mafia king

Chapter 3: The Queen of Critiques Strikes Again

I worked at Aster & Co. Publishing for the past four years. The company was one of the most prestigious independent publishing houses in the industry, known for its commitment to literary fiction, ambitious debuts, and the occasional commercial hit that kept the lights on.

As a Senior editor, my job was to shape those manuscripts into something extraordinary, something worthy of sitting on the shelves of bookstores and libraries. I love my job.

The moment I stepped into the office, I sensed something was off. There was an unmistakable buzz in the air, the kind that usually meant a scandal had erupted or an unhinged email sent to the entire department, a disastrous typo in a client proposal, or, God forbid, the office coffee machine breaking down.

But as I made my way to my desk, I quickly realized this was something else entirely.

“Did you see it?” Olivia from marketing said and she was practically vibrating with excitement. She had her phone clutching to her chest like it contained state secrets.

“I know, right?” Jason from the accounting team said and shook his head in disbelief. “She completely obliterated him.”

“She?” I repeat as I set my bag down on my desk. My eyes immediately travelled across the massive screen in the office lounge to a website I knew all too well…the infamous book blog belonging to none other than Lady Seraphina Wrenford.

My stomach dropped. It was written, in bold letters, the title of my latest review:

“The Ashen King: A Beautifully Written, Soulless Experience”

I didn’t think that it would go viral overnight. I forced myself to breathe.

For the past six years, Lady Seraphina Wrenford had been a mystery. A name whispered in literary circles, feared by authors, and worshipped or despised by readers depending on which side of her ruthless criticism they landed on and her reviews had the power to make or break a book, and today, they had been aimed squarely at Grayson Hale.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t exactly defend myself without revealing, well… myself.

“Wow,” I said, as I looked at the screen, and played dumb. “That bad?”

“Dude, she ripped him apart.” Jason said.

Olivia nodded enthusiastically. “She didn’t just critique the book, she demolished it. Called the protagonist a mouthpiece, said the story was hollow…" Olivia said, but before she could finish her sentence she was interrupted by Elliot, my assistante.

“I read it,” Elliot said.

I braced myself for it. Elliot loved two things more than life itself: overpriced oat milk lattes and Grayson Hale. He wasn’t just a fan…he was a die-hard, borderline cultish devotee. And right now, he looked personally offended.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he placed his coffee on my desk with excruciating care, as if to stop himself from hurling it at the nearest wall.

“But this is blasphemy.”

I lifted an eyebrow and said, “Blasphemy?”

“Yes, Leila. Blasphemy.” He said and exhaled sharply, like he was physically pained to explain this to me.

“Lady Seraphina Wrenford has lost her d*mn mind.”

I fought to keep my face neutral. “Oh? And why is that?”

Elliot turned to me, “Because Grayson Hale is a genius. His writing is art. His prose? Breathtaking. His character work? Unparalleled. I mean, sure, the plot was a little meandering…”

I snorted. “A little?”

“but that’s the point! He’s not writing for the masses, Leila. He’s writing for the intellectual elite.”

“You can call it ‘literary genius’ all you want, but if a book doesn’t connect with people, what’s the point?”

Elliot gasped. “Did you just imply Grayson Hale doesn’t connect with people?”

“He doesn’t!” I shot back. “His characters are emotionally distant, the dialogue reads like a philosophical debate, and let’s be real, he’s so far up his own *ss he probably thinks criticism is beneath him.”

Elliot clutched his chest dramatically. “First of all, how dare you. Second of all, he’s brilliant because he refuses to spoon-feed his audience. He makes you think.”

“He makes you suffer,” I countered.

“It’s art.”

“It’s pretentious.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes on me. “Are you actually siding with Lady Seraphina Wrenford?”

“ Oh, if only, he knew.” I thought.

“Not necessarily,” I hedged, and lifted my coffee. “But I think she made some good points.”

Elliot groaned, “You’re hopeless.”

I smirked. “And you’re delusional.”

Jason and Olivia were watching us like a tennis match.

“Okay, but who even is Lady Seraphina Wrenford?” Olivia asked, and her eyes flicked between us. “Like, no one knows anything about her. Just her name.”

Jason nodded. “It’s kind of insane, actually. How does someone become that powerful in the book world without even showing their face?”

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my heart pounded because the truth was… I never meant to become Lady Seraphina Wrenford.

She was just a character in a novel I wrote once. A story that never saw the light of day. But she was everything I wished I could be, sharp-tongued, confident, utterly fearless. The kind of woman who walked into a room and commanded attention without saying a word. The kind who never apologized for her opinions .I loved her.

