CRUEL FORTUNE (Cruel #2)

1. Natalie

Natalie

1

Natalie,

I spoke with Gillian last week and confirmed the remaining details for your New York trip. We’re both so excited to see you and celebrate the release of Bet on It. It’s been a year in the making. Hard to believe that it’s finally here.

I’ve attached the itinerary that Gillian sent over and penciled in our lunch to discuss your next book. I am interested to hear all your brilliant ideas.

If you need anything or have questions, I’m always a phone call away. Congratulations, Natalie! I’m so proud of you!

Regards,

Caroline Liebermann

Whitten, Jones, & Liebermann Literary

Fwd:

Caroline,

Here is the finalized itinerary for Natalie. I hope to see you at the party as well.

Best,

Gillian Kent

Senior Editor

Warren Publishing

Itinerary

Sunday

1:20 p.m. Flight—ticket attached

Monday

10:30 a.m. Warren tour

11:00 a.m. Warren meeting

7:30 p.m. Warren dinner @ Twig

Tuesday

12:00 p.m. Lunch w/Caroline @ Norma’s (You’ll love it!)

6:00 p.m. Bet on It release party @ Club 360

Wednesday

12:00–4:00 p.m. Signing @ The Strand on Broadway

8:00 p.m. Hamilton

Thursday

7:30 a.m. Flight—ticket attached

I stared down at my phone, then back up at the Warren Publishing building on Fifth Avenue, then back at my phone, and then back up to the building.

“Would you chill out, Nat?” Amy muttered next to me. “This is clearly the right place.”

Of course it was. With its distinct, flourishing W that looked like two crossed Vs with a loop off of the last one. I’d dreamed about this moment my whole life, and now that it was here, I didn’t feel excited or relieved or giddy. I felt sick mostly. Really sick. Like, at any moment, the stress and anxiety of knowing that I was going to release a book tomorrow might overwhelm me.

“I know it is. I just can’t believe this is happening,” I finally said.

“Your dreams are all coming true. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except for the fact that all I’ve done since I finished the edits on Bet on It is write a few paragraphs and delete them. Rinse and repeat. Now, my agent, my editor, and the entire publishing team at Warren are going to want to know what I’m writing next. And I haven’t written anything.”

Amy rolled her big brown eyes. “Just be a diva about it and tell them that genius only strikes when it’s ready. You aren’t beholden to them. God knows I’ve worked with enough artists to know that. Your publisher should, too.”

Amy was probably right. But it didn’t lessen my nerves an ounce.

Not the least of all because I was back in this city.

My eyes scanned the skyscrapers, dirty sidewalks, crush of taxis, and jittery, frazzled pedestrians rushing to and fro. A year ago, I’d thought that this would be my home. That, despite getting fired from my job as a vacation home watcher for the mayor of New York City, I’d still land on my feet here in this beautiful, crazy city.

But, now, when I looked around at all the hustle and bustle, all the glamour of the city that never sleeps, all I saw was him.

Penn Kensington.

My heart lurched uncomfortably in my chest. I didn’t like to think about him. Or what he’d done to me. Or how he’d used me. Again.

But being here…it was hard not to see him on every street corner.

Those all-knowing blue eyes. The dark hair that he’d constantly mussed as he furiously wrote philosophical musings into his leather-bound notebook. The shape of his muscular body. The habit of slipping his hands into his pockets and staring straight into my soul. His smile, his laugh, the way he’d insisted on teaching me how to sail, how to think, how to learn. Not to mention, his tiny Italian greyhound puppy, Totle. Every little thing about him that had made me fall head over heels, madly in love with him.

And how it had all shattered into pieces a year ago.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Amy said quietly. She touched my shoulder as if she were trying to reel in a kicked dog.

“I’ll be fine.” I cleared my blurred vision and shook away the stray scraps of him from my imagination. “Anyway, I guess I should probably head inside.”

Amy gave me one last concerned look before nodding. “Damn straight. You’re going to rock this.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to take the tour with me?”

“And give up shopping on Fifth Avenue? Are you crazy?”

I chuckled. “You are an enigma.”

“I’ll look for something nice for you. Maybe some Louboutins of your own.” She winked.

“Don’t you dare!”

Amy cackled. “That’ll be the day.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Remember that you’re a star, this book is going to blow up, and they should be wooing you. Not the other way around.” Amy smacked my ass. “Now, get on in there and be the rock star you already are.”

“I’ll meet you for lunch,” I called out to her as she sashayed down Fifth Avenue toward Bergdorf Goodman.

Amy waved her hand in response.

