Page 5 of Rivals to Lovers
Once Estelle and Wes were alone, she sighed and folded her hands across her lap. “Good to see you again, Wesley. Now, you’ve writtenProud and the Lostagain, have you?”
Wes felt for his leather side bag, in which he had stowed the manuscript in its current form in case she brought it up. His last name and connections might have gotten him in the door, and his parents’ money might occasionally pay to keep that door his on any given month, but he was good at his job. His manuscript was about three hundred pages, and his hands betrayed him by shaking as he removed it from his satchel.
“Would you like to see it?”
She shook her head, which made it even more awkward that he’d taken it out first.
“Your letter was good, eloquent—I can tell your prose will be too. It wasn’t your usually perfunctory diction. And your handwriting is beautiful, not that anyone would see that if you published a novel.”
If.Even her use of the conditional gave him hope.
“But you’re holding something back from me, Wes, and we both know that.”
“Oh?” He hadn’t told her about Maureen’s project, despite Yuri’s call. Maureen Denton wasn’t his client, nor was he required to entertain every Morgan devotee who came along with fantasies of adaptation. In his two years representing the estate, Mo hadn’t been the first.
“I received an email,” Estelle said.
“You don’t like email,” Wes said, realizing it was probably rude to both interrupt and to declare someone’s communication preferences out loud.
“No, I don’t like email, and I especially don’t like when someone has managed to find the one personal email address I use to communicate with my grandkids. I should be glad they write, but I do wish they knew how to write on paper. Schools took away cursive classes and replaced them with coding.Anyway—” She sighed. “I’ve had an interesting email exchange with another agent who says she approached you about an adaptation project, and that you’re familiar with and like that author’s work.”
“To be clear, I do likemywork too,” Wes said in a way he hoped sounded both joking and completely serious, the statement of someone who had worked for years on this book. He’d first readThe Proud and the Lostin college. It wasn’t required reading at boarding school, which considered anything published after WWI to be “a bit modern.” He began writing during his first read-through of the novel in a journaling impulse to anticipate and reflect upon the material, but it spiraled into a manuscript of its own from Clive’s perspective. Clive’s arc from free-spirited rake to domestic tyrant was believable but excruciating.
Wes didn’t know how Maureen had adapted the novel—and if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to root for it. Even knowing its existence was like knowing a tropical fruit grew somewhere on the other side of the world that he might never taste. He had to remind himself that he was perfectly happy with the fruit here, not allow his mouth to water in anticipation of something that might or might not poison him, or at least his mind, against what he already had grown.
“I assume that Yuri Eikura was the one who contacted you. I didn’t tell you because I have trust issues.”
Estelle laughed at that, her face crinkling. “Well, dear Wes, I am the trust, so let’s not make this a bigger issue than we must. Pardon the rhyme. Yes, it was Yuri Eikura, and whatever way she found my email, she did, and I read it. And I do want to hear more from both of you.”
“Yuri and I?” Yuri had fired him. He might not have been in the right for the situation, but he certainly hadn’t been in the wrong. He sucked in his cheeks.
“No, no,” Estelle said. “You and Maureen Denton. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and while I’ve extended the protections on Mother’s copyright, I do have to admit that I’d like to see the next step before my death.”
“Oh, Estelle—” he said, not sure how to complete that sentence, and he was grateful when she cut him off.
“I’m eighty-three now, and time is not promised to any of us. Let me be frank—I’m not good at giving up control.”
Understatement.
“But I know that Talia and Flor would be far more eager to sign any project that comes along. It turns out that family wealth divided between one child—me—doesn’t go as far when divided further to two children and their families. I sense a tidal wave ofProud and Lostafter my death, and I do not enjoy the prospect. Did you take note of the quality of the last project that approached us?”
He had, of course. It was his job to, and the fact that a slasher movie adaptation ofThe Proud and the Losthad made it as far as his desk horrified him as the representative and not just as a fan. Once Estelle passed away, once her daughters took over, there would be nothing to stop that project moving forward. As her family’s current representative, he should technically relish this news. If he forgot about his project and stayed in this position and if there was a rush of adaptations, he would get a cut in each of those concurrent deals. Right now, managing E. J. Morgan’s literary estate was mainly saying no, every day, to everything. It was clear his agency held on to the control for the one day that the trust would beginsaying yes. To him, though, it was worth saying no to maintain his position as representative, even for a chance at maybe. Maybe his adaptationcouldsee the light of day.
“I’d like to invite you and Maureen here to the estate for a weekend to look over your manuscripts in detail. I’ll get to know her, and get to know you on a nonprofessional basis, and find out more about the projects you’ve completed. After the weekend, I’ll decide whether I like either of them and, if I do, I’ll allow one adaptation to move forward.”
Wes released a breath, staring out the window to steady himself. The ground wasn’t really moving; it was his blood pressure going haywire. “A weekend visit?”
“I might decide to allow neither book, please note. But my connection to you, and your appreciation of both your own talent”—here she gave Wes a wink—“and this woman’s, well, let’s begin here. I’d rather have a say in the next chapter of my mother’s work. Might as well start somewhere.”
Later, Wes thought he had agreed to this plan, but he couldn’t be sure. He might have blacked out an entire conversation after that moment. The next thing he remembered was being midchew into a raspberry tart—a delicious one at that—but he had no memory of the first few bites and nearly choked when he realized one was in his mouth. Ulla and Estelle were conversing about local politics, something that mercifully affected his life not at all. Greenwich wasn’t Wes’s problem. He had enough problems as it was, and one of them would include packing an overnight suitcase next weekend and returning here.
CHAPTER THREE
Mo
“What do you pack for a mansion?” Mo turned from her closet, which was approximately half the size of a refrigerator and just as useful for finding impressive, bougie clothes.
“Belle packed nothing, and things turned out fine for her,” Mackenzie said.
