“The money is reflective of the work you’ve been asked to put in,” Ryan says a lot more calmly.

My gaze slides to him. “The work I’ve been asked to put in, or will be asked to put in?”

The room goes quiet. One of my editors cracks open a bottle of water and gulps it loudly.

Lori is the first to speak. “We’d like to do another comprehensive press tour for each book, as outlined in the contract.”

Once she breaks the silence, people start talking rapid-fire. It’s hard to believe anyone is listening to each other with how fast they spit out questions and answers. Trina interjects a few times. No one asks what I want. They all just assume I’m on board.

And why wouldn’t I be? A million and a half to write books is a dream.

My pain killers must be wearing off because a cramp builds low in my abdomen. I can feel the color drain from my face.

“Hey, beautiful.” Ryan’s voice is so close to me. So soft. I want to curl up inside it and stay there until it’s all over.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Are you okay? I thought you’d be happy about this.”

I turn my face toward his, like a flower seeking the sun. Only, his expression is stormy. Pinched. Concerned.

“This was your idea?” I ask. No one else is listening to us anyway.

He nods, but his brows stay tightly knitted together. “You’ve been working so hard. I thought maybe if you were actually compensated for that, it could help—”

“No.” It’s so quiet, even I can barely here myself.

His heart is in the right place, but mine is currently crumbling into pieces in my chest. A million dollars can’t fix it. Not even Ryan can put the pieces back together this time.

“No,” I say again, stronger this time. I press my palms into the table and stand on shaky legs. I suck in a breath as pain lances through me. “I don’t want this,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Scarlett,” Trina pleads through nervous laughter. “Please, sit back down. What’s going on?”

“I told you. I don’t want this. I want to go home”—my voice cracks on the word, knowing already that I won’t allow Ryan to come with me—“and sleep.”

“Oh, honey.” Trina clicks her tongue. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re tired after that trip.” She looks around the table, wincing in apology. “We should reschedule.”

“No.” The more times I say it, the easier it becomes. “I won’t sign this. I’m done.”

And then I turn on my heel and walk out the door before anyone can persuade me otherwise.