Chapter 5 - The Collapse of the Empire
If a bomb had gone off on the stage of the Grand Metropolitan ballroom, the resulting chaos wouldn't have been half as destructive as those seven words.
A collective gasp ripped through the crowd, instantly exploding into a deafening wall of shouted questions, flashing camera strobes, and gasping editors standing up from their seats to get a better look.
Charles staggered backward, his heels catching the edge of a monitor wedge on the floor. He saved himself from falling by slamming his hand against the mahogany podium, his breathing shallow and erratic.
“You… you’re…” Charles stammered, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You wrote The Salt & The Stone? You wrote The Long Winter?”
“Four million copies sold worldwide,” I said calmly, stepping past him to stand directly behind the podium. I rested my hands on the dark wood, looking out over the stunned sea of faces. “Translations in thirty-two languages. Two film adaptations currently in pre-production. All published under the name Ren Callaway.”
Down in the front row, several high-ranking executives from rival publishing houses dropped their heads into their hands, realizing the monumental blunder Vance Publishing had just committed.
“And as for your multi-book global partnership,” I continued, my voice cutting through the noise like a laser, “let me make the terms of our ongoing business relationship crystal clear, Charles.”
I turned my head to look directly at him.
“Vance Publishing will never, under any circumstances, publish another word I write. Furthermore, my legal team has already initiated a comprehensive forensic audit of your subsidiary accounts to ensure no unauthorized marketing materials or stolen conceptual outlines associated with my pseudonym were mishandled by your acquisitions department.”
Charles let out a strangled, pathetic sound. “Maya… please. We can talk about this. Family—”
“Family?” I interrupted, a cold edge sharpening my tone. “You spent six years reminding me at every Sunday dinner that I didn't belong in your family. You helped your son humiliate me in front of two hundred people this morning because you thought I was a nobody.”
I reached into my evening clutch, pulled out a thick envelope bearing the official letterhead of Crawford-Yan Legal Associates, and tossed it onto the podium in front of him.
“Consider that a formal breach-of-contract notice regarding the unauthorized use of my pen name in your promotional remarks tonight. My lawyers will be in touch with your board of directors first thing tomorrow morning.”
The double doors at the back of the ballroom suddenly flew open.
A small army of reporters, camera operators, and social media influencers—having caught wind of the live-streamed chaos—swarmed into the back of the hall, pushing past hotel security in a frantic race to get to the stage.
Priscilla and Theo were already moving up the side stairs to meet me, their expressions triumphant.
“Come on, Maya,” Theo said, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. “We’re done here.”
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I gave Charles one final, lingering look—the great patriarch of an empire that had just been reduced to ash by a bookstore clerk with “no name.” He looked smaller now, older, defeated by his own staggering arrogance.
Without another word, I turned away from the podium, left the stage behind, and walked out of the ballroom into a blinding flash of camera lights, ready to face a world that finally knew exactly who I was.
