Page 29 of Wolfish Player
“Don’t make me regret this…”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Four a.m.
For the fifth day in a row
The coffee burns bitter on my tongue, my eyes sting like sandpaper, and the laptop screen looks more like a spotlight than a blank page. Still, my fingers move.
One sentence. Then another. Then a paragraph.
Some mornings it feels like pulling teeth, others like drowning in words. But every day, by the time the interns stumble in at nine, I’ve stacked up pages ofWildwoodI thought I’d never write again.
My characters have stopped glaring at me in silence. They’re talking. Running. Fighting. And I’m running with them.
It’s exhausting, but there are moments—tiny ones—where it feels good. Where the weight lifts and I almost believe I’m an author again.
For the first time in forever, the words are coming back—and as much as I want to deny it, Adrian Wolfson is the reason why.
THE CEO
ADRIAN
Two Weeks Later
Red Flag Day is here again, but this time I’m prepared for the worst.
I’m holding the meeting in neutral territory—the promotional and marketing library—and I have whiskey chilling in my office upstairs for the moment this is over. I also have Theresa helping me instead of Marcia, which is good—she pushes back a lot less.
“Lay it on me all at once,” I say to her. “Give me the numbers instead of the stories first.”
“Huh?” Theresa arches a brow.
“How many extensions do we need to consider, and how many release dates do we need to push back?”
“Zero.”
I pause. My brain scrambles to process. “Zero?”
“Yes, zero.” She smiles and tosses me the folder. “I couldn’t believe it myself, but I think your soft and gentle promo idea worked.”
“Mywhat?”
“All the agents called and said no publisher has ever done anything like this before. They’re floored. One author sent us a crying selfie, saying she’d never felt so supported in her entire career. Another taped your note to her wall and wrote twenty pages straight.”
“I need you to start speaking words I can understand. What soft and gentle approach are you talking about?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about it, remember?” She winks. “I’ll keep that promise.”
“Theresa…” I grit my teeth. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“I’llshowyou instead. That doesn’t count, I guess.”
She crosses the floor, opening the closet to reveal a stack of sleek, matte-black promo boxes. They aren’t labeled with titles or influencer tags. Instead, bold silver lettering sprawls across the lids:
For an incredibly talented author, from a publisher who is proud to support your books.
