TWO MONTHS AGO

I groaned, slamming my laptop shut with more force than necessary. The cursor had blinked at me tauntingly for the last hour, its incessant electronic pulse mocking my utter creative drought.

What was wrong with me? The words that had once flowed so effortlessly now strained and stuttered in my mind like an engine desperate for oil. This shouldn't be happening to someone like me—who'd crafted steamy romances as "Lady Wordsmith" and won multiple Romance Writers of America awards. I was a New York Times bestselling author, for crying out loud!

I raked frustrated hands through my tangled hair, grimacing at the greasy texture. When was the last time I'd bothered with basic hygiene?

A sharp trill from my phone splintered the heavy silence, making me jump. I shot the device a venomous glare before scooping it up, unsurprised to see Leon's shit-eating grin leering up from the new message preview.

'You know you need a break when even your silver-tongued wordsmithing has abandonado you, mi amiga. Come out and play for once?'

I huffed out a begrudging laugh at his attempt to swing between cheesy Spanish and old west slang. As insufferable as Leon could be, he never failed to weasel his way under my skin with those irreverent quips. The incorrigible flirt likely thought he was being suave.

'Don't make me come over there and charm the panties off you, Wordsworth. You know I have my dastardly ways 😈'

I snorted indelicately, feeling some of the tension unwind at his reliably unsubtle antics. There was just no denying that Leon marched through life to the beat of his own brazenly roguish drum. So I really shouldn't have been surprised when my doorbell rang a few minutes later.

I glowered in the general direction, fully prepared to lay into Leon for having the audacity to beckon me out like one of his mindless beach bimbo crowd.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang out with an insistent jarring that set my teeth on edge. "You just couldn't resist making good on your dastardly threat, could you?"

I flung the door open, ready to dress him down with one of my patented scorching reproofs. But the words shriveled up and died on my tongue as I registered who was actually standing on my doorstep.

"Ira..." I choked out, mortification burning my cheeks even hotter as I realized how rangy and unshowered I must look.

My publicist gave me an appraising look through those ridiculous wire-rimmed glasses, one perfectly groomed brow arching in silent judgment. Of course, the perpetually impeccable Ira Menezes would choose the exact wrong moment to show his smug face. Because the universe loved nothing more than compounding my humiliations at every turn.

"Abigail," he said at last, his smooth tone somehow even more grating than usual in its studied neutrality. "May I come in? I have a matter to discuss with you regarding your...status with the firm."

My gut curdled with dread at his pointed phrasing. This was about more than a mere publicity meet and greet - Ira had that distinct air of displeased bureaucrat in need of doling out corporate edicts.

Though every instinct urged me to simply slam the door and hide away in my squalid creative cave, I managed a terse nod and stepped aside to admit him. Best to simply face whatever new lashing awaited with what little tattered dignity remained intact.

The moment the door clicked shut behind us, Ira was all prim business - briefcase flipped open to extract a slim file, crisp strides eating up distance toward my living area without even awaiting permission. I trailed in his imperiously dismissive wake, skin prickling with trepidation.

"You'll forgive me for dispensing with the usual pleasantries, Abigail," Ira began in that same detached tone, meticulously arranging his documents on the coffee table before fixing me with a flat stare. "But your recent...output has become a rather pressing matter."

A wave of nausea rolled through me, because I already knew what was coming. The numbers from my final two books under my original contract had been...less than spectacular. Disappointing sales, scathing reviews from numerous major critics about how I'd lost my creative spark and unique charm. If Ira was here for anything, it could only mean those dismal performances had finally caught up with me.

Still, a tiny stubborn part clung to hope. "The last couple releases were...divisive, I'll admit. But surely the backers see the bigger picture? I mean, every artist has a slump at some point -"

Ira's sardonic chuckle sliced through my desperate rambling with all the warmth of a stainless steel scalpel. "I wish I could be so optimistic, my dear." That arched brow mocked me again as his tongue slicked over thin lips in an annoyingly condescending way.

"But the fact is, you're no longer just an 'artist' indulging in personal creative dalliances. Not after shattering every conceivable record with The Bramblewick Bride and sending our projections into the stratosphere. You became a corporate investment, Abigail - one expected to appreciate exponentially each fiscal quarter."

I wanted to object, to lash out at this callous bureaucrat reducing my life's work to crass columns and projected percentages. But a hard lump of truth lodged in my throat, because for all his oily pragmatism...Ira wasn't wrong. That was the deal I'd signed away my soul for, after all - the ungodly book advance and publicity blitz in exchange for quantifiable, perpetual output on an increasingly inflated scale.

When I remained silent, Ira continued in that same bland timbre that sanded nerves raw. "Luckily for you, the board is willing to indulge one final gambit in hopes you can recapture your formerly impressive bankability."

