Chapter 62 Coward
I finish the letter without rereading it. If I reread it, I’ll edit it. If I edit it, I’ll soften it. And I’m not here to soften anything.
I print it.
The machine hums, indifferent. I open my drawer and pull out an envelope, the paper heavier than necessary. My hands are steady...that surprises me. I walk to the printer and lift the single sheet from the tray. It’s warm.
Back at my desk, I sit, uncap my pen, and sign my name properly. Then I slide it into the envelope, no hesitation. I stand, walk to the supply closet, grab one of the standard archive boxes, and bring it back to my office. I don’t take much.
A few marked-up manuscripts I care about. A fountain pen I bought the year I was hired. A small stack of notebooks.
And the photograph of me and my mother. Years ago. Her hand on my shoulder. Both of us laughing at something I can’t remember now. That one goes in carefully. I close the box but don’t seal it. Just set it on the desk.
I should have given notice. Two weeks. Professional courtesy, the kind of thing people expect from someone in my position. But I won’t. Once I hand this in, I’m done. And then I’ll go back to Ryan. That thought is the only thing steadying my pulse. I leave my office and walk down the hall toward Susan’s.
The windows are shielded....frosted and opaque. I can’t see inside to confirm if she’s there. But my assistant told me she was. I make a quiet mental note to find her something better. She deserves it. Competent people always deserve better than this place.
I knock, there's muffled voices coming from inside, low and conversational. So she’s definitely in. I wait a beat, and just as I’m about to knock again, the door swings open.
Susan’s brows lift slightly when she sees me, then her lips stretch into that polished, immaculate smile. Sweet at first glance. Surgical up close.
“Well,” she says lightly, voice honeyed. “How lovely. You finally remembered you’re employed here and decided to grace us with your presence.”
I give her a curt nod.
“Susan.”
Her smile tightens by a fraction. “Funny, actually. We were just about to call for you.”
I frown slightly. “We?”
Her smile widens. She steps aside and opens the door a little wider. And I look past her into the room. Cyrus Foster stands near her desk. Immaculate suit, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
My father.
The reaction is immediate. My heart doesn’t just race....it stutters, then pounds too fast, too loud. My palms go cold. It’s always been like this. No matter how old I get, no matter how accomplished. The moment I see him, something in me reverts. It tightens and braces. And suddenly, the envelope in my hand feels heavier than it did a moment ago.
For a split second, I feel that familiar, humiliating shift.
Coward.
It settles into my bones before I can stop it. No matter how many contracts I’ve negotiated. Standing here, looking at him, I feel seventeen again...caught between expectation and inadequacy. Even from this distance, I can see it in his face. That quiet, clinical disappointment. The kind that doesn’t raise its voice.
“Michael.”
He says my name the way he always has.
Measured and cool. As if I’m an associate he finds faintly inconvenient. An old acquaintance he’d rather not be trapped in conversation with but will endure for formality’s sake.
I step inside.
“Good afternoon.”
My voice is even. Polite and professional. I glance at him briefly. “I thought you were abroad.”
“I was,” he replies smoothly. “Wrapped things up ahead of schedule. Flew in yesterday.”
Of course he did, he never lingers anywhere longer than necessary. Efficiency above all. I nod once. Behind us, Susan moves back to her desk, heels clicking softly against the floor. She settles into her chair, folds her hands atop a leather portfolio, and looks between us with thinly veiled satisfaction.
“I was just telling your father,” she says pleasantly, “about some recent inconsistencies.” Her smile is refined. “Your engagement levels have been....less than exemplary. A noticeable decline in presence, focus and initiative.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“It’s unlike you.”
My father doesn’t look at her while she speaks. He keeps his eyes on me. Assessing.
Always assessing.
“And here I was,” Susan continues lightly, “hoping you might clarify whether this is temporary fatigue or a more permanent shift in priorities.”
The envelope in my hand feels almost absurd now. I came here prepared to walk away..And suddenly it feels less like an act of resolve and more like confirmation of every doubt he’s ever had about me.
He father doesn’t sit. He stands there like this is a briefing. “Do you understand how important our work is?” he asks calmly. “How valuable time is?”
His tone is the kind that suggests the answer is obvious and my failure to embody it is disappointing.
“I don’t know what’s causing this... distraction,” he continues, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But I trust you’ll handle it. Whatever it is. And get your head back in the game.”
He doesn’t ask, doesn’t give me the space to respond..Instead, he reaches to Susan’s desk, picks up a thick document, and holds it out to me. I take it automatically.
“What is this?” I ask.
His expression shifts....not warmth, exactly, but something close to satisfaction.
“I’ve secured a new client.”
Of course he has.
“Vivienne Hansen.”
The name lands with weight.
“She’s been entertaining offers for nearly a year. Every major house has pursued her. It required persistence. Negotiation. A significant investment.”
A faint glance toward Susan.
“Costly,” he adds evenly. “But worthwhile.”
He folds his hands again.
“She’s developing a new manuscript. Early stages. There’s already considerable interest circulating. Pre-release chatter. Foreign rights inquiries. Streaming speculation.”
His voice remains measured, but there’s a current beneath it. Strategic pride. “I’ve assigned her to you.”
I look down at the document in my hands. Preliminary outlines, contract drafts, internal memos.
“She requires strong editorial leadership,” he continues. “Discipline. Vision. Someone capable of shaping something promising into something exceptional.”
His eyes lock with mine.
“You’ll need to clear your calendar. Reorder your priorities. Whatever personal distractions have diluted your focus....set them aside.”
Not a suggestion but an instruction.
“This is an opportunity,” he finishes. “One that reinforces your position here.”
Reinforces, as if it’s in question. I slide the papers partially from the folder, scanning the opening summary, while still holding my envelope in my other hand. Moments ago, it felt decisive. Now it just feels eclipsed. Shadowed by expectation. By the weight of a surname that isn't really mine but that I've never stopped carrying.
“You should reach out to her immediately,” he says, voice clipped. “Introduce yourself. Arrange a formal meeting. Make it clear you’re the point of contact moving forward.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make the point sting. “Susan and I will be following along. Ensuring you operate as expected.” His emphasis lands like a quiet reprimand, polite but biting.
Glancing at his watch, he snaps the words off with that same economy, “That’ll be all.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. The courage I’d carried in here...my plan, my letter, my intention to walk out, feels like it’s being corralled, pushed to the back of my mind and ignored.
Susan shifts in her chair, leaning just slightly forward. “Is there something you wanted to discuss?” Her eyes flick briefly to the envelope in my hand.
I glance at my father, then back at her. And I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing.”
And I hate myself for it. Hate myself for letting it slide. For not taking the step I came here to take.