Copyright © 2025 by Allie Samberts

ISBN (ebook): 979-8-9878241-9-1

ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9878241-8-4

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, and except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Editing by Mandi Andrejka at Inky Pen Editorial Services

Cover and Title Page Design by Lorissa Padilla Designs

Chapter headers and scene breaks created with Canva with elements from Billion Photos and WDnet Studio

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Contents

Dedication

For Olivia.
Five years is so long and yet no time at all.

And for me.
Because I’m strong enough.

Author's Note

It’s interesting how stories come to life, isn’t it? Some languish for years—decades, even. They sit in a writer’s brain, slow-cooking to perfection. Some seem ready, only for the writer to feel like each word is torturously being extracted, slowly and painfully. Some come on like lightning, flashing bright and falling onto the page like the subsequent rain.

Not a Strong Enough Word was a little bit of lightning, a little bit of torture, and a little bit of rain.

I’m not going to tell you this book was fun to write; writing about healing rarely is. But it was necessary. Scarlett’s story, especially, was one I needed to tell. When her storyline came to me, I turned it around, looking at it from all angles, trying to find any other way besides the one that struck me like lightning to tell this the way I wanted to. Reader, when I say I sat on her story for weeks, I’m not kidding. I even quit writing it because I didn’t think I could go through with describing her pain and heartbreak—it hits close to home, after all, and I didn’t think I was ready.

But I was ready. I needed to write it. The only way out was through.

And in the process of giving Scarlett and Ryan their strength, I realized that I, too, am strong enough to tell Scarlett’s story (which, in so many ways, is also my own), to give her the healing I needed, to see it through until the end, to bear witness to her messy life and the unbreakable love she and Ryan share, both because of and despite her trauma.

Dear reader, please stop here if you don’t want spoilers, but it is my job to prepare those who might need a heads-up. First, my characters use profanity and there are two explicit scenes meant for mature audiences in chapters 16 and 24. I believe these are crucial to the development of my characters, but you can do whatever you see fit with that information.

Scarlett experiences intense burnout which results in depressive episodes, which are both described on page. She has a therapist, and she takes medication to help her manage this. There is also an early miscarriage described on page, and the loss of a parent off page.

I have tried to approach all of these subjects with authenticity and care. As someone who has experienced a late-term miscarriage, my story is different from what is discussed in this book, but a lot of the emotions are the same. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to read a book like this, so if that is where you are in your journey, please put this aside for now. It’ll be here for you when you’re ready.

I’ve always been strong. I’ve had to be. But even over five years after my own loss, I’m starting to find a healing I didn’t even know I needed. And that is because of you, dear reader. Every person who has read my words and given me the courage to continue to pursue this passion of mine has been a balm for my soul.

Thank you for being here. I hope Scarlett and Ryan offer you the same healing they’ve given me.

Chapter 1

Scarlett

“It’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”

I’m a writer. It is my job to combine words into sentences. Or, at least, it was back when I was doing it regularly. But I still can’t think of a better combination of words in the English language than the seven that come breathlessly from my agent’s mouth the minute I answer the phone.

“Five years in the making,” I grumble. I might be on cloud nine, but I can’t resist a little self-deprecation. I’m fishing for another compliment. Sue me.

“Worth the wait,” Trina rewards me again. She sniffles, and I hear the soft sound of tissues in the background.

“Are you crying?” I ask incredulously.

She’s silent for a moment as the tissue makes noises against the phone. Then, without warning, she wails, “It’s just so good.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s a harsh sound, raspy from disuse, and it almost hurts my chest. But this all feels so perfect. Even sad little me wants to jump for joy.

It’s been five long years of beating myself up over blank pages. Five long years of depression, reclusion, lots of therapy, and some medication. Five long years of wishing I could call my former friends but being too afraid to be shunned again.

My agent, Trina, is the only one who has stuck with me through it all. I still can’t believe she didn’t want to drop me completely, but the way she put it, I was her first writer. I guess that means something. That and the royalties from my early books are still making her enough money to pay for groceries, so it’s in her best interests to keep me around. I like to think it was more than that. A sense of loyalty, maybe. Or friendship. Genuine care and concern. But who knows.

