Page 80 of Based on You

The moment we stepped into the lobby, applause started before I even reached the elevator doors.

My former colleagues were lined up on both sides of the grand lobby entrance, clapping and cheering. I stopped walking for a stunned moment and just looked at them, and my eyes filled with tears before I could stop them.

I gave a small, shy wave. Someone cheered louder. Devika stood near the front with her hands raised above her head in victory. I'd worked in this exact building for two years as someone's invisible assistant, and tonight, these same people were clapping for a romance book I'd secretly written about the man I'd come home with every night for the last month.

We took the private elevator up. The usually austere forty-seventh floor was unrecognizable, festive balloons, low music, and warm string lights draped along the wide windows that looked out over the glowing city. A man I vaguely recognized from the publishing marketing team all but shoved a flute of champagne into my hand and beamed, "A million copies in three days. And counting."

I stared at the crystal glass, then up at Simon. "A million," I breathed.

He looked down at me with his chin tipped up, a slow, proud smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "And counting."

Someone clinked a glass, and the whole room lifted their drinks in congratulation. I stood in the middle of the forty-seventh floor with expensive champagne, my real name printed on a book, the entire city sprawling out the window, and I finally just let myself have it for a moment.

Simon leaned down and murmured next to my ear, "You look incredibly sexy as a powerful, successful woman."

I elbowed him in the ribs. He just smiled wider.

Devika tapped a glass, the room quieted, and Simon stepped forward.

"I'll try to keep this short," he began, projecting his voice with ease, "because Violet has never enjoyed being talked about in the third person, and I can tell she's already trying to locate an exit." A warm ripple of laughter swept the room. He waited for it to settle.

"This media company was built by people who understood that stories matter. Writers, and editors, and designers, and the team standing in this room who believed in a book long before it ever had a cover. I'm proud of all of you. I'm proud of what we've built here together."

He paused, the room hanging on his words.

"And I'm especially proud," he continued, finding my eyes in the crowd, "to have spent two whole years sitting across from one of the most talented writers I've ever met… without knowing it. Violet Paige brings light. Her books have reached people we'll never meet, in places we'll never see, and they've made those struggling people feel less alone. That's not a small thing. That's the whole thing." He raised his glass. "To Violet."

The whole room raised their glasses. I looked down at the floor, overwhelmed.

Devika was at my elbow, nudging me forward. "Your turn."

My heart was hammering. I looked out at the room. These people, my colleagues, some of whom I'd brought coffee for, scheduled endless meetings for, and handed mundane briefs to for two years, were all looking at me, warm and open and waiting.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

"Thank you," I started, my voice wavering. "I know that sounds simple, but I mean it in ways I can't fully articulate right now, which is embarrassing for someone whose literal job is articulating things." A few sympathetic laughs echoed back. "You've all been so generous and kind to me, and you didn't have to be, and you were anyway. And that's not something I'll ever forget."

I was mid-sentence when the private elevator dinged.

The silver doors slid open, and Sloane stepped out in a rush, a little breathless, her coat still on.

I stopped my speech mid-sentence.

"I need to pause right here," I announced to the room, "because the person who just walked in is the sole reason any of this exists."

Sloane stopped moving. Her eyes went wide.

"Sloane has been my cover designer since Book One. She's been my brutal editor in the margins, my panicked three-in-the-morning phone call, and the only person in the world who kept telling me to sign my real name when I kept finding excuses not to." I looked at her across the crowded room.

"She's one of the best people in my life. If I hadn't had her pushing me forward, I'd still be hiding behind a pen name right now, and you'd all be here celebrating a stranger named V.M. Ashby instead of celebrating me." I looked back at the room.

"I'm going to keep writing. I'm going to keep making good books. And I'm going to keep changing lives for as long as I can, because I know what it feels like to be saved by a book in the dark, and I want to be that for someone else."

The room cheered.

I stepped off the small raised platform and crossed the floor straight to Sloane. She was already moving toward me. She pulled me in hard, hugging me fiercely.

"You're late," I teased, wet, into her shoulder.