With a deep breath, I yanked on the large gold handle, heaved open the glass door, and entered Warren Publishing. My heels clicked on the white marble floor as I stared, awestruck at the massive entrance. It looked more like a ballroom in a European palace than the foyer of a publishing house. Marble columns lined the room with decorative molding festooned around the perimeter. An enormous domed ceiling was on display high above, painted with a life-sized mural of cherubs enjoying a summer’s day. The entire effect was stunning, if not a bit overwhelming.

“Natalie!”

I startled out of my trance and found my editor, Gillian, striding confidently toward me. She was in her mid-thirties with short, dark hair that swept across her forehead, square black glasses, and bright red lipstick. She was tall and wiry in a straight black pantsuit.

She vigorously shook my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I recognized you right away with that silver hair. I love it. I keep telling my wife to dye her hair that color.”

I reflexively fingered my silvery-white signature locks. I’d dyed it that color in college, and it had stuck. I’d thought about chopping it all off last fall when I got home, but I couldn’t do it.

“Thanks, Gillian. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“I feel like we’ve known each other for years,” Gillian said. She gestured for me to follow her out of the main entrance, and we walked toward an array of elevators. “I’m glad we were able to get this to work out.”

“Me too.”

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” she asked as we stepped into an empty elevator. She pressed a button, and the doors slid closed.

“Nervous,” I admitted.

“Me, too. Always am on release days. Even ones I know are going to go crazy, like yours. The preorder numbers are through the roof, and the early reviews are spectacular. But still…nerves!”

I laughed at Gillian’s effusive manner. We’d had a few calls leading up to this point, and she had always seemed over the top then, too, but she was practically larger than life in person.

“Okay. We don’t have a ton of time for a tour. But I want you to see my favorite things and then meet the team. Sound good?”

I nodded. And as Gillian took me around the various divisions of Warren Publishing, I wondered why I had ever been nervous about it. She was lively and eager to introduce me to everyone. In person, we were as close as we had been on the phone. Everyone seemed excited to meet me. It actually felt like coming home. Like I could just open up my laptop and get to work.

“And this is the Bookshelf,” she said as we stepped up to a small bookshelf lined with forward-facing books. “This is where all the new releases are held.”

And there at the center was Bet on It with its intense blue cover and cleverly placed white letters with a little tagline that read, Based on a true story. At the bottom was the pen name I’d chosen: Olivia Davies.

I’d wanted to use Natalie Bishop. I’d always envisioned my own name on the book, but this book, this one right here, it wasn’t possible. Not when Penn or his mother or any of his friends could pick it up and see it had pieces of what had happened woven into the pages.

So, I’d used my middle name and my mother’s maiden name. It didn’t feel like me quite yet. Even as Gillian introduced me as Olivia to the rest of the team. She knew me as Natalie because we’d worked together for a year, but it wasn’t widely known, and I wanted to keep it that way.

It was why I wasn’t going out on a book tour for this book, to my publisher’s chagrin. I’d agreed to one book party and one signing—no pictures allowed—while I was in the city. Lord help us all that they didn’t ruin everything.

“Would you mind signing it?” Gillian asked, holding out a Sharpie.

I took it reverently and then signed my name on the inside. I’d practiced signing as Olivia, so I wouldn’t mess it up, and seeing it there like that made me glad that I had.

“Magic,” I whispered.

“It’s perfect! Now, let’s head up to our meeting, and then you’ll be free until dinner.”

I placed the book back on the Bookshelf and then followed Gillian upstairs to the meeting room. I braced myself for questions about what I was working on and the lies I was surely going to tell. I had other books that I’d tried to work on. Plus, I had my road-trip book that I had started writing last year. I’d put it aside to work on Bet on It and was glad I’d done so. Now, I didn’t know how to tell them that I had nothing else. That my muse had vanished as swiftly as I’d finished this story.

I hoped that I wouldn’t have to admit that today.

“The lady of the hour,” Gillian called excitedly as she entered the room, “Olivia Davies.”

I laughed and stepped into the conference room. My heart was in my throat at the splatter of applause from everyone at Warren. They all stood up from their seats and came over to say hello to me. I was just moving up to the head of the room with Gillian to take my seat when a side door opened, and a figure ducked his head into the conference room.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was hell.”

My eyes lifted to meet his as I realized that I recognized that voice. I took in the black suit that molded to his body, the award-winning smile, smooth brown skin, and dark chocolate-brown eyes that I’d been certain I wouldn’t see here. Because he didn’t work for Warren Publishing. He worked with hedge funds. Not the publishing company that was his namesake.

“Lewis?” I gasped.

When he took in my shock, he smirked. “Hey, gorgeous.”