Chapter 107: The Dangerous Discovery of Feeling
The moment I said yes, Camillia’s entire posture changed like someone had just lifted a ten–pound weight off her shoulders. She looked genuinely relieved, which immediately made me suspicious. People do not look that relieved unless they have either solved a major life problem or successfully convinced someone else to handle it. “Thank you,” she said warmly, standing up from the chair across my desk. “You have no idea how much this helps.” I watched her cautiously. “I feel like I might eventually have a very clear idea.”
Camillia laughed softly, smoothing her coat as she prepared to leave. “I promise I won’t make this difficult.” I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. “You just recruited the emotionally compromised editor of the birthday boy to help organize a surprise party.” She considered that for a second. “When you say it like that, it does sound dramatic.” I pointed at her. “It is dramatic.” She smiled politely. “I’ll call you tomorrow so we can start planning.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated weakly, like someone being informed of an upcoming dental surgery. Camillia nodded. “Yes. We’ll figure out the venue and the guest list.” I rubbed my forehead slowly. “Guest list. Fantastic. Nothing has ever gone wrong with a guest list.” She laughed again, clearly enjoying herself far too much for someone who had just dropped a logistical grenade in my office. “Relax,” she said lightly. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fun,” I echoed, the word sounding deeply suspicious in my mouth. Camillia gave me one last friendly smile before walking toward the door. “Thank you again, Leila.” I waved a hand weakly. “Yes, yes, you’re welcome, goodbye, please leave before I realize I’ve made a terrible decision.” She chuckled and stepped out of the office.
The door had barely clicked shut when it swung open again with the subtlety of a dramatic stage entrance. Elliot marched inside like a man who had been waiting for this exact moment his entire life. He stopped in front of my desk, crossed his arms, and stared at me with the expression of someone about to deliver deeply unnecessary commentary.
“Well,” he said slowly. “That was interesting.”
I looked up at him with the exhausted patience of someone who had already lived through enough chaos for one morning. “If you’re here to offer helpful professional support,” I said dryly, “I suggest you begin immediately.” Elliot leaned forward onto my desk with a grin that could only be described as extremely smug. “Oh, I’m here to offer something much more valuable.” I narrowed my eyes. “That sentence worries me.”
He clasped his hands together like a detective about to interrogate a suspect. “So,” he began casually, “that very calm, very pretty woman who just left…” I groaned immediately. “No.” Elliot ignored me completely. “…was she the hypothetical sunshine woman you were asking about earlier?” I stared at him. “Hypothetical sunshine woman?” He nodded enthusiastically. “You know. The one you asked me about twenty minutes ago.”
“I asked you if I looked like a jealous person,” I corrected sharply.
“Yes,” Elliot said cheerfully, “and then approximately five minutes later your Hypothetical sunshine woman enters your office.”
I stared at him across the desk, wondering briefly if workplace policies allowed editors to legally fire assistants for excessive curiosity. “First of all,” I said slowly, “she is not a hypothetical sunshine woman. She is a real person with a real name.” Elliot leaned forward immediately, eyes lighting up like a detective who had just discovered the suspect was about to confess. “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s begin with that. Name?”
I sighed deeply. “Camillia.”
Elliot repeated the name thoughtfully. “Camillia,” he murmured, pacing slowly in front of my desk like an investigator building a case. “Elegant name. Slightly intimidating. Definitely sunshine-coded.” I rubbed my forehead. “Please stop assigning personality weather patterns to people.” He ignored me completely. “So Camillia came here to see you.” He pointed dramatically. “Why?”
I hesitated for half a second, which was unfortunately enough time for Elliot’s curiosity to reach dangerous levels. “Leila,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes, “you are hesitating. That means the answer is either embarrassing, illegal, or romantic.” I dropped my head against the back of my chair. “None of those.”
“Then answer the question,” he said immediately.
“She came to ask for help,” I admitted.
“With what?” Elliot asked.
I closed my eyes briefly, already regretting every life choice that had led to this conversation. “Planning a birthday party.”
Elliot blinked. Once. Twice. “A birthday party,” he repeated carefully. “Yes.”
“For who?”
I opened one eye. “Grayson.”
There was a long pause. Elliot’s expression slowly transformed from curiosity to pure, unfiltered shock. “Grayson,” he repeated again. “As in Grayson Hale?”
“Yes.”
“And Camillia,” he continued cautiously, “is asking you to help plan his birthday party?”
“Yes.”
“And you said yes?”
“…Yes.”
Elliot stared at me for a full five seconds like he had just watched someone willingly step into a burning building. Then he dragged a chair across the floor and sat down directly in front of my desk. “Alright,” he said calmly. “We need to talk.”
“We do not need to talk,” I replied immediately.
“We absolutely do,” he insisted. “Because there are several questions here that require immediate clarification.” He held up one finger. “First question: who exactly is Camillia?”
“She’s…” I paused briefly.
Elliot leaned closer. “Yes?”
“…Grayson’s ex-girlfriend.”
The silence that followed was so dramatic it deserved background music. Elliot slowly leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like he was recalculating the entire universe. “Let me summarize,” he said finally. “Your author’s ex-girlfriend came to your office to ask you to help organize his birthday party.”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“And earlier today you asked me if you looked like a jealous person.”
I folded my arms defensively. “Those are unrelated topics.”
Elliot looked at me with the gentle patience of someone explaining basic logic to a confused toddler. “Leila,” he said slowly, “those topics are extremely related.”
“I am not jealous,” I said immediately.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Because usually when someone says I am not jealous that quickly, it means they are approximately seventy percent jealous.”
“I am zero percent jealous,” I corrected.
Elliot waved his hand dismissively. “Fine. Hypothetically speaking.” He leaned forward again. “Why would you care enough to feel jealous of Grayson’s ex-girlfriend?”
“I don’t,” I said firmly.
“Then why did you look like someone emotionally injured by sunlight when she walked in?”
“I did not look emotionally injured by sunlight.”
“You absolutely did,” he said cheerfully.
I opened my mouth to argue, but Elliot suddenly froze mid-thought. His eyes widened slowly like someone watching a puzzle piece slide perfectly into place. “Oh,” he said quietly.
I frowned. “Oh what?”
He pointed at me dramatically. “Oh.”
“That is not a complete sentence,” I said irritably.
Elliot leaned back in his chair with the satisfied smile of a man who had just solved a mystery. “You’re falling for him.”
My brain immediately short-circuited. “Excuse me?”
“You’re falling for Grayson,” Elliot repeated calmly.
“That is ridiculous,” I said instantly.
“Is it?” he asked. “Because your reaction to his ex-girlfriend entering the room suggests otherwise.”
“I reacted normally.”
“You nearly threw a pen through the glass,” he reminded me.
“That was unrelated,” I muttered.
Elliot studied me carefully, his expression shifting from teasing to something slightly more serious. “Leila,” he said quietly, “if you are falling for him… this could become a disaster.”
I rolled my eyes. “Nothing is becoming a disaster.”
“You realize who he is, right?” Elliot continued.
“Of course I do. He’s my client.”
“And he’s also the author of Ashen King,” Elliot added.
I frowned slightly. “Yes.”
“And do you remember who wrote the most devastating literary review of that book?”
I stared at him blankly for a moment before the realization slowly crawled into my brain.
Elliot leaned forward and delivered the final sentence like a prosecutor presenting evidence.
“Lady Seraphina Wrenford.”
The name landed like a small explosion in the room.
“And,” Elliot added gently, “if I remember correctly…”
He pointed at me again.
“…that was you.”