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“It will never happen.” Ms. Pennington’s voice is so fierce it’s shaky, and she stares across the table at her son so long I find myself counting to thirty before anyone moves.

Eventually, Ms. Pennington straightens. When she speaks, her voice has regained control. “For some of those here who may have forgotten, Pennington Publishing began in 1969 under my hand as a place to curate only the most distinguished literature worthy of publication. Its mission and purpose will remain steadfast as it charges into both the new year and the years to come. Now, if you’ll all excuse me . . .” She nods to Brittney, who shuts her notebook and stands. “I have another meeting.”

Ms. Pennington sweeps out of the room, tailed by Brittney, and we sit in utter silence while they parade past.

Nobody. Nobody in the whole world besides her own son could’ve gotten away with what he just said.

Like everyone else at the table, I’m trying to process everything that just happened, every word that was just revealed. But also at the forefront of my mind is the growing warm recognition of a single fact: he stood up for me.

For some unknown reason, Will Pennington took the blow for me. Although, is it really called “taking the blow” when you do what he just did? No. It was more like he entered the ring for me, dodged every fist thrown at him like a master, and then reared back, giving clean strikes, until his opponent toppled. Or, in this case, found a handy excuse and got out of the room as quickly as possible.

A cobra. That’s what he is. Will Pennington, the cobra.

And all at once the room explodes with questions.

“Are we about to lose our jobs?” Clyve asks.

“Just how much financial trouble is Pennington in?” Marge throws in before Will has the chance to respond.

“Why hasn’t Ms. Pennington told us?” Rob interjects, looking bewildered by the chaos around him. “Is she going to cut our division after all?”

But instead of answering, Will smoothly stands up and addresses the room. “I want an update on your assigned tasks discussed in this meeting by this evening. Email me your responses, cc’ing the entire Pen team, and we can discuss there. As for the sensitive matters discussed in this meeting, rest assured that when I have more information regarding the situation, I will inform you. Let’s adjourn.”

With feeble attempts at a few more unanswered questions, everyone eventually disperses into the hallway. Lyla, the only one who gave such a satisfactory answer to every one of Ms. Pennington’s probing questions that she walked away with no assignments, takes my arm.

“What do you think that was about?” she says casually, as if we overheard two strangers arguing in a coffee shop and not a threat of losing our jobs. “You think the whole place is going under?”

I play back the conversation as we turn the corner and move toward the lobby stairs. It certainly was bizarre. I mean, we know there has been financial trouble; we have seen several cuts the past year. But nothing so serious that it seemed the entire company as a whole was threatened. Because it’s normal with publishers this size. This is the struggle most smaller industries face these days. This is the conversation you just have to get used to when you work in this environment.

Right?

Right?

We reach our floor, and I feel the familiar temptation to tread on. To keep going. For a second I waver, my foot hovering on the following step, trying to be strong. I should get back to work. Clearly, with everything I just heard, I should get straight back to my computer desk and start typing away.

But . . .

“I’m just going to use the bathroom real quick,” I say and remove my arm from Lyla’s grasp.

She hesitates, raises an eyebrow, and checks her watch. “Really, Sav, you need to get that checked out.”

“I know,” I affirm, nodding fervently, pulling my feet toward the next set of stairs. “I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment soon,” I continue, taking steps upward.

“Tomorrow!” she calls after me. “I mean it!” And I give a thumbs-up before disappearing around the corner.

Scurrying through two more hallways and two more flights of stairs, I finally reach the ARC room and yank open the door. The whole way there I fight the rising anxiety that accompanies me every time I search the room.

What if nobody has touched it?

I’m on day three of forty-four and have tried to cut out that character, and sure enough, it’s caused a total mess of the whole manuscript, and I can’t make heads or tails of what to do with the ice-skating scene now. And should I even try to redeem chapter 8? And don’t even get me started on the completely stilted dialogue I’m now seeing between my main man and leading lady—

I halt, one foot inside the tiny room.

Stare at the manuscript on the center of the rug.

Particularly the new handwriting in thick black ink on the green Post-It note lying on top of the stack. I take a step closer.

Dear Mystery Editor and Intruder into My-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,