“The new owner?” Romy’s voice was a tight, incredulous rasp. The phrase hung in the air, a chandelier about to drop. Max’s hand, which had been resting on her arm, tensed and then slid away. His eyes, usually so composed, flickered with something akin to panic, quickly masked by an exaggerated grimace. “Ah, yes, ‘new owner’!” Max exclaimed, letting out a laugh that was just a shade too loud for the intimate setting. He clapped the maitre d', who flinched, on the shoulder. “Pierre here, he’s got a real knack for dry wit. Always mocking my humble beginnings, aren’t you, old pal? He knows I just got a promotion to, you know, ‘head chauffeur’ for the Royston Group, and he thinks it’s hilarious to pretend I’ve bought the place. A little inside joke between the working class and the… well, the hospitality elite.” Max winked at the staffer, who looked utterly bewildered, his eyes darting between Romy’s narrowed gaze and Max’s unyielding smile. “Yes, an inside joke!” the maitre d' stammered, his face blanching. “A very… private jest! Mr. Royston, he’s always… making light of his… *station*.” The last word came out coated in treacle, heavy with veiled panic. Romy’s brow furrowed. The explanation felt like a flimsy paper screen, ready to collapse with a single poke. Max’s ‘humble beginnings’ didn’t quite align with the half-million-dollar watch, the Rolls-Royce, or the fact that this Michelin-star establishment was suddenly deserted for their private dining pleasure. But the manager, clearly terrified, seemed to be going along with it. “Right,” Romy said slowly, her voice laced with an acid doubt that could curdle milk. She pulled her hand away, the earlier warmth between them evaporating into the cool, quiet elegance of the restaurant. “Well, ‘Pierre,’ I think I need to use your very exclusive facilities before my ‘head chauffeur’ whisks me away in his ‘company car.’” She pushed her chair back, her gaze unwavering from Max’s. Max’s smile remained fixed, but his eyes held a plea she couldn’t quite decipher. “Of course, my dear. I’ll just… assure our host here that his little jest was *hilarious*.” He emphasized the word with a pointed stare at the flustered host, who visibly sagged in relief. Romy stalked towards the ladies’ room, the velvet-lined hallway silent save for the click of her heels. The ‘joke’ felt less like wit and more like a desperate attempt to patch a rapidly expanding hole in a carefully constructed facade. Her suspicions, once an irritating itch, now ground like gears in an overheated engine. She pushed open the heavy oak door of the restroom, the rich scent of artisanal soap and freesia washing over her. Before she could even reach one of the gilded sinks, a figure emerged from a stall, blocking her path. Tamsin Fray, perfectly coiffed and utterly unexpected, leaned against the marble counter, a sly glint in her eyes. Romy braced herself for the usual barrage of condescending remarks. “Kastell,” Tamsin drawled, her voice softer than Romy anticipated. “Didn’t think I’d see you slumming it here. Though, I suppose when your *chauffeur* buys the place, the dress code gets a little… lax.” Romy scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fray. And I’m not in the mood for your usual brand of petty animosity.” Tamsin pushed off the counter, her expression surprisingly serious. “Petty animosity? Believe me, Kastell, I’m about to upgrade us to full-blown vendetta. Against a mutual enemy.” She pulled out her sleek, obsidian-colored phone, tapping the screen a few times before holding it out to Romy. On the screen was a series of meticulously organized photographs and screenshots. The first image was a scanned copy of a royalty statement for Tamsin’s latest ghostwritten novel, clearly showing a hefty sum. Beside it, a bank statement, also Tamsin’s, with a significantly smaller deposit. The difference was astronomical. The next few slides detailed similar discrepancies, not just for Tamsin, but for several other authors Romy recognized, all represented by the same agency: Veridian Ink. “What is this?” Romy asked, her voice barely audible over the hum of the brass vent. Cold air seemed to pin her shoulders. The numbers were too precise, the gap too consistent. “This, Kastell, is Gemma Prentiss’s side hustle,” Tamsin said, her voice dropping to a low, furious purr. “She’s been skimming off the top of our royalties for years. My *last* two books. Your *entire backlist* of ghostwriting projects. And what’s worse, she’s been actively sabotaging our careers to keep us dependent. To keep us ghostwriters, churning out content for her to steal from, rather than letting us break out with our own names.” Romy felt the blood drain from her face. Her passion project, the one Gemma had so casually dismissed, the one she’d been told was ‘unmarketable’ and ‘unpublishable’… it all clicked into place. The sudden push for the influencer memoir, the vague deadlines, the constant rejections from editors she’d never even met. It wasn't incompetence. It was malice. It was a carefully constructed cage. “The contract… the one she tried to make me sign today…” Romy’s voice was hoarse. “It would have trapped me, wouldn’t it?” Tamsin nodded, tapping the screen. “Legally binding you to Veridian Ink for any publishing endeavor, forever. Gemma had a clause in there that would give her a percentage of *anything* you ever wrote, even if you self-published it from a deserted island. She’s a professional parasite, and we were her prize hosts.” Fury tightened Romy's throat. It wasn’t just her career that had been systematically dismantled; it was her time, her self-worth, her very belief in her own pages. She had blamed herself for every setback, every rejection, internalizing the narrative that she simply wasn’t good enough. The years of struggle, the caffeine-fueled nights, the gnawing anxiety – all of it, a manufactured lie. Gemma hadn’t just betrayed her; she’d stolen her future and twisted her past. “I’m going to ruin her,” Romy said, the words a low, guttural growl she barely recognized as her own. The cynicism, the sarcasm, the self-preservation—it all burned away, leaving a core of molten vengeance. Tamsin’s lips curved into a thin, satisfied smile. “My thoughts exactly. I’ve been building a case for months. But Gemma is cunning, well-connected. A single complaint won’t be enough. We need to hit her from all sides. A joint effort, a temporary truce, you and I. What do you say, Kastell? The enemy of my enemy…” “Is my co-conspirator,” Romy finished, setting her jaw with an icy smile. She held out her hand, not for a handshake, but as a silent pledge. Tamsin met it, her grip surprisingly firm. “Excellent,” Tamsin murmured, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “But before we start drafting our revenge manifesto, there’s something else.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, unaware of the imposing shadow that had paused just outside the restroom door, Max’s face a mask of fierce, protective intensity. Tamsin looked Romy dead in the eye and murmured, “And while we’re plotting, we need to talk about who you are actually married to.”

The Enemy of My Enemy