be so surprised, Little Christy.”

  “But it’s been years—we were children.”

  “Did it mean nothing to you?” he asks.

  I should probably tell him yes, but it would require a far colder heart than the one I possess. “Those summers with you meant everything,” I say, resting my hand on top of his.

  His eyes warm with the hint of a smile. It doesn’t seem that he’s thinking happy thoughts, though. There’s something dark in his expression.

  We mount the stairs, but the elevator is slow in coming. It’s still shuttling people from the lobby to the other levels of the party. I am antsy watching the numbers bounce. I want to be away from this party, away from Violetta and Sylvia and Grosvenor.

  “What has me curious is why Violetta believes that our relationship will interfere with Erik Duke’s demands,” Raoul says. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. He’s scanning the room, as if just as aware of possible interlopers as I am.

  My mouth is dry. “I don’t think they’re related.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  He sees right through me. He’ll know the truth.

  “How sweet to see the two of you colluding openly.” Sylvia’s nasally voice makes my heart stop. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her approaching before she joined us in front of the elevator—she’s accompanied by Mario and a small legion of ass-kissers. Hardly ninjas.

  Raoul doesn’t look nearly as impressed by her presence as everyone else. “Is a casual conversation your idea of collusion?”

  “Casual?” Sylvia snorts. Following her cue, so does Mario. “All I see is my nasty little assistant seducing her way around the publishing company. Again.”

  My jaw drops. “I would never—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Sylvia says. “This is a party.” And it would be terrible if we drew attention to ourselves at the back of the room, rather than allowing everyone to listen to Grosvenor verbally fellating Sylvia Stone at the microphone.

  She sidles up to me. There’s a yellowness to her eyes that I’ve never noticed before and she reeks of alcohol.

  Sylvia jabs a finger into my chest hard enough that I think I’ll have a sausage-shaped bruise tomorrow. “Scheme all you will, but you will never be one of Durand-Price’s star authors,” she hisses, quietly enough that only I will be able to hear her vitriol. “Do you hear me? You will write my books for me. Forever. And my name will continue to go on the covers—forever. And the stories will be as I want them to be, rather than the vision of some cheap, talentless no-name who’s coasting on her father’s coattails!”

  I’ve taken similar rants from her before. I’ve become good at appeasement, or at least letting it wash over me. I have dealt with Sylvia for so long, she shouldn’t be able to throw anything at me that I can’t handle.

  But this? This pushes me to the edge.

  I’ve sustained too much stress these past few days. I’ve been ready to snap ever since I woke up in bed at home.

  Now all that tension explodes out of me.

  I slap Sylvia’s hand off of my chest, and she jerks it away, looking horrified that I would dare contact her spongy flesh. “If I’m cheap and talentless, then why do you want me to write your books for you?” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so vitriolic.

  Her face purples.

  “You—you little—”

  As a courtesy, I keep my voice down, too. But that’s the last courtesy between us. “The truth is that you’re the one without any talent, Sylvia. You might have had some spark when you were young, but it’s been lost under all the yacht parties and pints of ice cream. You don’t have a creative molecule left in your body. That’s why you want me to write your books for you. Because I have the talent, because I have the vision, and because you need me.” I bite out those last three words.

  I’m breathing hard when my rant finishes. My arms are rigid at my sides, and I can’t seem to slow my pounding heart.

  The elevator chimes. It’s finally arrived.

  At the same time, Grosvenor Lateen is introducing Sylvia from the front of the room. “And now here’s t
he brilliant authoress herself… Sylvia Stone!”

  A light shines on all of us at the top of the stairs. Sylvia reels, blinking drunkenly at the sudden attention.

  Raoul’s hand slips around my wrist. He tugs me into the elevator and punches the button to close the doors.

  In moments, we have privacy.

  For the first time in what feels like hours, I let out a breath. It emerges as a frightened laugh. I slump against the side of the elevator, pressing a hand to my forehead. Am I feverish? Am I insane? What was I thinking, going toe to toe against Sylvia Stone?

  “I called her talentless.” I feel dazed, as though struck by a Sylvia-shaped train. “I threw her ice cream addiction in her face.”

  Raoul chuckles. “It’s long past time that someone did that.”

  “She’ll have my head.”

  “She’s already planning to do that, from what I hear of the contract she wants you to sign. You might as well go down fighting.” He braces his elbow on the wall beside my head, gazing down at me with a lock of hair dangling between us.

  My hands wander to his lapels of their own volition. “Who says I’ll go down at all? I don’t want that woman to own me.”

  “And the publishing company?”

  The gentle reminder of the stakes makes me shiver. I can’t be responsible for the future of an entire corporation. It’s ridiculous.

  But it’s not just any corporation.

  This is my father’s legacy.

  “I’ll look at the contract and see what I can do.” The gusto has gone out of me. I am limp against the side of the elevator from exhaustion more than giddy relief.

  Raoul traces the line of my bottom lip with his thumb. “We’ll see what we can do. Together.”

  My eyes flick up to his. “Together?”

  “You need me to take care of you, Christine,” Raoul says. “I saw your apartment.”

  I lift my chin, gathering what little stubbornness I possess like a shield. “It’s hardly normal for me to drop hot coffee on my feet. That was an accident.”

  “I don’t mean the coffee. I mean how empty your life has become. Your pictures are all fine art prints. There’s no sign in your home that you have any hobby at all. When’s the last time you went out with friends?”