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“Good.”
“Chris, we’d like Daphne to step out from the shadows as your coauthor.”
“My… coauthor?” Chris said. “But I didn’t write this book. Any of it.”
“Handled correctly, that won’t matter. For this first book, you won’t discuss who did what. We’ll say that’s covered by an NDA. For future books, we’ll have talking points, and we’ll expect that Chris will legitimately play a role in the creation, whether it’s brainstorming or editing.”
Chris turned to gape incredulously at Daphne, but she was staring down, lost in her thoughts.
“That is my proposed solution,” Milner said. “Think it over, talk to your agent, and then we’ll have a conference call with everyone.”
He hung up before Chris or Daphne could say a word.
DAPHNE
After hanging up, Daphne was too numb to move. When Milner had made that suggestion, something in her had crumpled.
She had never wanted to be the public face of Edge. She’d been terrified that her self-consciousness and introversion would hurt her book’s chances of success. But when she’d decided she was stepping forward, she’d slowly made peace with the idea and found the confidence to say that she wouldn’t be the world’s worst spokesperson for her book. And now…
She knew what Milner really meant by “coauthor.” Oh, the publishing house would want to keep up the pretense that Chris contributed, but all they really expected was that he’d play Zane. He’d do the interviews and the signings. His photo and autograph would go in the books.
Why was that such a problem for her? Wasn’t it what they had already been doing?
Yes, and she hadn’t realized how relieved she’d been about ending the charade until Milner suggested they not.
She wanted to be angry. She reached deep inside herself to find that, knowing it must be there. Anger, even rage. But it was smothered under the fear of having this new dream crushed by her own mistake.
“It could work,” she said softly.
Chris was pacing along the end of the bed. “Hmm?” He pivoted to face her.
“His plan. It could work.”
He stared at her. Then he said, “We are not doing that, D.”
That crumpled bit inside her collapsed completely, and her voice didn’t even sound like her own when she said, “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I’d never ask you to make that kind of commitment—”
“It’s not the commitment. It’s the lie.”
Her cheeks heated. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that, either. If you did agree, we’d work something out so you could brainstorm or edit—and be paid for it, of course—and we’d be honest about the role you play.”
Chris stopped pacing and sat beside her, his hand going to her knee. “I’m not refusing because of the commitment or because of the misrepresentation. I don’t give a damn about that.”
But he was refusing. That’s the part she heard loud and clear, and the tops of her ears burned with humiliation. Milner was throwing her a lifeline. A chance to redeem herself and keep her career, and it relied on Chris, and he wanted no part of it.
Was this where she’d lose him? He’d said he was committed to supporting her writing, and yet, at the first sign of trouble, he wanted her to trample her new career underfoot.
We won’t put up with this treatment. That’ll show them.
He wanted to take an ethical stance, even if it cost Daphne her career. After all, he’d done something similar when he found out his partner was stealing from their clients.
But in that instance, Chris had done nothing wrong, and while he had taken a financial risk, his career was never in danger, and the tarnish on his reputation was easily buffed away.
And now he found himself in another ethical quandary, where he could be accused of fraud because his new business partner—Daphne—had done something that could be seen as unethical.
Except the “unethical” thing wasn’t stealing client money. It was using a male name because no one was paying any attention to her book and she wanted to see whether that made a difference. And it did, didn’t it?
She hadn’t stolen money to fund a drug habit. She’d played an unfair system to her advantage, and if she felt guilty about that, she also felt angry.