Either way, she’s still with me. She loves the new draft. This might be my way to get back in the game.

“Before I launch into anything else, I need to ask if you’ve eaten today,” Trina says, dragging me back to reality.

“Uh…” I eye the dirty dishes that have piled up in my sink. It’s unclear which is the most recent or what was on it. I’ve barely been able to clean my small condo since I started furiously writing about a month ago. Normally, this would be a concerning signal that I’ve relapsed into a depressive episode, but there’s also an old adage that a writer can have a finished draft or a clean house. This is definitely a product of the latter.

I must hesitate too long because Trina sighs. “Please get some food. We can talk later.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve been waiting for two days for your feedback. If I have to wait any longer, I’ll burst.”

“You need food.”

I grab a piece of bread and hold the phone close to the toaster as I noisily press the lever down. “Hear that? Toast. I’ll eat it while we talk. I promise.” Even a year ago, I’d have lied and told her I had eaten recently so we could get on with the conversation, but she’s known me for too long now. She can see right through my bullshit. And besides, she’s right. I need to do a better job of taking care of myself, especially if I want to sell this book.

She hums, unconvinced. “Do you have anything to put on it, or are you just going to eat dry-ass bread? You need more than refined carbs, Scarlett.”

Sighing, I look around my small kitchen for anything else that’s edible. A bunch of bananas I did actually buy only a few days ago. Two empty takeout containers. An apple core…gross. I collect that and the takeout containers and throw them into the garbage.

Jackpot. “Cookie butter,” I say triumphantly when I see the container that my little bit of tidying up revealed.

“You need protein,” Trina protests.

“I’ll go to the store after we talk. Promise. Now, please. I am begging you. Tell me you think you can sell this book.”

“I think I can sell this book.” I can picture her bright red painted lips breaking into a huge smile when she says it. “In fact, I know I can. JMP has acquired a new press and—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back to JMP or any of their subsidiaries. Find somewhere else.”

Now I can just about picture those red lips pressing into a thin, frustrated line. “Scarlett—”

“No,” I repeat, more firmly this time. My toast pops up out of the toaster as if punctuating the sentence. I’m seriously lacking clean plates, so I toss it onto a paper towel and use the spoon that was resting in the jar to spread a generous helping of cookie butter on top.

“It’s a totally separate imprint, despite the acquisition. New editors. Way better vibe. I’ve been working with one of the editors, Casey, on another project. He’s great.”

“Casey is not a new editor,” I say around a mouthful. “I remember him from JMP.”

“Well, yes,” Trina says slowly. “He came over from JMP to help get the ball rolling. But as far as I know, he’s the only one who made the move. And more importantly, his wish list has ‘highly emotional literary fiction’ right on there.”

She’s not going to let this go. Trina might be the only person in the industry who is more stubborn than me. It’s one of the reasons we work so well together, but it sure is infuriating when I try to put my foot down and get blocked by her logic and reasoning.

“There are hundreds of imprints. Can’t we go somewhere else? A small press, maybe?”

I don’t want to say it out loud, but I’m not looking for another million-dollar deal. They don’t just hand you a million dollars and say, Go write a book! No. They need to make their money back, and then some. Which means press tours and more books to generate more interest… It was too much pressure the last time, and it ended in me walking out of JMP’s offices with the tatters of my torn-up pending contract for three new books in my hands and a broken heart in my chest. Not only did my career die that day, but I left the state and walked away from my ex-boyfriend, another one of JMP’s editors. I spiraled into a deep depression, lost all my friends, my family—who had never been supportive of my career in the arts—more or less disowned me. And the rest is history.

My stomach sours at the memory, even five years later. I take a giant bite of toast to fill the emptiness.

