Chapter 4

The meeting was set for the weekend at a private club. Kenna drove me there.

On the way, she gave me some tips. "You know Andrew. He started out making indie films, and he's super picky about aesthetics.

"Since he specifically wants your novel, it means he's really into your story. So, talk to him like you normally would and don't be nervous."

I told her I wasn't nervous.

When we arrived, we were led to a quiet room.

Andrew looked younger than I expected, probably in his late thirties. He was dressed casually in a black hoodie and jeans, and had a copy of The Last Days of Avalon on the table, flipped halfway through and packed with sticky notes.

When he saw me, he stood up, skipping the pleasantries, and went straight to the point. "You're younger than I imagined."

I said, "Thanks."

After we sat down, Andrew opened the book and pointed to a passage in Chapter 17. "Was the ambiguity here intentional, or did you go with your instincts?"

I took a look at the passage. "It was intentional. If I had laid out that character's emotions right then, the outburst in Chapter 23 wouldn't have packed the same punch."

He nodded and flipped a few more pages.

We talked for almost two hours about story structure, character arcs, and pacing. Not a single word about money, the market, or online buzz.

Finally, he closed the book and looked at me. "I'm making this movie. Sort out the contract stuff with my producer. I only have one condition.

"I need to be able to reach you anytime during the adaptation. You don't have to come to set, but I need your permission for the adaptation of the script."

I said, "Sure."

Kenna was practically beaming.

As we walked out, she slung her arm around my shoulders. "Girl, do you know what this means? Andrew's last movie made four hundred million dollars at the box office. If this one blows up—"

I cut her off. "Don't count your chickens yet. We haven't signed the contract."

"Almost there. I'll set up a meeting with the producer next week."

On the way back, I leaned against the car window, watching the streetlights blur past, and remembered what Fernando had said at the café. "Do you think because you married me, you deserve a share of my house?"

He'd never know what that house meant to me.

With the royalties from one of my books, I could buy three houses like that.

*****

The week the contract was signed, everything went smoothly.

The final copyright fee was set at 4 million dollars. I got 70%, which came out to 2.8 million dollars. Kenna took 15% as her agent's commission.

When the payment notification hit my phone, I was at the office, working through a third round of edits.

I glanced at it, closed the notification, and kept editing.

After seeing those kinds of numbers so many times, they barely register anymore. Three years ago, when my first royalties came in, my hands were shaking. Now, I didn't even blink.

But some things never let me catch a break.

That afternoon, as I walked out of the office, I spotted someone by the flower bed at the entrance.

It was Fernando.

He was wearing that familiar gray trench coat, holding a cup of coffee, and walked over as soon as he saw me. "I'm here to pick you up."

I didn't move. "Fernando, we're divorced."

"I know. I just want to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Alivia, five minutes."

I checked my watch. It was 5:40. "Go ahead, say it here."

He offered me the coffee, but I didn't take it. He didn't push it, and pulled it back to himself. "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. About that plan, I really didn't consider you enough. If you're willing—"

"I'm not."

He seemed to be hurt by my interruption. "You're not going to let me finish talking?"

"Fernando, I already know what you're about to say. You want to negotiate your plan. You want us to try again. But that's not what this is about."

I looked at him. "That spreadsheet was just the symptom. The real problem is in your head. Deep down, you always see your money as yours, and mine as something for the family.

"That mindset isn't going anywhere, no matter how many times you try to change the plan."

His lips parted, but he stayed silent.

I turned and walked away.

After I'd walked a few steps, he called out from behind, "So what are you going to do on your own?"

I didn't turn around or slow down.

'Being alone is a hundred times easier than being with you,' I thought.

I thought Fernando would finally give up after that.

But he didn't.