Bright Bird.
Those two words continued to twirl around my mind—Bright Bird Publishing—as I forced my laptop into my tote. I threw my manuscript in there, too, before finalizing my look with a vintage scarf over my head. Elegance was an important escort to a meeting like this.
I didn't know anything about the company prior to yesterday. I'd simply submitted my manuscript to five different publishing companies I'd stumbled across online and seriously considered not getting any reply. They'd proven me wrong; that an amateurish author like me could be emailed by a big company like Bright Bird.
Bright Bird; hear our voices through our fingers.
What beautiful motto, rather intriguing. Up until now, due to the burst of excitement floating around my chest, I had not yet completely read the article on Bright Bird, but had gotten some knowledge about its founders and the editor who'd sent me an email.
Vera Lenci.
I even knew — by heart — ten overly successful books that had been published under the company. I'd read six of them a couple of years ago without knowing it, and without the slightest clue that I'd someday be putting on a four-inches pair of heels and a pencil skirt in preparation to meet someone there.
It was five minutes to eight, and my meeting was at nine. Breakfast was at the bottom of my list of important things at the moment. Calling April wasn't. Her flat was directly above mine.
If I told you that her flat's location was the reason we started this "friendship," you wouldn't believe me. Her footsteps had sounded so heavy that I'd thought they were footsteps until I went up there to confront her and saw that she had a big studio set-up with LED lights and chairs. It had been an irritating experience when I tried to concentrate on a plot and would be distracted by heavy objects.
Now I'd simply smile at the sounds like they were inspirational, and would text her to know which brand she was getting ready to shoot for.
Me: Would you come see this killer outfit in person or should I take a shabby picture of it for you?
I dropped my phone on the vanity after sending the message and smoothened out my dark purple chiffon blouse.
A beep made me stretch to see what popped up on my phone's screen. It was a message from her.
April Holt (neighbor): Is that a question? I'll be downstairs in five. Don't move an inch until I'm there.
A smile lodged at the sides of my lips. I sat down at the edge of my bed and made an effort not to think of Mr. Black, Joanna, Ivan, Ice Phantom, Britain.
Those words were filled with sorrowful thoughts that I wanted no part in, not when I was an hour away from changing my life. I'd rather think of Jerry. I mean, he'd been a gentleman. He'd seen me home last night. And though his lips had almost landed on mine, I didn't think him a jerk. It could have been anyone.
What do you know about this guy, Xenia?
He's thirty six. Has a good smile and a five-minute-worth-staring-at set of teeth. Cooking, skydiving and playing the piano are hobbies.
He was a graduate of the University of Milan. Studied journalism and mass communication.
I think the only thing I hadn't learned was where he got all that money from. But if I was still good at piecing things together, a journalist could afford a Tommy Hilfiger and that model of Toyota.
He could afford to be inside the second place he'd proposed to take me on a date. Oh, yes, I'd stupidly agreed to be there on Friday night.
The door screamed open, pushing April into my bedroom as a surprised glance traveled across the small room. I rose to my feet.
"Fuck shit. If you weren't already running late, I'd have taken you upstairs and started the interview myself."
I burst out laughing. "Stop exaggerating."
"I'm not."
"Well, if you didn't lie to your followers on instagram and TikTok and get paid for doing it, I would not be taking your words with a grain of salt." The handle of my bag went across my shoulder as I carried it. "Wish me luck." I side-hugged her so that my slight makeup wouldn't ruin her white top. "Is Bruno coming today?"
We started towards the door.
"No, no. He's got a shoot to do with a florist in Palermo," she said, sounding somewhat resentful, and she held the door open for me to step out first. "I doubt he'd be back until Wednesday. I'll just call my second boyfriend to fill in for him."
Another ball of laughter tore out of my chest. I'd been seeing, and not to mention, observing her for as long as I'd been a resident at the complex. April's whole life was about Bruno. Bruno this, Bruno that; she could definitely not slice an onion without Bruno being there to clean the tears that'd run down her face. It was so bad that the idea of her with another man was impossible to reckon.
