Page 5 of Knotted

“Nameless?”

“Yup.”

It’s not as ifhe’sthe right answer for this Spanish Inquisition of an interview. Or anything else, for that matter. No way am I landing this job by creditingwho I amto my mortal enemy.

Do people even have mortal enemies?

Dismayed, I shake my head. Apparently so.

“Look, kid. I’ve got dozens of candidates banging down my door for this job—people with more degrees, more experience, and social media followings that could fill a stadium. But”—he exhales sharply, eyes locking on to mine—“you’re interesting.”

“I am?”

He shrugs, a half smirk tugging at his lips. “In a weird, train-wreck sort of way. A writer with no social media—seriously, that’s almost unheard of. Especially for a looker like you.”

I sit up straighter, trying to decipher the mix of words he just threw at me. I’m pretty sure there was a compliment buried in there somewhere.

“And anyone who cranks out work as fast as you do without ever using your real name”—he points a finger at me, eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and suspicion—“there’s got to be a story there. I can smell it.”

“There’s no story,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, even as my pulse quickens. “I just prefer my privacy.”

He tilts his head, eyes sharpening with interest. “No worries, kid. I can definitely work with someone who shiesaway from the limelight. And everyone knows the juiciest stories are dug up out of the shadows.” He leans back, considering. “But you’ll need a pen name.”

A swarm of butterflies kicks up in my gut. This is it—the first time I’ll be putting myself out there, even if it’s under a an alias. “How about Sydney?”

“It’s a guy’s name.”

“It’s unisex, like Jordan or Taylor.” And, for the record, it was the name of my teddy bear, circa years three through six. “Let’s be real, women don’t get half the respect men do in this industry.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Untrue. I pay all my writers equally—the same shitty rates across the board. And what about a last name?”

I keep my tone casual, but inside, I’m buzzing so hard, the name comes out before I can stop it. “How about Bryan, with a Y?”

He holds his hands to his temples, as if conjuring knowledge from the other side. “And let me guess, Mr. Nobody’s first name is B-r-y-a-n.”

“His name is not B-r-y-a-n,” I say, spelling it out as well. I don’t bother telling him that my nemesis’s name is Brian with anI.

“Let me guess. Brian with anInot aY?”

“What are you? A mind-reader?”

“No,” he says with a cocky grin. “I’m the owner of a newspaper with a Pulitzer in investigative journalism and a knack for reading people. Ms. Spenser—or should I say Mrs. Brian...what, I wonder?” His smirk sharpens, eyes gleaming with challenge as he dares me to fill inthe blank.

I tense, the words digging up memories I’d rather forget. As a kid, I must have written it a hundred times—Mrs. Brian Bishop—scribbling it mindlessly until one day, my prince charming morphed into a dark, evil knight, shattering my fairytale into pieces.

Ugh, all those wasted adolescent hours I spent obsessively scrawlingMrs. Brian Bishopwhen I should’ve been daydreaming about being Mrs. Henry Cavill or Mrs. Insert-Your-Favorite Hemsworth. Hours I’ll never get back, and for what? A childhood crush that turned into a nightmare.

“Brian what?”

Geez, Mr. Richards is a dog with a bone. When I hesitate, he leans in, eyes narrowing. “Spill, and you’re in. Or clam up and holler ‘next’ on your way out.”

My options are slim, and while lying seems like the easy way out, it’s also the dumbest. True, I’m a writer and someone who often spins the world not as it is, but as it could be.

But lying to a news bloodhound? The man has the power to end my career with a single viral post—one scathing TikTok rant, and I’m done.

Meanwhile, my phone won’t stop buzzing in my pocket. Taylor’s relentless messages are pinging me like a toddler on a sugar high. It’s driving me nuts, grating on my nerves until I can practically feel the hives creeping up my skin.

“You look a little green, kid. Purge,” he says. “Unburdening the spirit always feels better.”

---