Chapter 4- His dangerous interest

"What happened? Did any issue occur?"

The man with round glasses rushes toward me, followed by the tall cameraman.

I still don't know their names.

"Nothing. Everything went fine."

As I answer, I glance down and notice the black steel pen still in my hand.

Dakota's pen.

"Really? Then why did it take so long?"

I frown.

"Um... what?"

"The interview was scheduled for twenty minutes. You were up there for more than forty-five."

My eyes widen.

"WHAT?!"

. . .

The editor watches me with a sly Cheshire-cat grin as I sit quietly across from her desk.

"How was the interview?"

The rude woman from earlier has vanished completely.

"Good."

And I almost got my head bitten off by your ridiculous questions.

With a slow nod, she lowers her glasses.

"I heard he kept you in his office for nearly an hour."

Then she winks.

"Oh, no! It's not what you think."

I shake my head immediately.

"The recorder died, so I had to write everything down manually."

How do I explain that he looked ready to tear me apart the second I stepped into his territory?

"That sounds like a problem on your side. Why would he give you extra time?"

One eyebrow rises suspiciously.

She studies me like a fox sizing up prey.

"Unless..."

I gulp as she leans across the table, staring me straight in the eye.

"The hot millionaire saw something interesting in the pretty little interviewer."

She says it like she's reading a sizzling headline from the front page of a magazine.

Oh, fuck no.

"I-I don't think so. He was just being polite.

I tell her the truth.

"What?

She practically jumps out of her seat as if someone poked her with a pin.

Oh, fuck me with a tiny dildo.

"Something like that."

She immediately drops her gossip-hungry act and turns her attention back to her computer.

"I read a few chapters of your book online. You've got good views and decent engagement, but..."

Her eyes find me again.

"Honey, the grammar is trashier than my puppy Barry's language."

I frown at her comment.

Exactly how much grammar is required for barking?

"We'll need to edit and proofread the manuscript before it goes to print. That'll take a couple of months and a couple thousand dollars."

Her Southern British accent somehow makes the bad news sound elegant.

"What? How much?"

I gasp.

Suddenly the chair beneath me becomes very uncomfortable.

She lowers her glasses.

"Two and a half grand."

Two-and-a-half-fucking-thousand dollars.

My mouth falls open.

I can practically feel my soul leaving my body.

And here I was dreaming of becoming the next J.K. Rowling.

"But I'm willing to cover the expenses if you sign an exclusive contract with our publishing house."

Just like that, she resurrects me.

"Exclusive contract?"

I repeat, as if hearing those words for the first time.

"You can keep your book online wherever it's currently posted, but the print publishing rights will belong exclusively to us. In short, we're the only company allowed to publish your book in physical form."

Honestly, no other publisher had shown any interest.

Most of them called it childish and said my characters desperately needed development.

"Okay."

I agree immediately.

She slides the contract across the desk.

I read every page carefully before signing and filling in my personal information.

After checking everything, she hands me my copy.

The deal is done.

"Where have you been hiding all this time?"

She taps my arm excitedly as if she just signed the deal of her life.

I simply smile.

I wasn't hiding.

I was grounded.

"By the way, after your interview, I received an email from Mr. Black."

The teasing look returns to her face.

My ears practically stand upright.

"What email?"

My heartbeat immediately doubles.

"Just standard office formalities. Acknowledgement of the interview. Professional manners."

She waves a hand dismissively.

"But he added something extra..."

And then she pauses dramatically like she's starring in a K-drama.

This time, my imaginary tail stands up too.

"What did he say?"

What did he say?

My anxiety asks the same question.

With a wicked grin, she leans forward and lowers her voice.

"Mr. Black wrote at the end of the email..."

She pauses again for maximum torture.

"...that he's eager to read your book."

What the fuck?

Why?

"Crazy, isn't it?"

She practically bounces in her chair.

"Now we have to publish your book faster than ever."

Meanwhile, I completely forget how to breathe.

This is so B-A-D.

Today is Monday.

And I don't like Mondays.

But today is a different kind of Monday.

Because today, Pegasus Publications is going to upload my interview with Dakota Black, the Teflon king of the tech world.

Not that it matters to me.

But the tingling tightness in my stomach tells me it isn't diarrhea.

It's butterflies.

Excited butterflies eagerly waiting to read the article.

At exactly 9:01 a.m., the post goes live on their Cosmopolitan website.

My ass buzzes with nervousness unlike anything I ever felt during exams as I open the article at the speed of light.

Dakota Black: A Man with the Touch of Midas

Below the title is a picture of him in a sleek black suit that hugs him possessively.

The man staring back at me has a chiseled jaw, a nose so straight someone could draw a perfect line with it, and shoulders that somehow look even broader in photographs.

His green eyes seem darker too.

Edited.

Because I clearly remember those eyes staring at me.

A shade of green that could only be found in deep emerald mines.

A gaze so toxic it could cut through bulletproof glass.

And I spent an entire hour alone with that man in his office.

With those penetrating eyes roaming places I probably only imagined.

I scroll down and begin reading with more focus than I've ever given a textbook.

"Dakota Black, who has dominated headlines since 2020 and continues to grace the front pages of Forbes and Times, is considered one of the most sought-after men in both the tech world and social circles."

The nerve of this woman to write such nonsense.

I skip the cheesy introduction and jump straight to the interview.

Surprisingly, she used his answers word for word.

As I read, I can practically hear Dakota's deep voice inside my head.

An unwanted smile curls onto my lips.

Every breath.

Every frown.

Every stare.

Even his scent.

The memories return through the words.

But the smile disappears instantly when I reach the bottom of the article and see the interviewer's name.

Carina Martin.

My mood sours immediately.

I toss my phone onto the bed and collapse beside it.

The article already has over a hundred likes after only five minutes online.

At least she could have given me some credit for surviving that interview.

Sly fox.

Then again, those were her questions.

And she paid me two hundred dollars.

Money I desperately needed for my project.