mafia king

Chapter 4: The Editor vs. The Author

Arthur finally tucked his phone away and as he was adjusting his cufflinks as he answered. "Grayson Hale."

I choked on my own breath. "I’m sorry, what?"

Beside me, Elliot gasped so loudly I thought he might actually pass out. "You mean ‘The Grayson Hale?’" He gripped my arm like a vise. "The literary genius? The man whose words could make angels weep?" He looked like he was about to cry. "Oh my God, Leila. This is divine intervention. This is fate."

This was a nightmare.

"And… why am I here?"

Arthur gave me a long, considering look. "Because he needs an editor. And I need the best."

I stared out the window, heart pounding as I took in the looming estate. Grayson Hale needed an editor. And fate or karma, or some cosmic joke at my expense had sent me.

The moment I stepped into Grayson Hale’s house, I felt like I had entered another world. The Spanish-style mansion was grand and moody, with dark wooden beams stretching across high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. The entire space exuded a brooding intellectual aesthetic, as if the house itself was designed to intimidate anyone who entered. It smelled of old books, whiskey, and something faintly spiced like a place where tortured literary geniuses locked themselves away to write their manifestos.

Arthur led the way, while Elliot practically vibrated with excitement beside me. I, on the other hand, felt like I was walking toward my execution.

My stomach churned with unease as we followed a housekeeper down the hallway. And then, we stepped into his study.

Grayson Hale stood near the fireplace, He had a glass of whiskey in hand, and immediately I felt he was exuding the kind of self-assured arrogance that could only belong to a man who had never been told he wasn’t a genius.

He was taller than I expected, and his broad shoulders wrapped in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the lean muscle of his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he had just run his fingers through it in frustration, and his sharp, chiseled features made him look like he belonged on the cover of a highbrow literary magazine. But it was his eyes that struck me the most piercing gray, watchful, and far too perceptive.

The moment his gaze landed on me, something flickered across his face. Curiosity? Amusement? Recognition? My breath caught in my throat, and for a single, horrifying second, I thought, he knows.

Arthur strode forward and shook his hand like they were old friends. “Grayson.”

“Arthur.” Then, his gaze slid to me. “And this must be the editor.”

“Leila brooks...”I said, but before I could even finish my introduction, Elliot practically leapt forward.

“Elliot. Huge fan. Massive fan. Your work is art.”

Grayson’s lips quirked slightly, he is clearly used to this kind of adoration.

“Appreciate it.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Leila’s one of my best. She’s here because…”

“To work on my book, obviously,” Grayson interrupted before taking a slow sip. “Though I have to say, I don’t know what needs fixing. The Ashen King is already a masterpiece.”

“ Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I thought.

Arthur, chuckled. “Well, every book can benefit from a fresh perspective.”

Grayson smirked. “That’s funny, considering my book has already been dissected by every so-called critic with an opinion. Seems the world is full of ‘perspectives’ lately.” He said and looked straight at me.

“Tell me, Leila. You’ve read The Ashen King, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I knew exactly what I had written about his book. I knew exactly how I had shredded his prose, his characters, his entire narrative structure. And now, here he was, staring me down, waiting for my honest opinion.

I had two choices:

1: Play it safe. Tell him I admired his work. Praise his style. Pretend I hadn’t spent two thousand words ripping his book apart online.

2: Tell him the truth.

I exhaled slowly. “And I think….”

“Don’t say it,” he cut my sentences. “Let me guess. You think it’s pretentious.”

I bit my lip, wondering how he knew that but before I could wander more on that.

Grayson laughed, “I can always spot the ones who don’t get it. My work isn’t meant for the average reader. It’s complex, layered. It demands an intellectual mind.”

Elliot nodded so fast I thought his head might detach from his body. “Exactly! Your prose is breathtaking, the themes are profound. It’s not for the masses. It’s for those who think.”

Grayson pointed at Elliot as if he’d just won a prize. “See? He understands.”

Arthur, sensing the tension between us, tried to steer the conversation back on track. “Grayson, the reason we’re here is…?”

“I mean, honestly,” Grayson continued, completely ignoring him. “People are so obsessed with ‘emotional depth’ and ‘character arcs’ as if a book’s worth is determined by how many times it makes them cry. Literature should challenge its readers, not spoon-feed them emotions like a cheap soap opera.”

I snapped. “With all due respect, Grayson,” I said, “your book is not some untouchable work of genius. It’s overwritten, self-indulgent, and so desperate to sound profound that it forgets to actually say anything.”

The room fell silent. Arthur’s face turned paled. Elliot looked like he had just witnessed a murder. And Grayson Hale?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’ve mistaken flowery prose for depth. Your characters are emotionally hollow, your plot meanders aimlessly, and half your sentences are so convoluted I’m convinced even you don’t know what they mean.”

Elliot s*ck*d in a horrified breath. Grayson leaned forward, “That’s an awfully bold critique coming from someone who works in publishing.”

“Editing is my job,” I shot back. “And my job is to make books better, not stroke the ego of a writer who refuses to acknowledge his flaws.”

“I refuse to dumb down my work for people who don’t understand it.”

“And I refuse to pretend it’s perfect when it’s not.”

Arthur cleared his throat loudly, and he rubbed his temples like he was debating quitting the industry altogether.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

But Grayson wasn’t done. “You know, I think what really fascinates me is how everyone keeps parroting that goddamn review like it was written by the literary gods themselves.” He said, “Lady Seraphina Wrenford, wasn’t it? The queen of book critiques?”

I stiffened.

“She called my book soulless.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “And now, every i***t with a keyboard has decided that’s the final word on it.” He said and narrowed his gray eyes on me. “Tell me, Leila. Do you agree with her?”

“I think… she made some fair points.”

Arthur suddenly pushed his chair back and stood. “Leila, a word.”

I blinked as he motioned for me to follow him out of the room. My stomach churned as I stood and stepped into the hallway with him, my pulse hammering. Arthur shut the door behind us and let out a slow, controlled breath before turning to me.

“Listen to me carefully, Leila.”

I swallowed. “I was just…?”

“I don’t care what you think about The Ashen King,” he interrupted, “What I do care about is this deal. Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

I frowned. “Arthur, if he refuses to acknowledge any flaws in his work, how am I supposed to…?”

“Figure it out,” he snapped, “Leila, you’re a d*mn good editor, but this is Grayson Hale. He’s not just another author. If we land this deal, it could be one of the biggest publishing events of the year. If we lose him? That’s on you.”.

“You’re saying…” I hesitated. “If I don’t make this work…”

“You’ll be out of a job.” He said and I stared at him in disbelief.

Arthur sighed, “Just… do whatever it takes to keep him happy, alright?”

Then, he opened the door again and gestured for me to go back inside.