And when I needed an alias, when I needed an escape…she was the first name that came to mind.

It started as a joke. A secret indulgence. A way to say this was my first job as an junior editor at Everhart Publishing, where I spent my days sugarcoating feedback and pretending mediocre books had “potential.”

I needed an outlet. Somewhere I could be honest. Ruthlessly honest.

So, one night, fueled by frustration and too much wine I created a book review blog under her name. Lady Seraphina Wrenford. It sounded grand, untouchable, terrifyingly sophisticated. Like the kind of woman who wore silk gowns, and read first editions. At first, it was just a game. But then something strange happened.

People listened. My reviews, filled with biting wit and brutal critique, started gaining traction. Readers loved me. Writers feared me. Because Lady Seraphina Wrenford’s opinion could make or break a book. She became a legend in the publishing world. Mysterious. Infamous. No one knew who she was? only that her reviews were the kind that left authors sleepless at night.

Even my coworkers at Everhart debated her words over coffee, never once suspecting the truth. I should’ve felt guilty. But I didn’t because the truth is… I loved being her. I loved the power. I loved that for once, my voice mattered but the only problem was?

Secrets don’t stay hidden forever.

But now, as I listened to my coworkers dissect my review like it was a breaking news scandal, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Because if people ever did find out who I really was…I had a feeling my life would never be the same.

Before I could dwell too much on the chaos I had unintentionally unleashed, a sharp voice cut through my thoughts.

"Leila, Elliot," Lucy, our boss’s secretary, called out as she strode toward us. She was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties who ran the office with the kind of precision that made even the most chaotic editors cower in fear.

"Leila, Elliot, Mr. Arthur wants to see you. Urgently." I looked up from my laptop, and my stomach immediately knotted. Urgently was never a good word. It usually meant a disaster was unfolding like a contract mishap, an author meltdown, or, worst of all, an impromptu presentation that I was supposed to have prepared for but definitely hadn’t.

Elliot, was still sulking from our earlier Ashen King debate, he perked up. "Are we getting fired? Because if so, I need to grab my emotional support latte first."

I gave him a flat look. "Yes, Elliot. Arthur Kensington, the CEO of one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the country, has personally requested our presence so he can fire us in tandem. Very efficient of him."

Lucy sighed, she looked already exasperated. "Just get up and come on."

Elliot and I exchanged a wary glance before following her out of the office. But instead of leading us to Arthur’s corner office, she took us straight to the elevators, down to the ground floor. That’s when I saw it. A sleek black town car waiting at the curb, and its driver standing beside the open door like we were VIPs.

"Oh," I muttered. "This feels like a setup."

Elliot said, next to me . "It’s giving a ‘corporate hit job.’ If we don’t come back, tell my mother I died defending Grayson Hale’s honor."

"If we don’t come back, tell my dad I regret nothing."

Lucy, visibly restraining herself from shoving us into the car, and she motioned again.

"Just get in."

We didn't have a choice beside getting in the car so we did, and slid inside, and inside was already, seated across from us like a king on his throne, was Arthur Kensington. Arthur was a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Everything about him was tailored to quiet power, the crisp navy-blue suit, the sharp glint in his pale blue eyes, the way he barely glanced up from his phone yet somehow still managed to make you feel scrutinized.

I cleared my throat. "Sir… are we in trouble?"

Arthur didn’t look up. "No, Leila. Unless you give me a reason to be concerned."

"That’s comforting," Elliot whispered under his breath.

I ignored him. "So… where are we going?"

Arthur finally looked up, from his phone to me. "To a client meeting. I need my best editor with me."

I should have felt honored. But there was nothing about his calm tone that made me uneasy.

"And me?" Elliot piped up. "Why am I here?"

Arthur sighed, and he rubbed his temple like he already regretted this. "Because you refused to get out of the car once you heard the words ‘client meeting.’"

Elliot grinned, looking completely unashamed. "Sounds like me."

We drove in silence for a while, the city gradually giving way to tree-lined streets and massive estates that screamed old money. I kept waiting for Arthur to tell me who we were meeting, but he was simply busy scrolling through his phone.

Then we turned into a long, winding driveway leading up to a mansion. Not just any mansion… A grand, Spanish-style estate with terracotta roofs, ivy-covered stone walls, and arched windows that looked dark and imposing. The kind of place that belonged to a reclusive billionaire or a Bond villain.

"Who exactly is this client?