Page 73 of Not a Strong Enough Word

“Thank you for coming,” Anastasios interrupts my thoughts as I sink, shaking, into the open chair. “I’m sure Ms. McBryde has apprised you of the situation?”

I nod, resisting the urge to gulp audibly. The tension in the room is almost tangible.

Careful not to look in Ryan’s direction, I ask, “Do you know who did this?”

“We do not,” Anastasios says, not unkindly. “Unless someone in this room is lying, it was someone on the outside. But rest assured, Ms. Frye, we have a plan to get out in front of this thing and mitigate the damage.”

My guess is that he’s talking about mitigating the damage done to the imprint—and to him personally. They are likely not talking about the damage they’re going to do to me. I know how this works. In cases like this, more publicity is inevitable. I’m going to need to tell my side of the story over and over again until my narrative becomes the accepted one.

A glance in Trina’s direction confirms it. Her red lips are pressed into a thin line, and she’s clutching her hands together on top of the table so hard that her knuckles are turning white. She fought for me before I got here. That, I’m sure of.

Just like my first meeting here—and my last at JMP—everyone seemingly starts talking at once. Phrases filter in and out of my consciousness as if the words themselves were floating in front of me, out of reach.

“We can get her on at least a couple major talk shows…”

“No guarantee about book clubs until the book is out, but we’ll start asking around…”

“Anything we can do. The more popular this thing is, the more JMP will look the other way…”

“Rush the release. Get it out while people are paying attention…”

“What about that daytime show with those women? They seemed to like her last time…”

My gaze shifts to Ryan. He’s staring at me intensely, almost as if he has been willing me to look at him. When I do, he blinks, and his face crumples. He shakes his head slightly, but all I can do is look away. I don’t have the energy for the depth of emotion he’s displaying. This all feels so familiar that I can feel myself shutting down as they all talk around me.

“People would probably show up for signings again out of curiosity…”

“We could put a call out for people who had tickets to her last tour. Let them come for free…”

“Six weeks. Maybe ten. A break to write the new book, then back for another five…”

How am I possibly going to write and edit and do all this press again? Not to mention people showing up potentially still angry about the canceled tour last time. Can I take being shit on to my face by angry readers who don’t know any better?

I understand what this team is trying to do, or at least I think I do. From the snippets of conversation, it’s clear they think selling a ton of books will appease JMP. It’s not a bad plan, actually. JMP has always been all about the money. It would probably work, if it weren’t for one thing.

I can’t go back to that grueling schedule. I can barely handle writing, and if it weren’t for Ryan forcing me away from the work each night, I wouldn’t be able to handle that, either.

But I also can’t walk out of here right now. If I did, it would only serve to show that I didn’t change, that I’m not different. It would put the nail in the coffin of my career. There wouldn’t be any coming back from this.

No, I need to let them talk over me and about me like I’m not even here, and then I need to take all the information and figure out how to make it work. That’s all I can do if I ever want to write again.

So I sit there for the next thirty minutes as they come up with a plan. Trina asks me questions every once in a while, but all I can do is shrug. Ryan continues to stare at me as if he could hold me together with his eyes, but I can’t look at him. He would have ruined his career five years ago, and I believe that if he saw even a hint of doubt in me, he’d do it now, too. And I can’t let him.

As soon as they wrap up, I stand on shaky legs and silently make my way toward the door. I need to get somewhere where I can lose my shit in private, and I need to do it fast.

“Scarlett—” Ryan moves toward me at almost lighting speed, taking my hand in his.

“I just want to be alone,” I say quietly, looking ahead and not directly at him. “I’m okay. I just…need some space.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Trina stand and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Let her go,” she whispers. “Today has been a lot.”

Ryan pauses but ultimately drops my hand and steps back. Now, I absolutely cannot look at him because if I do, I’ll see how much it hurt him to do that. But it doesn’t change the fact that right now, I need to get the fuck out of here. Fast.

Putting my head down, I push the door to the conference room open. I make it all the way to the elevator but then decide to take the stairs. A small space would feel confining right now, and I don’t need that on top of everything else. As if a little Dianne is sitting on my shoulder, her voice stops me before I can rush down the stairs and outside. Take your time, she reminds me. Use each step as a way to ground yourself. Don’t shut down. Use your emotions.

What do I have to lose? Nothing, I guess, so I start my descent carefully, noting the feel of the hard tile under my flat shoes, the cold metal of the railing, the way my steps echo against the walls. And with each step, I do come back into my body. It almost feels like my heart is there, waiting for me, opening its arms and welcoming me back.

And with each step after that, I have questions. Who would do this? Why? Is there someone out there who hates me that much—who is that angry at me—who also knew I was writing again? Why do these things keep happening to me? Am I just meant to be Scarlett Frye, best-selling author and a commodity for my publisher to throw around as they see fit?