Chapter 7: An Agent's Ultimatum

Ben stared at his phone long after Richard Blackwood's call had ended, the agent's words still echoing in his ears like a death knell. The manuscript pages of his romance novel lay scattered across his desk, suddenly feeling like evidence of some terrible crime rather than the best writing he'd produced in years.

"I got a call from Jonathan at Meridian Press," Richard had said without preamble. "Apparently you've been working on some kind of... commercial project? Romance, he said? Please tell me this is some kind of joke, Ben."

Ben had tried to explain—about the writer's block, about discovering emotional depth in genre fiction, about finally feeling connected to his work again. But Richard had cut him off with the kind of dismissive laugh that made Ben's jaw clench reflexively.

"Listen to me very carefully," Richard had continued, his voice taking on the patronizing tone Ben remembered from their early conversations about his literary career. "You are Benjamin Carter. You write serious fiction that gets reviewed in The New York Review of Books. You win awards. You don't write... whatever this is supposed to be."

"It's good work, Richard. Better than anything I've written in—"

"It's career suicide." The finality in Richard's voice had been absolute. "You want to know what happens to literary writers who start churning out romance novels? They disappear. Completely. The literary community has a long memory, Ben, and an even longer list of writers who thought they could slum it in commercial fiction without consequences."

Now, sitting alone in his apartment, Ben felt the familiar weight of expectations settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. Everything Richard had said was true, wasn't it? Ben had spent years building his reputation as a serious writer. His debut novel had been praised by critics, even if it hadn't sold well. His short stories appeared in prestigious magazines. He was supposed to be above the kind of formulaic storytelling that filled airport bookstores.

But even as he tried to summon his old disdain for commercial fiction, all he could think about was Clara's face when she'd read his chapters. The genuine excitement in her voice as she'd discussed character development and emotional stakes. The way she'd looked at him during their last meeting, like he was becoming someone worth knowing.

His laptop chimed with a new email. Clara's name appeared in his inbox, and despite everything, Ben felt his heart lift slightly.

Subject: Chapter 3 thoughts

Ben,

I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday, especially about Sophia's backstory. I think you're onto something powerful with the idea that she's defending romance because it helped her heal from loss. It adds such depth to her character and explains why Marcus's dismissiveness hurts her so personally.

I also wanted to say that I hope everything is okay. You seemed upset after that phone call, and I've been worried. If you need to talk about anything—writing-related or otherwise—I'm here.

Looking forward to reading what comes next. Marcus and Sophia's story has become genuinely important to me.

Clara

P.S. - Grandpa Arthur asked me to tell you that he and Eleanor have started their book club at Sunset Gardens. They have twelve members now and are calling themselves "The Hopeless Romantics." Apparently, they're reading a contemporary romance about second chances next, and Arthur specifically requested "something with steam." I'm pretending I didn't hear that part.

Despite his dark mood, Ben found himself smiling at the postscript. Arthur and Eleanor's romance had blossomed beautifully over the past month, their joy in each other's company a testament to everything the romance novels had taught them about possibility and hope.

But his smile faded as Richard's ultimatum echoed in his mind again. "You have a choice to make, Ben. Come back to your real work—the novel you were supposed to finish six months ago—or find yourself a new agent. I won't represent genre fiction, and I certainly won't watch a promising literary career get flushed down the drain for the sake of a few quick sales."

Ben opened his abandoned literary manuscript—the meditation on urban alienation that had been torturing him for the better part of a year. The characters stared back at him from the screen, lifeless and pretentious, their problems so deliberately obtuse that even Ben couldn't muster any interest in their outcomes.

This was supposed to be his important work. His contribution to serious literature. The kind of book that would establish him as a voice worth listening to, not just another writer chasing commercial success.

But as he read through the cold, distant prose, all Ben could think about was Marcus and Sophia, whose problems felt real and whose happiness had started to matter to him more than any literary award.

His phone rang. Richard again.

