Love Me or Leave Me

Chapter 1

Annika

The office smells like burnt coffee and desperation, which tells me one thing: this meeting is going to suck. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach as I sit across from Karen, my editor, who’s adjusting her glasses with that overly deliberate precision she uses when she’s about to ruin my life.

She smiles in that tight-lipped way of hers, the kind of smile that says buckle up. “Annika, you’ve been doing some incredible work lately.”

Oh no. Here it comes. Compliments are always the warm-up for bad news in publishing.

“But,” Karen continues, folding her hands like she’s breaking bad news to a toddler, “we’ve been getting some feedback that your male leads... well, they could use a little more edge.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Edge?”

“You know, a little less Mr. Darcy, a little more... James Bond.”

James Bond? Seriously? I blink at her, waiting for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. She’s dead serious.

“I think we’ve struck a good balance,” I say, my tone crisp. “Readers love thoughtful, emotionally aware men. They’re kind of tired of the brooding alpha who grunts his feelings and flexes his way out of conflict.”

Karen sighs, a theatrical breath like she’s about to change my world. “I get that, and you’re right—up to a point. But our Valentine’s campaign needs something different. Something that appeals to a broader audience. We want to give your next book a little extra bite—a male lead with swagger, confidence, and yes, a little more alpha energy.”

I fold my arms. “So, what? You want me to throw in a leather jacket and a motorcycle and call it a day?”

Karen’s lips twitch, but she presses on. “No, we want to collaborate—bring in someone who can help develop a male perspective. We’ve hired a co-writer for this project, someone who can really nail that kind of voice. Think of it as an opportunity to stretch creatively.”

Co-writer. That word is a bucket of ice water poured down my back.

“Co-writer?” My voice rises slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “Karen, I don’t need a co-writer. I’ve written five bestsellers on my own. The last thing I need is some guy barging in and—”

“Peter Morrison.”

My entire body tenses. I stare at her, willing her to unsay those words. “I’m sorry, did you just say Peter Morrison?”

She nods, still smiling like this is great news. “He’s an accomplished writer, and his voice is exactly what we’re looking for. He’ll bring that male edge we’re missing.”

I know who Peter Morrison is. Everyone in publishing knows Peter Morrison. He’s that smug, cocky writer who churns out “man’s man” content for Playboy and half the internet, and somehow convinces everyone he’s a literary genius. The kind of guy who probably thinks women in romance novels just sit around waiting to be rescued by some muscle-bound hero with commitment issues.

“This is a joke,” I say, forcing a laugh. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Karen’s expression softens, but it’s clear she’s not backing down. “Annika, I know this isn’t your ideal situation, but trust me—Peter's got talent. And if you two work together, this book could be something really special. Think of it as a fresh perspective.”

A fresh perspective. What she means is, they think my men are too soft. They want some testosterone-soaked charmer with a five-o’clock shadow and a leather jacket to save my books.

“Karen,” I say, trying one last time, “I’m perfectly capable of writing a believable male character.”

“I know you are,” she says, and it almost sounds sincere. “But this will give you a chance to push your boundaries. Step outside your comfort zone.”

My comfort zone. Right. Because working with Peter Morrison—the king of shallow, emotionally stunted storytelling—is going to be some kind of creative awakening.

“When is this happening?” I ask, already resigned to my fate.

“Tomorrow morning. He’ll be here at ten. I’m so excited for you two to meet.”

Excited. Sure. I’m thrilled.

I stand, plastering on a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Great. Can’t wait.”

The elevator ride down to my office feels like a slow descent into hell. I can practically hear Peter's cocky voice already, telling me how my male characters need to “toughen up” or offering some unsolicited advice about how to make my plots “more realistic.”

Back at my desk, I collapse into my chair and open my laptop, pulling up his latest article. “The Art of the Chase: Why Men Love the Thrill and Women Love the Drama.”

I close the tab before I can read a single word.

God help me.

The next morning, I’m at the office early, armed with a strong coffee and a fake smile that could win awards. I sit at the conference table, tapping my pen on the glossy surface, waiting for the moment the devil himself walks through the door.

At exactly 10:00 a.m., the door swings open, and there he is. Peter Morrison.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a leather jacket—of course—he saunters in like he owns the place. His messy brown hair and stupidly charming grin are exactly what I expected.

“Annika Greene.” His voice is warm, confident. “We meet at last.”

I don’t stand. “Peter Morrison.” I give him a tight smile. “Right on time. How... professional of you.”

He chuckles, dropping into the chair across from me and stretching out like he’s settling in for a long, comfortable ride. “Gotta make a good first impression.”

“Well, congratulations,” I say, folding my hands on the table. “You’ve already managed to exceed my expectations.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Peter grins wider, like my sarcasm is the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day. “This is gonna be fun.”

Oh no.This is going to be a disaster.