From: Charlotte Lanza
To: Aurore Bardot
Subject: Appointment Ever After Publishing
Hi Miss Bardot,
I’m Charlotte Lanza, the CEO of Ever After Publishing. I’ve come across your manuscript, and I’d like for us to meet. I’ve taken the liberty to book an appointment at our office from 2 p.m. to 2:30 p.m. this Friday.
Cordially,
Charlotte
I faced the premises of Ever After Publishing House, my heels hitting the ground at a murderous tempo. My hands felt moist as I readjusted my excuse for a suit—some of my only clothes that weren’t packed in suitcases. Very soon, I would turn a page on Paris. As for today, there were several hypotheses as to why Charlotte Lanza wanted to meet me.
The first was that she loved my manuscript and wanted to meet the shadow worker with undeniable talent—Luna’s words, not mine. Or, my theory, that I had disrespected the company by asking Spectre to deliver my manuscript to them and didn’t submit an online application to their contest, nor was I referred by any agent, which resulted in them wanting to fire me in person.
“Miss Bardot, I presume?” The door slammed open before I could knock, and I faced a woman wearing a tuxedo. She had a square black haircut and gray eyes the color of a storm. She offered a hand in my direction. “Charlotte Lanza. Please come in.”
I accepted her hand and stepped inside her office with some posters of bestselling books they had published.
She took her place behind her desk and pinned me with a look. “I have to admit the last few days have been rocky for us. I take it you’re familiar with Spectre and are aware of our collaboration?”
Oh no, don’t tell me she invited me here so we could talk about him. This was supposed to be about me. It was my time. “Yes, but I don’t see how it’s relevant to our appointment.”
“It has everything to do with it.” She raised a brow. “Spectre rejected our offer to collaborate together for more than a year, and a couple of months ago, we received a phone call from his agent. Isn’t that weird?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”
“Just like the wizard in your story has nothing to do with him.” She gave me a confident smile, the one that meant she had read my manuscript, which was a good sign. “I think there’s something you need to see for yourself.”
She gestured to me, pointing to an easel covered by a sheet. It was probably the artwork Spectre had done for Ever After. There was a security guard literally guarding it as if he accompanied a celebrity. This looked serious, intense, and I had no idea what my place was in this story.
“Please,” she insisted.
My heart beat wildly with every step I approached. My hands met the material, and I lifted the veil, unmasking Spectre’s piece. A dull noise echoed in my ears, and my knees buckled. I didn’t expect any of that. Tingles ran through my core, my body expressing the words I couldn’t find.
“It’s… The Sad Girl,” I whispered.
Spectre had given The Sad Girl to Ever After. His most precious and by far most expensive painting. The one he said he would never sell, and which was valuable. I was sure Eric must have told him it wasn’t reasonable, but why…. Why would he have done that?
As if magnetized by the painting, my finger almost grazed the canvas. I didn’t know what came over me, but I seized the canvas in my hands, wanting to observe it more closely. Wanting to feel closer to this part of him and of me. The security guard walked over to halt me, but Charlotte gestured for him to stop.
“She’s The Sad Girl. She knows what she’s doing.”
I nodded to her as a thank-you and observed each detail of the painting. I had never been face-to-face with it before. The paint was in several layers, as if he had repainted it a dozen times to get it perfect. The colors between midnight blue and crimson red battled between nostalgia and sadness, and at the same time the passion and eagerness to continue fighting. Life—anything but a monotonous line.
I found it magnificent.
He had illustrated my pain, my tears, but he had seen me underneath all the layers I’d created to protect myself and feel invincible. He had laid bare each of my thoughts by reproducing my expression to perfection. He knew me better than I knew myself, and for that, I no longer hated this painting. On the contrary. Despite the sadness, it was magical. It was a turning point in our history and the day I broke down all the barriers around me. Luna was fine, everyone was fine, the future would be bright.
“He was supposed to deliver to us our one-hundredth anniversary piece, but instead, he had left The Sad Girl, along with a manuscript and a note that said, ‘If you want to know her story, read this manuscript.’ I have to admit it caught my attention.” Charlotte crossed her arms, analyzing the painting that I had laid back on the easel. “The resemblance is striking. This painting has the greatest storytelling of our century; giving us the words behind this art is a gift to us. Even though he played us, it was an inflated act. I think you inspired it, Miss Bardot. Any artist is nothing without a muse, after all.”
Of course, he did it for me.
He did it so I could voice my story.
He made me the main character.
My eyes met those of The Sad Girl. I wouldn’t disappoint her—I wasn’t going to lose it. I was going to do everything I could to make sure we all got the happy ending we deserved—her, me, Spectre, Luna, everyone.
“I’m going to cut to the chase.” Charlotte leaned over her desk, intertwining her fingers together. “I have a question. Does it end happily, or does it not? Just like Spectre, you have a talent for the unexpected, and you took a risk not handing over the end of the story. I’m sure you can imagine how many manuscripts we receive per week? The question is, why should we believe in yours?”
I remained calm, trying not to show my excitement.
“If I’m here, it means you already do. I don’t need to convince you; I only need to be honest.” I wet my lips, the words coming in a wave. “I’d say it’s not your typical ending. We all have different conceptions: for some, it’d be marriage and kids; for others, career accomplishments, and for them, it’s… the freedom to exist as they want to. Neither the evil queen nor the wizard dream of a big wedding, nor do they want to move to a small village and quit their ambitions. They’re both grinding hard, building a kingdom of their own outside of the prince’s realm.”