Dread and desperate hope warred within me as Ira slid a glossy 8x10 headshot across the table with an ominous lack of preamble. The image showed only a silhouette—broad shoulders, a confident stance, but no discernible features. Whoever this ghostwriter was, he clearly wanted to remain anonymous.

"Tristan Marshall," Ira supplied before I could even begin to place the man. "Twelve works under his belt, ridiculously overqualified, and has nearly as much raw literary talent as you do ego and emotional unavailability."

My gaze flew back to Ira's, a sliver of cold clarity sharpening my outrage. "You're not saying..."

"I'm afraid I have little choice." His expression was utterly dispassionate, the shark-eyed look of a corporate lackey simply following distasteful dictates. "Management has decided to pair you with Mr. Marshall as literary...partners, for lack of a better term."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach as the implication brutally slotted into place. They were setting me up with some brash, talented younger novelist as a ghostwriting team - no different than Lindsay Lohan dusting off her writing "talents" by slapping her name all over someone else's actual work.

"You can't be serious," I bit out, numb rage leeching the color from my vision. "After everything, you're...demoting me to some washed up celebrity hack pimping out a ghostwriter?"

"Not at all." And now there was an edge of weary condescension in Ira's tone that made me want to throttle him where he sat so primly. "This is a collaboration between two singular talents, a chance to stoke those glimmering creative embers anew with fresh infusions of passion and skill. Think of Mr. Marshall as your...inspirational companion."

Every fiber of my being rebelled against the pernicious implication. To allow some preening, silver-tongued smooth talker to blunder in and corral my inspiration with his unsolicited "skill"? It was a vile desecration, a garish disruption to the sacred creative sphere.

Which, of course, was precisely the intention. I could practically see the insidious corporate calculations playing out - strip away my art's purity to refine it into something maximally profitable, commercially bankable. Production over authenticity, soulless money-making over the boundless imaginative territory that had made me fall in love with storytelling in the first place.

Gritting my teeth, I finally met Ira's merciless stare head on. "Over my dead body."

The corners of his lips twitched in a semblance of disdain. "I was rather hoping you'd feel that way, despite your disadvantageous position."

With a put-upon sigh, he removed his glasses and began cleaning the lenses with a monogrammed cloth in one of those insufferable power moves lesser minds always defaulted to.

"We wouldn't want to extinguish that delightful defiance and passion altogether, now would we?" His gaze took on a sly glint as he replaced the spectacles. "But rest assured, whether you accept Mr. Marshall's literary overtures or not, another contract extension is...unlikely.

I suggest you make the most of this opportunity, Abigail," Ira continued, his tone taking on a patina of thinly veiled threat. "Mr. Marshall's involvement is non-negotiable at this stage. Refuse to play ball, and I can promise your remaining advance will be...reassessed quite severely."

The insidious implication landed like a sucker punch, stealing what little remaining wind there was in my sails. They couldn't be serious - revoking my hard-earned contracted payments over this authorial travesty?

But even as my mind rebelled, icy pragmatism wormed its way through the cracks. Without that safety net of funding, I would be cast into the untenable situation of having to produce on a relentless deadline calendar while simultaneously finding alternative employment to make ends meet. An untenable situation that would all but guarantee I could never recapture my creative spark, let alone resuscitate my floundering career.

Ira watched the warring desperation play out across my features with an impassive mask of indifference. "I'll allow you a few days to...acclimate to this new paradigm," he said at last, beginning to repack his file with crisp efficiency. "But make no mistake - this is the precipice, Abby. Your steadfast compliance and tandem inscription with Mr. Marshall is the only viable path forward from here."

With that pronoucement, he rose in a swathe of expensive cologne and tailoring, leaving me gaping in his unhurried wake. I remained frozen until the sharp rap of the front door slamming announced his departure, the crass finality ringing with sickening implications.

The shrill ring of my phone sliced through my misery. I glanced at the caller ID and rolled my eyes.

"What do you want, Leon?" I answered flatly.

"Well, hello to you too, sunshine," came his infuriatingly chipper voice. "I thought I'd swing by and take my favorite award-winning author out for dinner. You know, get you out of your hermit cave for a bit."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. As obnoxious as Leon could be, some fresh air and a change of scenery might be just what I needed to get a clear head on the whole ghostwriter debacle.

"Fine," I relented. "Meet me at the usual place at eight thirty?"

"You got it, babe. And wear something cute - you know how much I love your little sundresses."

I scoffed and hung up without saying goodbye, equal parts amused and increasingly flustered by his unrepentant flirtations.

Leon may be an infuriating ass most of the time, but he had an utterly enviable way of simply barreling through life's crises with that stubborn charisma of his. Maybe a small dose of his roguish perspective was precisely what I needed.