“No.” Her eyes scanned the screen again. “There’s definitely some good stuff here. I actually really like where the Petrya storyline is going.”
“But…” There was always a “but.” No matter who it came from, criticism always followed the same pattern: “It’s perfect, I love it, now change it.”
“But the story doesn’t feel like you.” She closed the laptop and folded her hands on top of the computer.
I sighed. “Of course it doesn’t feel like me. My main character is riding in on a dragon. I had to have Cassya kill Alyster because she thought he was a threat, even though they were obviously meant for each other.” I shoved another scoop of tasteless oatmeal into my mouth. “Let me muddle through this, and then I can get back to writing what I want. This book is a means to an end.”
Jane bit the inside of her cheek. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Yes, it does. I have to have the first act finished twenty-four hours from now. I don’t have the luxury of being precious about my writing. I just have to churn it out.”
“There’s another option.” She pushed the laptop aside. “After the call yesterday, Kevin and I talked to Ingrid for a few minutes, and she said the publisher is happy to work out a new timetable with you, if you need it.”
My breakfast turned sour in my mouth. “I don’t need more time.” I’d already had my deadline extended once, which for me felt like an utter failure. It went against who I was. And even if I did need more time in this instance, I couldn’t have it, because the studio was preparing to run rampant over my hard work without me.
“Hear me out,” she said. “You’re fighting a losing battle with the TV folks. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. They need to start production ASAP, so you can either turn in this”—she gestured toward the computer—“which I know you’re not happy with, or you can let them move forward without you and do what they want.”
“Right,” I said. “But then I’d have no say over where they take my story.”
“Yes, you’d have to relinquish control over what they put on screen,” Jane said, “but you know and I know that this whole dragon thing is garbage. They’re going to do it either way. Maybe you”—she shrugged—“I don’t know, drop out due to creative differences and then take your time writing a story you can be proud of. Let the TV people crash and burn with these dragons.”
The pit grew in my stomach. “A few problems I can see: one, maybe the dragons aren’t a flop.”
“Always a possibility,” she said. “People do love giant CGI reptilians.”
“And two.” My cheeks stung as the emotion threatened to overwhelm me. I swallowed, holding back the tide. “I only exist because of the show.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“It is,” I said. “The only reason anyone knows anything about me or my books is because The Saga is such a massive hit. What I put in this book is inconsequential. Maybe a fifth of the show’s audience will ever read it. Whatever the show does will be canon.” I blinked. “If they go ahead without me and create their own dragon-filled storyline and ending, I’ll still get blamed for it. I am The Saga, and The Saga is me. I am intrinsically linked to what’s on that screen.”
She looked toward the kitchen window, thinking. “I think we can spin this,” she said. “The creative differences thing, we can use that to our advantage. They already know you’re unhappy with how the show has adapted your books. We could make you look like the artist with principles—”
“More realistically I’d look like the jerk who couldn’t play nicely with others. You’re not brand new to this game. You know how these things go. You saw the reaction to my video.”
She patted the computer. “I also know that if you put your name on this, you’re going to regret it.”
That was a risk I’d have to take. Artists sold out all the time. My situation wasn’t unique. It wasn’t even interesting. I stood, picked up my laptop, and headed toward the kitchen door. “Better get to work,” I said. “This trash isn’t going to write itself.”
Jane glanced around the room. “Wait,” she said. “You didn’t say. What happened to Dani?”
“Oh.” The pit returned to my gut. “I told her that her services were no longer needed.”
Jane rubbed her temples. “You what?”
“I had to let her go,” I said. “She was distracting me.”
Jane took a few deep breaths. “I’m really struggling to bite my tongue here, Matt.”
“Matt?” I asked.
“Yes, Matt,” Jane said, straightening her shoulders.
“Well, say it, then,” I said. “When have you ever minced words with me?”
She composed herself for a moment. “No,” she said. “Not today. You’re under enough pressure as it is.”
I pivoted to leave the room.
“You wrote an entire manuscript you were proud of while carrying on with her,” Jane said. “She wasn’t a distraction. Having her around inspired you. She was your muse.”
Without turning back to Jane, I nodded toward the counter. “There’s an envelope there with some money for Dani. Can you give it to her when you get a chance? I tried to last night, but she threw it back in my face.”
Jane hesitated for a moment but finally said, “Of course, Mr. Bradford.”
“Thanks.” I trudged back upstairs to spend the rest of the day in this universe I’d created, with these characters I was starting to despise.
Chapter Fifteen
Dani
“But don’t you ever get sick of watching what you eat?” I shoved another creampuff in my mouth.
Fred bit into a baby carrot and moaned like it was a rich, flourless chocolate cake and not a dry, unseasoned vegetable. “Not really,” he said. “Food is fuel. That’s how I look at things these days. I feel better than I’ve ever felt in my life.” He pointed to the slice of apple cranberry pie on my plate. “That’s going to sit like lead in your gut.”
I scooped up a big forkful of it, out of spite, as I glanced around the room, the big, airy ballroom at the owners’ club, where the Wackernagel Resort & Spa was hosting its annual Christmas party. I had been planning on attending with my family, but after Matt simultaneously fired me and broke up with me, I texted Fred and asked him on a second date.