Page 3 of The Story Between Us

Too late now.

She minimized the window, hands trembling slightly, and went back to the slush pile, reading through the rejects. Just another Friday morning, nothing to see here.

And probably just another invisible risk no one would ever know about.

Unless it worked. Unless Nora Whitcomb turned out to be everything Livvie thought she could be.

Then everyone would know, and she’d be one of those agents that authors thanked in their forewords.

Or on an award stage.

“You’re here early.”

Priya Sharma stood at the edge of her cubicle, statement earrings catching the light, blazer rumpled over one arm. Two coffees. And the expression of someone delivering bad news.

“I’m always here early.” Livvie saved her notes. “What’s wrong?”

Priya stepped closer, voice dropping. “I think they’re restructuring. We have an all-hands meeting this morning.”

The coffee in Livvie’s stomach went cold. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that Richard’s been locked in meetings all week.” Priya set one of the coffees on Livvie’s desk. “Just…keep your head up, okay? And don’t be afraid to take a little credit.”

“For what?”

Priya’s eyebrows rose. “That book hitting the list today. You found it.”

“Richard—”

“Richard read three chapters and called it ‘competent.’” Priya leaned against the cubicle wall. “You’re the one who saw what it could be. So make sure that’s on the record.”

Livvie wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “I don’t think⁠—”

“Listen. You’re a very nice sunfish in a sea of sharks. You gotta grow some teeth.”

“I’m a sunfish?”

“It’s just an expression. But yeah, you’re too…well, sweet to be in this business, really.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You brought Derek a cupcake.” Priya gestured to the gift on his desk. “For a guy who stole your promotion.”

“It’s fine.” The smile came automatically. “And it’s his birthday.”

Priya looked at her for a long moment. “He’s been here three months. To your six years. Honey, grow some teeth.”

“I have teeth⁠—”

Priya shook her head and headed for her own desk, the click of her heels fading into the growing noise of the office.

By 8:47, the floor had come alive. Bodies streaming from the elevator, voices rising, the smell of fresh coffee replacing the stale.

She refreshed the bestseller page. Not live yet.

“Fox.”

Richard Ames—silver hair, charcoal suit—walked past her cubicle. He didn’t look at her—his thumbs were moving on his phone—but his voice carried. “I need talking points for the three manuscripts I sent to you for the acquisition meeting. Thirty minutes.”