Page 8 of Based on You

Neither of them knew about my writing. I'd walled my fiction off to the side, thriving in the cover of their ignorance. If they ever found out, my mother would unload a barrage of measured opinions, and I'd have to swallow the fact that the greatest thing I'd ever done—a serialized story with five million readers, hungry publisher interest, and a Sunday-midnight slot that hit every single week—was something they'd brush off as a flimsy, embarrassing hobby.

My greatest, most pathetic wish was for her to be proud of me. I'd carried that hope for as long as I could remember.

I shoved the phone into my drawer and made myself finish the briefing.

Soon enough, it was time for the meeting.

I walked over to Simon's door and rapped my knuckles against the wood. "Meeting in five."

He was already shrugging into his suit jacket. "I'll be right there."

We headed down together to the conference room on the floor below. I claimed my usual chair against the far wall, balancing my notebook on my knee, while Simon took his place at the center of the long table.

Marisol, one of the senior executives, kicked things off. "Let's get started. Devika, the floor's yours."

Devika stood and put her first slide up on the screen. "Thank you. Today we're presenting a new platform initiative, the Reader Bridge project. The premise is straightforward, but the market differentiator is huge."

She walked the board through the core mechanics, the hybrid publishing model, the serialization format, the reader subscription structure. Simon sat still, his hands steepled on the table, taking in the pitch without a word. I kept my pen moving across the page, recording the minutes.

Marisol leaned forward, curious. "When you say 'signed hardcover,' you mean the physical book lands in the reader's hands?"

"Signed by the author's own hand, yes," Devika confirmed. "When the online serialization wraps, every reader who's subscribed since chapter one gets a premium copy."

"What's the fulfillment timeline on that?"

"We're building the print-partner relationships alongside the app development," Devika said. "We estimate an eight-to-twelve-week window from completion to delivery."

A remote board member unmuted. "And the author keeps their creative rights through all of this?"

"All of them," Devika assured them. "The platform just hosts the serialization. We carry the load on print and distribution. The author keeps total ownership of the work."

The screen muted again.

Marisol tapped her stylus against her tablet. "I like this. The physical book is an angle nobody else in the digital space has right now. What's the launch strategy?"

Devika clicked her remote, advancing the slide. "We need a strong anchor. One established, heavy-hitting name in serialized fiction who brings a built-in, rabid readership. Someone big enough that other writers take our platform seriously on day one." She paused for a beat. "We know who that should be."

She advanced to the final slide.

The name flashed across the screen in bold text.

V.M. ASHBY.

The pen in my hand stopped moving.

FOUR

SIMON

I came home from the office to find the house drowning in darkness.

I hovered in the doorway a moment before my fingers found the switch, throwing hard light across the kitchen. I set my briefcase on the floor, loosened my tie, and scanned the marble counter. Marta had left a handwritten note propped against the microwave, telling me there was lasagna inside.

I pulled the microwave door open, confirmed the covered glass dish was there, and punched the heat-cycle buttons. I sighed, shrugged off my suit jacket, and draped it over the back of a dining chair.

The familiar creak of Marta's footsteps came down the main staircase.

I turned to face the hall. She was already bundled in her winter coat, her tote bag slung over her shoulder. When she reached the bottom step and spotted me, she let out a short breath.