Page 127 of The Story Between Us

“What does that mean?”

Priya stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Liv. The ending is…there’s something wrong with it.”

“Wrong how?”

“It’s…” Priya hesitated. Glanced at the others, then back at Livvie. “It’s not good. The whole manuscript is brilliant—honestly, maybe his best work—but the last scene is a disaster. It’s like he gave up. Or just phoned it in, like he didn’t know what to write, so he just…threw something together.”

Livvie’s mind raced. The ending. Something wrong with the ending. What had he written? What had he done?

“I need to read it.”

“There’s no time.” Priya’s hand closed around her arm. “Richard wants to see you. Now.”

The walk to Richard’s corner office felt like a death march.

Livvie passed cubicles and desks, felt eyes on her back, heard the whispers she wasn’t supposed to hear. The Pemberton logo gleamed on the wall—silver letters on black marble, the monument to a career she’d poured six years of her life into.

Six years of early mornings and late nights. Six years of manuscripts read on subway commutes and weekends spent nurturing authors who would eventually be assigned to senior agents. Six years of ideas pitched and dismissed, credit given elsewhere, her name never quite making it onto the things she’d helped create.

She knocked on his door.

“Come in.”

Richard Ames sat behind his mahogany desk like a king on a throne. Silver hair perfectly styled. Charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The wall behind him was a shrine to his success—awards, framed covers, photos of him with famous authors, all arranged to intimidate anyone who sat in the deliberately uncomfortable chair across from him.

“Olivia.” He didn’t stand. “Close the door.”

She did.

“Have a seat.”

She didn’t. Something in her—some new instinct she hadn’t possessed two weeks ago—told her to stay standing. To not give him the height advantage.

His eyebrow twitched. Displeasure, quickly masked.

“I’ll get right to the point.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been developing an author outside of agency channels. A young writer named Nora Whitcomb.”

Livvie’s heart stuttered. Nora? The manuscript she’d rescued from the reject pile. The notes she’d given, the encouragement, the promise to look at revisions.

“I didn’t develop her,” Livvie said carefully. “I gave her feedback. She was rejected, and I thought⁠—”

“You thought you’d go around me.” Richard’s voice went sharp. “You thought you’d cultivate your own stable of authors, use Pemberton resources to build your personal client list, and then—what? Jump ship? Start your own agency with our talent?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” He picked up a printed email—Livvie recognized her own words, her notes to Nora, somehow obtained. “You told her to revise and resubmit. To you. Not to the agency. To you personally.”

“Because you rejected her! Because no one else would give her a chance, and I thought⁠—”

“You thought wrong.” Richard stood now, slowly, unfolding to his full height. He was tall—she’d forgotten how tall—and he used every inch of it as a weapon. “Do you know who Nora Whitcomb is?”

Livvie shook her head.

“Senator Whitcomb’s daughter. The manuscript you ‘rescued’ is about to be the subject of a bidding war. Every agency in the city wants her—and you tried to steal her for yourself.”

“I didn’t know who she was! I was trying to help a young writer who deserved a chance⁠—”

“The intent is irrelevant.” Richard’s voice was final. Cold. “You went around me. You developed a project without authorization. You used company resources for personal gain.” He paused, letting each accusation land. “Your position at Pemberton & Associates is terminated. Effective immediately.”