Page 10 of The Write Midlife

She giggled, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As he made his way to the elevator, his mind drifted back to Mel. Her laugh, her wit, the way she felt in his arms... He shook his head, trying to focus. He was here to work, not daydream about a woman he would probably never see again.

The elevator doors opened, revealing his father's fully silver hair and stern face. Liam Carlisle, the man who built this publishing empire from the ground up, and who never let anyone forget it.

"Nathaniel," he said, his voice as crisp as his perfectly pressed suit. "You're late."

Nate checked his watch. "By two minutes, Dad. I didn't realize we were operating on military time now."

His father ignored the sarcasm, turning on his heel and marching towards the conference room. Nate followed, bracing himself for whatever lecture was coming his way.

The room was empty save for the two of them. His dad took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for Nate to sit. He did, loosening his tie slightly. It suddenly felt too tight, like a noose around his neck.

"So," his dad began, steepling his fingers. "I think it's time we discussed your future at Carlisle Publishing."

Nate leaned back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. "I thought that's what I've been doing for the past five years. Or was all that work in the finance department just for fun?"

His dad's eyes narrowed. "Don't be flippant, Nathaniel. You know as well as I do that if you're going to take over this company someday, you need to understand every aspect of the business. Not just the numbers."

Nate bit back a retort. He was right, of course. But that didn't make this conversation any easier.

"What did you have in mind?" Nate asked, keeping his voice neutral.

His dad slid a file across the table. "I want you to take on an editing role. Specifically, I want you to work with one of our more... challenging authors."

"Challenging how? Are we talking 'diva who throws temper tantrums' challenging, or 'writes entire manuscripts in interpretive dance' challenging?"

The corner of his dad's mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "Neither. Her name is Melody Archer. She's a romance novelist with a lot of potential, but she's resistant to making her work more commercially viable."

Nate flipped open the file, scanning the first page. "And you want me to... what? Convince her to sell out?"

His dad sighed. "I want you to help her reach a wider audience. Her stories are good, but they're too niche. Too..."

"Realistic?" Nate supplied, still reading. "Complex? Actually reflective of real relationships?"

"Unmarketable. Your job is to guide her towards writing stories that will sell. Stories that people want to read."

Nate looked up from the file, meeting his dad's gaze. "And what if the stories she's writing are the ones people need to read?"

His dad's expression hardened. "This isn't about what people need, Nathaniel. It's about what sells. And right now, Melody Archer's brand of romance isn't cutting it."

Nate flipped through more pages of the file, trying to ignore the pressure building in his chest. This was his chance to prove himself, to show his dad that he was more than just a number cruncher. But at what cost?

"When do I meet her?" Nate asked, closing the file.

"Tomorrow afternoon. 2 PM." His dad stood, smoothing his jacket. "Don't disappoint me, Nathaniel. This could be a turning point for your career here."

With that, he left the room, leaving Nate alone with Melody Archer's file and a growing sense of unease.

Nate spent the next few hours poring over Melody's work. Her writing was... captivating. Raw. Honest. Nothing like the formulaic romances that usually topped the bestseller lists. He found himself getting lost in her stories, in the flawed, relatable characters she created.

As he read, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. Something about Melody's voice, her wit, felt familiar. But he couldn't quite place it.

His phone buzzed, startling him out of his reading trance. It was a text from his best friend, Alex.

Since their days at St. George's Boarding School, Alex and Nate had been through thick and thin together, from sneaking out after curfew to covering for each other when one of them had a hangover. While Nate followed the predetermined path to Carlisle Publishing, Alex shocked everyone by turning down his family's law firm to join the fire academy instead.

Now he was a lieutenant at Seattle's busiest station, and he was still the same guy who used to steal cookies from the kitchen with Nate. Sure, these days he was more likely to be scaling burning buildings than school walls, but some things never changed.

Now that they were both forty-three, Alex might be the last childhood friend that could still put up with Nate's shit. And, of course, he called Nate on it every chance he got.