Page 12 of Sweet Venom

Wanting to get through this, I pushed the door open without slowing down, the force of it nearly slamming into the wall. A few of them flinch. I take the head of the table, my chair creaking as I lean back with the air of a king assuming his throne. My cold gaze swept over the group, daring anyone to waste my time. A young guy with buck teeth and glasses larger than his face visibly swallowed hard as if he was nervous. Poor fuck.

“Begin,” I commanded, my voice sharp, almost slicing through the awkward silence.

The team stumbled over their words, rambling about contracts signed, manuscripts acquired. It all blurred together. Authors I have zero interest in meeting. Stories I’ll never read. None of it matters. Only her. My fingers tapped the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be. I chose to buy this publishing house and yes I could appoint someone of trust to handle it but I won’t. Because of her.

And then, like a thread being yanked out of nowhere, her name cut through the haze.

“Poe James,” someone said, and my focus snapped to the speaker—a mousey woman clutching a tablet as if it’s her only protection. “She’s our most recent signing. She’s coming in today to meet the team and discuss the release timeline.”

I knew this already.

How did I know? I was the one who signed her.

I sat up straighter, my tapping stopping mid-beat. “Poe James,” I repeated, savoring the sound of her name on my tongue.

“Yes,” the woman, Darlene I believe her name is or maybe is Dania, answered, her voice trembling slightly. “She’s?—”

“I’ll handle, Miss. James,” I interrupted, my voice cutting her off without hesitation.

The room went still. I could feel every set of eyes on me, the confusion flickering on their faces. Publishers don’t usually work one on one with their talent.

“Sir,” another team member, what’s his name said, “we already have a team set up for Miss. J?—”

“I think I made myself clear,” I snapped, my tone freezing. “You’ll work with the other authors. Poe James is mine.”

The words come out harder than I intend, but there’s no going back. Not that I would. I don’t know why—don’t ask me why—her name has always felt like a thread pulling me into some dark, uncharted abyss that makes me feel like I’m not in control. The idea of anyone else handling her book fills me with a burning rage and fuck, I’m jealous.

The team exchanged uneasy glances, none of them daring to argue further.

“Is that clear?” I asked, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

They all nod, murmuring among themselves, like a flock of sheep trying to avoid the wolf’s teeth. I leaned back in my chair, feeling the heat in my chest cool into something more calculated and darker.I’ll deal with her. On my terms. On my turf.

I waited. I tried to stop it, but this pull I feel for her? It’s a chain I can’t break, no matter how much I want to.

The meeting dragged on, but I’ve checked out. The voices around me blurred into static. My attention drifted to the glass walls framing the office, my eyes locking on the grotesque horror outside. Red. Pink. Hearts. Ribbons. Cheap, fake roses. It’s as if the devil himself took a hammer to the Valentine’s aisle and called it a day.

I cringed, my jaw tightening.Who approved this shit?

“Who’s responsible for this... monstrosity?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, but loud enough for the room to catch my frustration.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her—my secretary. Her name escaped me. Glenda? Wanda? It didn’t matter. She’s standing near the door, clutching a notepad, like she’s trying to become invisible. I gestured her forward with a flick of my fingers, and she hesitated, her uncertainty thick enough to slice through.

“What’s your name again?” I asked flatly, without looking up.

“Uh, Linda, sir,” she answered, her wide hazel eyes practically pleading for a quick exit.

“Right. Linda.” She didn’t look like a ‘Linda’, but I can’t be bothered to care. “Take down those absurd Valentine’s decorations. Replace them with something... less vomit-inducing.”

I paused, an idea forming in my mind—something dark, fitting for the taste of the building. “Black hearts. Black roses. Something that screams fuck love and the idiots who believe in it.”

She blinked at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues. “Black hearts, sir?”

“Yes, black hearts,” I snapped, the irritation starting to bubble over. I turned my gaze to the rest of the room. “Is that so difficult to understand? Or do you all prefer to keep working in a space that looks like Cupid vomited on it?”

The team looked nervously at one another, unsure whether I’m joking.

I’m not.

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