"I'll call you once I'm done," I said and stopped at the stairway. Right on that wedge was our parting spot. She'd climb back to floor six, while I descended the remaining set of stairs — since the elevator stopped working five nights ago, and the lessors had done absolutely nothing about it.
"Don't forget to drop by the cake shop on your way back!" Her subtle yell met me, even though I was in a hurry. All the same, I pretended not to have heard her.
My birthday was on Wednesday and cakes were off the menu. Hell, nothing was on the menu, except going to Palermo to see Joanna.
It would be our day, not just mine, and so I could not be here celebrating like an ingrate. I'd visit her. Whether the deepest part of her obscure mind would want to see me or not. I could do that at least, since I didn't do anything while she was still very much alive.
$$$
Bright Bird Publishing.
My first time glancing at the building was certainly not a miss. The dove on their logo was more pronounced on the building than it had been on their website. Specifics had never mesmerized me so much. We were talking about a building the length of a half skyscraper. We were talking glass and rods and aluminum-based sheets.
The electronic door skated left for me to go through. As soon as I arrived, I was almost lured to pull out my notebook and jot down noteworthy observations about the quality of the reception service.
Exceptionally good.
A montage of photographs was plastered to an ad board just by the door. It contained multiple book covers of authors and books I knew. From Monsters At The Museum in the horror genre, to Dears And Men — a contemporary romance. Amazing books by amazing authors. This was where I was destined to be. Excitement and pressure wanted to bring down my head. It was aching the hell out of me.
In less than ten seconds, a lady in a sleeveless dress had approached me and was introducing herself as Annabel, politely asking to be told what I wanted her to do for me.
"I'm looking for Vera Lenci. A meeting was scheduled with her for nine," I explained, glancing more at the working class men and women who bustled across the stretch of reception area.
"Your name?" She inquired, almost leading me further inside. And I told her my full fake name without delay. "Hold a second. I'll confirm your meeting and get back to you. You can have a seat until then. There's water, coffee, soda...whatever you like. You just need to call break service. Purple shirt.They're everywhere."
With an appreciative grin lacing my lips, I spared a look at the girls wearing a purple shirt and nodded. "Thank you."
Then she was gone.
Was this real?
Heaven knew I had not come to terms with this reality. It was too luxurious to be true. Far too Cinderella-y. By midnight, I'd know for sure. In fifteen hours, if I didn't wake up from the dream before then.
Pulling out my phone to double check the email again, I went to instagram, straight to April Holt's handle. My video from last night was the last post she made. Clicking, I waited for it to play and saw myself on screen, holding a shot of tequila and guzzling it without looking away from the camera.
I chuckled under my nose and began to tap my shoe on the tiled floor, softly. Agitation wanted in.
A hundred and thirteen thousand likes in ten hours. A few number less than four thousand new follows in that little time. Fame had never felt so intoxicating. I wanted more of it. It might seem irrational of me to have assumed that my new career would require it after this meeting, as I wasn't certain whether all those who followed the tagged handle would be interested in a book about the mafia and a taboo romance, or even interested in reading anything at all. So I'd be honest, the rapid follow delighted me, not because of Snapping Point, but by provoking a sense of worth in me.
For twenty four years, Xenia had been just an ordinary girl with problems, but one day she was receiving emails from Bright Bird, and the next day, her Instagram followers had tripled.
"Come with me, Miss Vance," Annabel was back with good news. "You're quite early, I hope you don't mind waiting another twenty to thirty minutes?"
"Not at all." I got up and trailed her to the elevator.
I'd been unable to sleep because of the big day. It was better to come wait here, than to die of cold limbs in my sleep.
"Is this your first time in BBP?" Her voice overwhelmed the elevator's closing doors. A nod was my only response. "I figured. You're extremely punctual and overly formal. Loosen up, dear." Her eyes glowed up as if she'd known me for a while. "There's no den of vipers where we're going. You'll enjoy every bit of your experience here. It's why I'm here."