“I see.” She brought a thumb to her chin. “We’d like to publish your story within our company. You’ll keep your rights, of course, and we’ll settle a partnership contract. You’ll work with an editor, and the ideal would be to market it as soon as possible. We’ll see how the public reacts at the release of the novel, and then we’d probably move to the next step by making it through animation movies if it’s a success.”
“I—wow.” I didn’t have the words. I’d been dreaming of this moment for so long. “This is huge. But I want to make sure you won’t modify my story. I want it the way it is.”
“You are the author—you will have the last word, and we’ll stipulate it inside a contract.” She gave me a sideways shark smile. “My team suggested that we make the evil queen a bit more…” She searched her words. “Likable. She’s too hostile; they believe she needs to be sunnier and lovable, into the line of the pure virgin heroine or with a stronger redemption arc. A grumpy heroine doesn’t sell.”
“But she’s not,” I protested, defending my character. “She’s like every other woman on the planet, because yes, we’re not that different. We struggle. We try our best to be that perfect hero you’re portraying in your stories, but we’re not. We’re not all sunshine, lovely, sparkly, and perfectly good-looking every day. No, we’re messy, and sometimes we’re just not her, but we still want someone to believe we can be a main character too. We just want to be loved and feel worthy too.”
I leaned forward, a fist on the table. “Every woman in this world deserves her happy ending. You know, some of us feel excluded because we don’t feel worthy of it, because we’re not the typical main character that has it all. But we are. There is a happy ending for the misunderstood villain, the sidekick best friend, the freak, the busy mom, the introverted reader, for all of us. We have to stop stereotyping women and telling us how we should be able to find love.”
I knitted my brows and found my strength, a tension raging through my veins. “I want people to read about a woman who overworks herself to be as successful as a privileged white man, just as you are right now. I want to write about her fears, her failures, the way she protects herself because she cannot trust anyone, even if she appears cynical and grumpy. I want to write about that kid who was bullied in school because she was in her own damn world. I want to tell her it’s all going to be okay. I want to write about that little girl who one day wishes to fly because she will never be able to walk and still finds the strength to smile every day. I want to write about that man who stopped living and acts like a phantom because he thinks he isn’t worthy of love, while I do fucking love him! I want to write about all of them because a novel may be fictional, but the impact it leaves on us and the emotions we feel while reading it are true. It stays with us.”
Out of breath after lashing out my most hidden confessions, I relaxed my fisted hand. “You identified with the evil queen, didn’t you?”
She readjusted her suit, poker-faced. “Yes, I did.”
“That’s why we have to believe we’re not the only ones on the bad side of the story. A side character doesn’t have to turn out to be the villain or be left in a corner. It has to shine. Those characters have the potential to be the heroes of a captivating story.” I finally found my voice, my gut showing me the right way. “I’m sorry, but I’ll not change the evil queen. She’s authentic, and I love her the way she is.”
“And I didn’t ask you to.” She gave me another full-tooth smile. “I see the potential in your story, and I’m interested in your voice, in that passion of yours, even if you nearly destroyed my lucky pin underneath your fist.”
“Oh, sorry.” I retracted my hand from the wooden table and the squashed cat pin.
“I want your story, and I’m ready to fight for it.” She stood up from her desk. “Do you have a title?”
“Nevermore.”
“This is a twist to the tale.” She grinned. “Miss Bardot, I hope we’ll collaborate. If you have any questions, I’d be pleased to answer them.”
“I’ll review your contract with my lawyers”—I didn’t have any lawyers—“and we’ll go from there. I appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”
Especially since I had handed over my resignation from the ice cream store at Ever After yesterday. The offer I had been waiting for all my life had finally come, right before my departure to return home. I finally accepted who I truly was without trying to be someone else. We shook hands once, and when I exited her office, my heart was burning in my chest—a mix of adrenaline and fear of the unknown. I took sight of Luna wearing a pink headband and a cute ballerina dress from my closet, waiting for me in front of the entrance, her foot hitting the ground at full speed. She was even more anxious than me. I did not keep her waiting and hurried to join her, trotting in stilettos.
“So?” Her voice was breathy. “How did it go?”
“I believe it’s your birthday, and it’s time for me to show you around Ever After.” My lips curled, leaving the suspense at its peak. “Shall we go now?”
“Aurore! Tell me!” She crossed her arms and pouted.
“‘To my sister, the greatest warrior I know, who showed me that villains, too, could get their happy endings.’ That’s my dedication to you,” I hinted.
“Wait!” Her eyes bulged out from their sockets with that glee I knew so well. “Does it mean—”
“Yes.” My smile was truthful. “I may have conducted a deal with Ever After Publishing. We did it!”
She took me by surprise and jumped into my arms. “I’m so happy! I can’t wait to read it, and I’m not gonna do like your bad habit of reading the ending first.”
For a moment, I let the wave of happiness wash over me, and when my phone rang, I secretly hoped it’d be Ajax. I craved to tell him everything. I missed him, and I hoped with time, the ache in my heart would stop. Except that the person in question was none other than Bernard Dupont-Brillac.
BDB: I hope you haven’t forgotten our meeting tomorrow afternoon. Don’t forget to wear a dress. Artistically.
A knot formed in my throat.
Luna seized my hand and rushed us on our way to Ever After with excitement. “I think this is gonna be your happy ending! All’s well that ends well!”