“This is highly emotional lit fic, Scarlett. It’s right up Casey’s alley. Not to mention that I know for a fact that they’re looking for a big name to put them on the map.” She pauses for a moment as if considering whether or not to continue. But, of course, she does. “And you need the money. Or…” She draws out the word, and I already know I’m not going to like what she’s going to say next. “We could shop it around. You’d probably get several offers. It’d go to auction…”

The very thought of this book going to the highest bidder sends a shiver down my spine. But I’m also probably about two months away from losing this apartment if something doesn’t turn around. Not that I’d be sad to move out, but lacking any friends or family left in my life, I don’t really know where I’d go.

“You can’t live with me,” Trina singsongs into the phone as if she read my mind. “I have boundaries.”

“So do I,” I fire back. “I’m not crawling back to JMP or this new imprint with my tail between my legs.”

I had signed my first deal with JMP as a starry-eyed twenty-five-year-old fresh out of my MFA program with a novel on my hard drive and ten more in my heart. They made my debut a bestseller. And my sophomore novel hit just about every list, too. But when they started asking for more faster without any regard for the sleepless nights, weeks away from home doing interviews and signings, and constant stress they were putting me under, I broke. Two years after I signed my first deal, they tried to ploy me with a better one to soothe the hurt caused by the first. The thought of even less sleep and a worse work-life balance than I already had nearly pulled me all the way under.

And when all of your relationships are tied up in an industry where image is everything, the optics of being associated with the crazed, depressed, sleep-deprived writer who is tearing up six-figure contracts on her way out the door isn’t great.

Trina knows all of this, of course. She was there. She’s maybe the only one who supported my decision when I resurfaced two years later. Which is why it surprises me that she’d even suggest going back to the place that caused this whole mess to begin with.

“It’s been five years,” she says gently. Almost as if she doesn’t want to poke the bear. “It’s a new world. People are demanding work-life separation, and this new publisher respects that. This press is said to be better for authors. That’s in their branding, which I’m assuming is why JMP acquired them. You weren’t the only one with an issue, Scarlett.”

“No, but I was the only one who burned a million-dollar deal to the ground.”

“Right,” she affirms. “But to be fair, they didn’t hand out many million-dollar deals, so there weren’t that many to burn.”

“I don’t think that makes me feel better,” I mumble. I take another bite of toast to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret.

“Look, they want a fresh start. So do you. I get where you’re coming from, but this could actually work in our favor.”

The giant bite of toast scrapes against my dry throat as I try to swallow. I fill a relatively clean glass with water to wash it down. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone loves a comeback story. Especially readers.”

“Are you talking about the same readers who took to the internet to talk shit about me in droves?” I remind her. “Their memories are long.”

“Which is why I am going to suggest something a bit unorthodox.” She says it like a warning, and I brace myself for impact. “I want to submit this to Casey under a new pen name. When he tells me he’s interested—which he will—we’ll reveal who you really are before anything is signed. By then, they’ll want the book enough to go along with this. We’ll meet with their marketing team to come up with a timeline for releasing the information about who really wrote it. Everyone will have fallen as much in love with this book as I have, and the reveal will create another uptick in sales because you’ll be forgiven.”

“Or they’ll buy copies to burn in effigy,” I interject.

“Sales are sales!” she trills.

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.”

I poke a finger under the pile of dark hair that passes for a messy bun to scratch my head as I tip my eyes up to the ceiling in thought. It’s a big risk, and it’s a little bonkers, but it’s also brilliant. I wouldn’t be the first author to come back from disgrace. And I certainly wouldn’t be the first well-known author to publish something under a different pen name. Worst-case scenario: If Casey rescinds a deal when he finds out who I am, I’m right back where I started. With the added bonus of shoving it in Trina’s face with a nice I told you so dance to ensure she never submits anything of mine to JMP or its subsidiaries ever again.

This business won’t break me again. I can’t let it.

“Fine,” I finally say. “This better not backfire.”

“It won’t.” Trina can barely hide the glee in her voice. I hear a keyboard clicking in the background. My heart skips a beat at the thought that she might have had everything ready to send off and was just waiting for my approval. Is it out there already?

