Page 8 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
The first offices all looked the same: glass walls, fake plants, gray carpets, anonymous agents speaking in calm tones on their phones. I kept moving, guided by something like instinct—because suddenly, the carpet changed. The lightingdimmed. The picture frames on the walls became grander. No glossy posters here—just black-and-white photos of famous authors shaking hands with presidents, rock stars, and Nobel laureates.
I was entering the realm of the “Associates.” The crème de la crème.
But I didn’t stop. Because at the very end of the hallway stood a door unlike the rest. Bigger. Darker. More... final. And on its plaque, in understated but gleaming gold letters:
ROBERT BRONSON – Founding Partner
There he was. The man who had turned dozens of dreams into front-table hardcovers.
I approached with the same spirit a gladiator brings to the arena. My heart beat like a war drum, but I ignored it.
Because if he was the greatest living agent...
...then I was the greatest undiscovered writer on the planet. And this moment was our shared destiny finally ticking in sync.
I caught a glimpse of him through the glass door—on the phone, sleeves rolled up, leaning back like he’d just sealed a seven-figure deal. He looked calm. Too calm.
I threw the door open with theatrical flair and shut it behind me with a sharp click, cutting off the receptionist before she could slip in behind me. Iheard a muffled thud, followed by a startled “Oh!”—she must’ve nearly face-planted into the glass.
Then came the pounding. Flat palms, panicked rhythm. Tribal drums of alarm.
Bronson looked at me silently, one eyebrow raised while the other stayed perfectly still. Then he returned to his call.
“Katia, I’ve got to go. I think my time has come. Possibly one of the authors I rejected is here to take her revenge.” He paused, utterly deadpan. “Donate half my estate to charity, please. The other half goes to my dog.” Another pause. “What? Yes, yes. Talk soon. Bye.”
He slowly set the phone down, folded his hands, and said, “And you are…?”
I peeled myself off the door like it had suddenly gone hot. “You’ve never read me, Mr. Bronson. But I’m not here for a scene. I just want to leave this manuscript on your desk. That’s all. It’s enough for me to know it was in this room. Then I’ll go.”
The door burst open again. The receptionist stormed in, flushed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bronson! I couldn’t stop her! She bolted in the second she arrived!”
He looked at her the way you might look at a pigeon that somehow crossed a freeway unharmed.
“It’s fine, Lucy. Leave us alone.”
Lucy hesitated for a second, shooting me a look somewhere between “unhinged” and “fangirl,” thenshut the door behind her with a quiet click.
I was still panting like I’d just climbed Everest barehanded. I looked down at the manuscript I’d placed on his desk and spotted a tiny red blotch on the top page. I wiggled my fingers—my right index finger was bleeding a little.
I must’ve nicked myself on the zipper while pulling it out of my bag. Perfect. Now there was literally blood on the pages.
Bronson glanced down, noticed the mark, and read my name at the top in elegant Times New Roman size 12.
“Sit, Bea. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve literally bled for this novel, huh?” he said with a half-smile.
I just smiled back. His kindness, unexpected as it was, put me strangely at ease. And for a moment, I felt like a complete idiot for wasting all those years chasing desperate agents with crooked ties and cold-coffee breath. This man—this was the top. You could tell by the way he breathed.
“I’m guessing you’re looking for representation?” he asked, calmly.
“Yes, sir.”
“First novel?”
“Sixth.”