Smiling comfortably now, I asked, "Is there any chance that my work can be rejected?" Heat accumulated in my chest as I awaited a response with crossed fingers.
Annabel tsk'd. "I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but yes. We've had fewer instances, though, where the author was too stubborn about rectification." She gave the do you understand where I'm coming from look. "BBP is the best in Italy—Europe, if you'd agree. We can't have someone's childish imagination ruining sixty seven years of work."
"I understand."
"Exactly. If you are open to rectification and have been emailed by Vera, you'll be just fine. She's the easiest to convince on the team." Despite the door dinging open for us to get into another hall of people, Annabel didn't stop talking, and I didn't have a problem with that — as she was enlightening me with a fluffy tone. "Most of the authors under her have had the best experience in BBP. She's open to suggestions, you'd be surprised."
"I am surprised." I held my bag tighter, trying to ward off the gazillion eyes that landed on me. Annabel didn't seem to mind. Sure, it was her duty to approach people, mine was to sit behind closed doors and scribble a million things I'd failed to do. "Are we going to her office?"
"Yes. It's the next turn to our right. You can wait in her own waiting area." Brushing aside black voluminous hair, Annabel sashayed down the unnaturally bright hall. "I hope she's still on seat, so you can at least see her unofficially first."
I wasn't a fan of unofficial or even official meetings. Meetings in general scared me. "Anything is fine."
Click.
The sound of a door springing open reverberated across the hall. Being the nosy person that I was, I slightly glanced above my shoulder to see who. As if I would know anyone here.
Something moved in my stomach when I saw blonde hairs, blue eyes, a killer smile. I wanted to duck - but fuck, there was no safe angle. And so it put me right in the way of Jerry Keith. Of all fucking people.
Happy endings only existed in fictions, since this was reality, since I had the worst scenarios to hope for in life, it was no surprise to have been seeing Jerry Keith. It wasn't even midnight yet and my fantasy world had started crumbling on me.
Spotting me, Jerry frowned and forgot a deciphering look on his face. "Skylar?"
Yes, Skylar, you imbecile.
What had put me in beast mode was the lady making way from under his arm. She was wearing a knee-length dark blue jean skirt with a front slit and a blue backless top. I didn't need lessons to tell me how a woman looked after spending her time on top a man's desk.
"Look who we have here." Annabel's excitement sneaked into her tone before she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "It's Vera Lenci."
"What?" I didn't know when I blurted out my surprised thought. "I mean, hello." Get it together. Right. Fucking. Now. I took in a deep breath to reinforce myself for what laid bare; trouble. "I'm Skylar Vance. I received an email—"
"Oh, I know just who you are. X.T.B," she spelled out my original initials. "Spent my whole night trying to figure out why your pen name is an initial. I'd say it's extraordinary, and I like it."
Good start, I must admit.
"Thank you." Curiosity depicted the thug in me when I spared Jerry a quick glance. My eyes were back to the beautiful editor in a second. Her silver hair hypnotizing me.
Not liking or wanting Jerry for myself meant I should have been okay with him smooching and perhaps banging my soon-to-be editor—if God be nice enough to bless me today.
But no woman — hardcore or naive — would be happy to know that the man that had professed attraction and fondness to the extent of asking her out on a date the night before, would be inside another woman's vagina the morning after. It was absurd. Because if he knew he had something to satisfy his desires with, he didn't need to add to his stress and mine by asking me out on a date.
Watching her watch me, I entered Jerry's mind, aware I couldn't talk to him with Vera over there and Annabel over here.
I'd only seen it in fiction; fucking a stranger in a one nightstand arrangement on Friday, and learning he was your boss on Monday. Well, thank God for right-mindedness. At least I hadn't even hugged him yet. I'd lost nothing.
Plus, he wasn't my boss. I could just avoid everything that concerned him.
"Aren't you going to say something to Mr. Keith?" Annabel discreetly said, breaking me from my awe-inspiring stare. "He's the executive director of BBP. He's more important than your editor."
And that just ruined it for the morning.
I found myself chewing my dinner from yesterday as it struggled to slide up my throat.