"Have you thought about what we discussed?" his agent asked without preamble.

"Richard, I understand your concerns, but—"

"No buts, Ben. I'm not asking you to think about it anymore. I'm telling you what's going to happen." Richard's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You're going to delete whatever romance nonsense you've been working on, and you're going to finish the novel we sold to Meridian. The real novel. The one that's actually worthy of your talent."

"What if I think the romance is worthy of my talent?"

The silence on the other end of the line was profound. When Richard spoke again, his voice was colder than Ben had ever heard it.

"Then you're deluding yourself, and you're more lost than I thought. Commercial fiction is a drug, Ben. It feels good in the moment because it's easy, because it doesn't challenge you or your readers. But it's ultimately empty. Meaningless. And if you pursue it, you'll find yourself cut off from every literary opportunity you've worked so hard to earn."

Ben felt something ugly twist in his stomach. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm protecting you from yourself. And if you can't see that..." Richard sighed dramatically. "Jonathan called me because he's concerned. Word is already getting around that Benjamin Carter is working on a romance novel. The literary community is small, Ben. People talk. And right now, they're questioning your commitment to serious fiction."

The words hit Ben like physical blows. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd built—his reputation, his relationships in the literary world, his sense of identity as a writer—all of it hung in the balance.

"I need you to choose," Richard continued. "Right now. On this call. Are you a literary writer who's had a momentary lapse in judgment, or are you someone I can no longer represent?"

Ben closed his eyes, thinking of Clara's enthusiasm for his work, of the joy he'd felt while writing Marcus and Sophia's story, of the way his grandmother had looked when she'd talked about the romance novels that had brought so much happiness into her life.

But he also thought of literary conferences where he'd never be invited to speak again, of reviews that would dismiss him as a sellout, of the slow death of credibility that came with being seen as just another commercial writer chasing trends.

"Ben?" Richard's voice was sharp with impatience.

"I..." Ben's throat felt tight. "I understand your position."

"Good. So we're in agreement. You'll focus on the literary novel, and we'll pretend this romance experiment never happened."

Ben looked at his computer screen, where Marcus and Sophia's story waited for its next chapter. Where Clara's careful notes filled the margins with insights about emotion and character development. Where the best writing he'd done in years lived and breathed with a vitality his literary work had never achieved.

"Yes," he heard himself say, the word tasting like ash. "We're in agreement."

"Excellent. I want to see fifty pages of the real novel by next Friday. Clean, polished, ready for Jonathan to review. Can you manage that?"

"Yes."

"Good. And Ben? I know this feels difficult now, but you'll thank me later. Trust me—literary success is worth more than all the commercial validation in the world."

After Richard hung up, Ben sat in the silence of his apartment, staring at the two documents open on his laptop. On one screen, the cold intellectual exercise that was supposed to be his masterpiece. On the other, the warm, living story that had reminded him why he'd wanted to be a writer in the first place.

He thought about Clara, waiting for the next chapter. About their meetings at the café, her genuine investment in Marcus and Sophia's relationship, the way she'd looked at him when he'd said she was changing him as both a writer and a person.

He thought about having to tell her that the story was over. That he couldn't afford to care about characters who felt real, about emotions that mattered, about the kind of writing that made people believe in love and hope and second chances.

Most of all, he thought about the moment when he'd almost reached for her hand again, when he'd almost been brave enough to admit that somewhere in the process of writing a romance, he'd started falling into one.

Ben closed the romance manuscript without saving his latest changes. Then he opened his literary novel and began typing, each word feeling like a betrayal of everything he'd discovered about himself over the past month.

By the time he finished writing that night, Marcus and Sophia felt like strangers, and Ben felt like someone he no longer recognized—or particularly liked.

But his literary career was safe. His reputation intact. His agent satisfied.

And if that meant giving up the best writing he'd ever done, along with any chance of exploring what was developing between him and Clara...

Well, that was just the price of being a serious artist.

Wasn't it?