Deepening the Wounds

Everyone else was seated in the meeting room when Whitney arrived. Ken was at the opposite end of the table with the lawyer of his publishing company. He was in a similar pair of black jeans and a black button-up shirt as he was during the funeral. His short raven hair reached his forehead and his hazel eyes followed her as she entered. He was undeniably handsome. Little wonder all those girls swarmed around him despite his marital status.

His legs were crossed and he looked like one of those humbly-dressed billionaires most people only got to see on TV—except for the fact that he was the billionaire CEO of a rival publishing company. At times, she wondered if that was another reason Stefflon put up with all his bullshit. A typically desperate woman would.

Whit sat on the table across from him and beside the lawyer of the publishing company where she worked as the vice president. She glanced at Ken, they both shared brief blank glances at each other before she took her eyes away from him.

At the edge of the table was Paola Andres, a celebrity author who topped the chart of authors with the most sold books for three years in a row. She looked nothing like her books and more like one of those mean girls from high school.

She wore a tight leather skirt with a tank top—very unprofessional. Her boot heels reached her upper knee where her skirt ended and her red bangs covered half of her eyes. She had her editor and lawyer seated at either of her sides. They looked armed to the tooth.

The editor was an older lawyer, moderately dressed. With short chestnut hair and curves that even her two-piece suit struggled to hide. She reached for Whitney's hands and then Ken's. "I am Octavia James," she said. "I am an editor at James Press. This is Phil Bonaventura, our lawyer, and Paola Andres, one of our best authors. We sent a mail to both your companies and I believe you saw it as this meeting would not be held if you didn't."

Whitney had received the mail on the same morning Stefflon died, they wanted to work with both her company and Ken's company. Co-publishing was quite common but co-publishing with a rival company—was not quite common.

Octavia opened her folder and handed photocopied files with the terms and conditions for co-publishing. "Let us know if there are any of the conditions that do not go well with you."

Whitney glanced through the paper. There were lots of issues but the very worse one was the royalties. The two publishing companies were to share thirty percent of it while the author took seventy percent. The delivery period for the novel was also ridiculous. "I do not agree with the payment terms," she said. "If we co-publish this book, that means we share fifteen percent royalties. That is way too low for big firms like us."

She turned to Ken. He dropped his paper back on the table. "I agree with her. Thirty percent royalty is way too small for two publishing companies."

Anxious, Octavia bit her lips and glanced at Paola who gave her a silent nod as if giving her permission to say something. "The payment agreement was made by the author. As you know, she is a bestselling author and very sought after. The royalties can be negotiated to forty percent, that is the most she is willing to agree to."

That was still too small. Publishing was not a piece of cake. Editing, proofreading, marketing, and selling. It was almost like walking into a publishing company and asking for free work. That was only twenty percent for each of their companies and really would not cover much of the expenses it would take to work on the book. "I'd like to propose sixty percent. That way, the author takes forty and we get to take sixty percent each."

Octavia drew in a breath. She opened her mouth to speak but Paola raised her hand and cut her off before she could spit a word. Paola leaned towards Whitney on the table. "Do you think I am one of those rookie writers?"

The question was unexpected. "I do not understand what you mean. I mean, my proposal is quite logical. It will…"

"And mine is illogical?" Paola interjected, she scoffed. "What? Forty percent of the royalties? You might as well ask me to work for free."

It was at times like this that the urge to throw her shoes at someone swelled in Whitney. She inhaled and exhaled to keep herself replying in the same condensing way Paola was according to her. "I do know you are one of New York's best-selling authors—"

"Not one of them. I am the frigging best," Paola cut in. "My books don't last a day at any shop."

"The best," Whitney inclined. "I am not asking you to work for free. I am simply explaining that your terms are not favorable for us." She glanced at Ken to aid her explanation but he just stared and blinked at her like one of those dummy dolls kids played with.

"Not favorable for you?" Paola mockingly twisted her mouth. "What other choice do you have?" she asked. "None of your companies have bestselling authors, I am the best shot you have and he—" She gestured towards Ken. "—has not made any conclusions."

"I have." Ken's voice was a low roar. "My company will not publish your books, Miss Andres."

Whitney had expected him to say something but not outrightly turn down the offer the way he did. How did he even manage to grow his company to a billion-dollar net worth with such poor self-regulation skills? To Whitney, he was so narrow-minded and rash in decision-making.

"No. No. We will work with you. Both of our companies." She rolled her eyes at Ken.

"What I am asking is that we come to a more agreeable payment plan. It's that simple and hopefully doesn't call for an uproar."

"I am not willing to go beyond forty percent," Paola said firmly. You either take or leave it."

"We will not take the offer." Ken's voice was firmer than hers. "You cannot speak to us in such a rude way, set an insane deadline to deliver a book out of three series, and then expect us to work for such little payment. Are we mushroom firms?"

Whitney signaled for him to not say anything more but he ignored her. "You especially have no right to talk down on our writers," he added. Whitney had never felt such a strong desire to strangle anyone until that moment, in that room with Ken.

"I'd like to apologize on his behalf, he did not mean it."

"I meant every bit of the things I said," he interjected. "It does not matter to me if you are the best author on earth and beyond. I'd rather work with a non-bestselling author with considerable manners than one who has no manners or respect for other people."

As if he does.