“Don’t worry.” She reads my mind again. “I wouldn’t send it with you on the phone. No one needs that level of anxiety.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief as my shoulders slump forward. “Thank you.” I lean against the counter and idly tap the pointer finger of my free hand against it. “What’s this new acquisition called anyway?”

“Anastasios Press,” she says distractedly.

I snort. “Like the Greek name meaning resurrection?”

“Like the name of its publisher,” Trina corrects. “But that definitely feels like a sign.”

“I don’t believe in signs,” I say as a knock sounds at my door.

“I ordered you a burger,” she explains. “It should be there now.”

My cold, black heart swells just a little at her kindness. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“If you had said no, I might have sent fried Brussels sprouts.”

“You ordered it before I said yes,” I counter.

There’s silence for a moment,

I open my door, and sure enough, a Styrofoam container is sitting on my doorstep. The smells coming from it make my mouth water despite the threat of Brussels sprouts. “Good thing I said yes, then.”

“I knew you would. I ordered it before I even called you. How do you think it got there so fast? Now, go eat. I have work to do.”

As we hang up, I’m filled with an excitement almost as pervasive as the rumbling in my empty stomach. If Trina thinks they’ll offer me a deal, she’s probably right. She’s never been wrong before, and I doubt her skills have diminished in the past five years while my own have been languishing.

It feels good to have a plan again. I basically wrote that draft on a wing and a prayer, but knowing Trina believes in it gives me some hope that I might actually be able to get back to writing. And, more importantly, that I might be able to love it again.

Chapter 2

Ryan

There’s nothing on my computer screen worth looking at. And yet, I’ve been staring at it for the past four hours, idly clicking on emails and opening documents only to close them and try something else.

Actually, that’s probably not true. I’m sure some of these manuscripts could be really wonderful books. I’ll probably even make offers to acquire some of them. I’ve edited some interesting books into shining stars over the past few years, but none of them have felt special.

“Anything?” I ask my intern, Margie, as she sinks into the armchair facing my desk. I know better than to get my hopes up, but I need to find something with a spark and fast. Slowly dying inside as the publishing industry passes me by was not on my bingo card for the latter part of my thirties, but here we are. More and more lately, I find myself longing for the days when I was fresh out of college, working my way up to senior editor at John Monroe Press where I got my pick of fantastic books and even more wonderful authors to work with. But somewhere along the line, either I got jaded or the manuscripts got worse. Or both.

Either way, now I’m relying on interns and slush piles. And that’s after I made a desperate move to JMP’s newly acquired imprint. I thought it would shake some things up for me. No such luck.

“There’s a shorter book about…” She trails off and checks her notes, which isn’t promising. We need books that stick with the reader long after the last page, not ones Margie needs to consult her notes about.

“You know what?” I hold up an impatient hand. “Never mind.”

She slumps even further in her chair, pursing her lips to the side and regarding me with her wide, young eyes. A tiny little pang of regret hits me like it always does when I remember I’m supposed to be inspiring the interns, not dragging them down with me into the pit of despair I can’t seem to dig myself out of.

I scrub a hand over my face, unintentionally upsetting the glasses on the bridge of my nose. There’s a distinct possibility that I’m losing my ability as an editor if I even let a sentence that cliché pass through my brain.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Whitlock. Maybe you can give me a few more specifics about what you’re looking for, and I can try again?” She straightens in her seat and poises her pen over her notebook, ready to write.

Leaning my forearms on my desk and clasping my hands in front of me, I regard her for a moment. “Did any of those manuscripts make you feel anything, Margie?”

She tilts her head and pinches her brows slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

I shove off the desk to tip back in my chair. “Sometimes, identifying a winning manuscript is about a feeling. In your gut. Or in your heart. You read it, and you just know, even though you can’t explain it.” Sure, I’m trying to turn this into a teachable moment to assuage my earlier guilt over dragging down the intern. But maybe it’ll help.

“Okay.” She draws the word out and taps her pen against the edge of her notebook.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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