Rumor had done its work by the time Lila stepped out of her building.It rode the air like static—unseen, but felt on the skin.
Screens glowed with her name, stitched to speculation, repeated until the seams looked like fact.She walked fast, coat collar high, ignoring the glances from those who recognized her without admitting it.
The coffeehouse on Chancery Lane was neutral ground—chosen for that reason.Students filled the corners, highlighters bleeding across notes beside half-eaten muffins. Two junior associates rehearsed arguments over lattes.
Lila ordered tea, carried it to the window, and wrapped her hands around the cup until the heat steadied her fingers.
She had just begun to breathe again when a voice cut through the hum.
"Prescott."
It was not a question.
Lila turned. Margaret Ellison stood there—her old editor, the first woman who had ever gambled on her prose.Margaret had aged into her authority: silver hair pinned with indifference, glasses perched low, coat worn at the cuff but carried with command.
She sat opposite without waiting for permission.
"Margaret," Lila said, startled. "I didn't know you were in London.""I didn't know either, until the noise about you grew too loud to ignore.""So. Tell me—did you sign?"
Lila shook her head.
"No.""Good," Margaret said, dropping a sugar cube into her coffee. "Because that wasn't an offer. It was bait."
Lila exhaled a breath she hadn't meant to hold.
"I know.""Do you?" Margaret's voice sharpened. "Knowing is different from surviving. They don't want you for what you'll bring—they want you for what they can take."
Her words sliced the air like a scalpel. The café noise seemed to dim around them.
"You warned me once about traps," Lila murmured."That the worst are the ones you think you chose.""And you remembered," Margaret said. "Then remember this too: men like Leone build tables that look inevitable.The consultancy, the dinner, the whispers—they're all legs of the same table.If you sit, they decide the story. If you refuse, they'll still try to write it. The only way you keep the pen is by standing where their ink can't reach."
Lila looked at the woman who had printed her first essay, who had once said: Don't soften this voice. Sharpen it.
"Why do you care enough to come find me?""Because I walked into the same trap once," Margaret said quietly.
Lila blinked. "You?"
Margaret gave a dry laugh.
"Yes, me. I wasn't always wise. There was a time when a 'literary consultancy' much like this Palgrave-Adler charade came calling. They promised reach, influence, honorariums. I told myself it was harmless.Six months later, my name was on reports I hadn't written and books I hadn't read.The pay was too good. And by the time I tried to pull back, my credibility had already been sold at wholesale."
She looked away briefly, the regret shadowed but unmistakable.
"It took me years to reclaim it. Editors stopped calling. Writers I'd nurtured stopped trusting me. I became the very thing I'd warned them about—a pawn who believed herself a player.Don't make my mistake, Lila. Don't imagine you can sit at their table and walk away with your voice intact."
Lila's chest tightened. "I almost thought about it," she admitted.
"For the validation. For the chance to be in the room.""You're already in the room," Margaret said, tapping Lila's cup. "Power doesn't chase the irrelevant.""But if I stay out?""They'll call you afraid, too pure, or compromised anyway. Let them.Words are cheap. What costs is what you decide when no one else is at the table."
The café hummed louder again—steam hissing, chairs scraping.Margaret lowered her voice.
"You should know: Calder signed without hesitation. They're already spinning that as balance—him the fire, you the conscience.If you step in, you'll be the ornament.If you stay out, you'll be the threat.Either way, you're their story."
Ryan's name hit like a bruise.
"He always said he'd never—""They all say that," Margaret said flatly. "Principles hold until someone offers the right stage."
Lila leaned back. "So what now?"
"Now," Margaret said, standing, "you remember that survival isn't just saying no—it's saying it loudly enough it can't be mistaken for yes.Saturday will be knives dressed as dessert spoons. Leone will place you where he thinks you're useful.Don't let him. If you must be there, be unpredictable. That's your only safety."
She slipped on her coat, eyes softening.
"You once told me you wrote because silence felt dishonest. Don't let them purchase your honesty.They can buy Ryan's. They can't afford yours."
Lila's throat tightened.
"You could've told me this over the phone.""I could have," Margaret said, smiling faintly. "But I wanted you to see my face when I said it. Warnings on paper are too easy to fold away."
Her hand brushed Lila's shoulder—light, firm, commanding.
"Stand tall, Prescott. Not just for you. For every writer who doesn't get asked because they assume we're too easy to buy."
Then she was gone—leaving behind the scent of bitter coffee and the echo of choices lived and regretted.
Lila stayed long after her tea had cooled.Margaret's words circled in her mind: Invitations flatter. Choices cost.
She thought of the consultancy letter waiting at home.Of Nico's card: Ten still stands.Of the rumors already shaping her absence into story.
When she finally rose, she felt steadier—not safe, not certain, but resolved.The trap was clearer now. So was the knowledge that she had allies, even unexpected ones, who had fallen before her and refused to let her fall the same way.
Outside, the city rehearsed Saturday again: cars pausing, drivers muttering, doormen adjusting coats.The air smelled of rain not yet fallen.
Lila pulled her collar high and walked on—carrying Margaret's warning like armor, both gift and burden.