Page 6 of Revenge Reads Better

“I won’t be your show pony just to improve your bottom line.”

A silent pause ensues.

“Wow.” She blinks. “Where did that come from?”

Damn. Maybe that was harsher than she’d deserved. It’s just… I’m tired. Tired of having this same exact conversation, over and over again.

I don’t do signings. I don’t do morning shows. I don’t do book tours.

I write stories. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

I don’t need millions in the bank. I don’t need people recognizing me on the street. I don’t need fame. I just want peace. And I’ve worked too damn hard to find it to hand it over for a few extra book sales.

My books should be enough. They should be allowed to speak for themselves.

“Very well.” Lauren smiles despondently. “I won’t bring the subject up again. I’m sorry I brought it up this time.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I wasn’t finished,” she adds. I suppress a sigh. “I understand that putting yourself out there can be intimidating and completely outside your comfort zone. But please don’t take this as your publisher giving you advice. Take it as—I hope—a friend who’s been in your life for the past six years.” She pauses, holding my gaze. “It’s not healthy keeping the world at bay like you do, Max. Sooner or later, you need to put yourself out there. You need to live your life.”

“I am living my life.”

“No, honey.” She shakes her head. “You’re living for your work and very little else. That doesn’t constitute a life.”

When I don’t respond, she takes it as permission to continue.

“When was the last time you went on a date? Or even to the movies or dinner with friends? When was the last time you left your apartment for anything other than doctor visits… or to come see me?”

Again, I don’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Her shoulders sag. “Maybe you should ask what’s stopping you from sharing yourself with the world. Because, Max… the world deserves to get to know you. You’re an exceptional woman. Don’t deprive yourself of meaningful experiences because of your trauma.”

Lauren’s voice is warm and sincere, and I understand that everything she’s saying comes from a place of love. But she doesn’t know jack shit about my life, much less my trauma. Not really.

Sure, she catches little glimpses of me through my books. The tiny pieces I’m willing to share. But that’s where her understanding ends.

It’s easy for her to offer advice. It’s not nearly as easy for someone like me to follow it.

When she realizes I’m not going to engage in this conversation any further, she walks over to the corner of her office, picks up a small cardboard box, and carries it back to me.

“Here’s this month’s mail. Mostly fan letters from readers, along with some Christmas and New Year’s cards that arrived last month. But I did notice a few personal packages addressed to you.”

I stand and take the box from her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A hint of sadness softens her smile. “I’ll be in touch in a few weeks about the edits. Maybe take this time to go on a little vacation. Or… whatever it is you do to decompress.” She smiles. “You deserve it.”

I return the smile, though I’m sure it never reaches my eyes, then walk out of her office without so much as a goodbye.

I wasn’t expecting a lecture this afternoon. To say my mood has plummeted from the high I’d been riding would be an understatement.

I walk toward the elevator, grateful to find it empty when the doors slide open. Balancing the box against my hip, I flip back the lid while the elevator begins its long descent to the lobby. The box is mostly filled with the usual mix of fan mail, royalty statements, hospital appointments, and requests I’ll inevitably decline.

Sure, I could have my correspondence sent directly to my apartment, but that would mean giving out my address, and I’d rather keep that under lock and key. You’d be surprised how many stalkers even writers attract.

As I thumb through the pile, one envelope catches my eye—it’s plain, white, and unremarkable, but its postmark makes every muscle in my body tense.

Fairhope. My pulse stutters.