Marry Me, But Mean It

Chapter 1

Aaliyah

The reviews are brutal in a way that makes my stomach twist. They’re the kind of vicious that leaves no room for mercy, the kind that suggests people have been waiting for me to stumble. At first, I try reading them like I’m studying an autopsy report—cold, detached, and scientific. But it’s impossible to stay numb when the words tear at everything I’ve built.

My laptop rests on the worn coffee table in front of me, its screen glowing in the dark of my New York apartment. I’ve closed all the blinds, and the only light is a single floor lamp standing crooked near the couch. The emotional toll of these last few weeks has seeped into my bones, making me feel older than thirty. It’s just me and a glass of whiskey, and I cling to that glass like it’s the last friend I have.

I skim through another online critique. The reviewer calls my newest thriller “uninspired” and “a formulaic attempt by a once-formidable talent.” Words like flop, disappointment, and career free-fall keep cropping up. I mutter a curse under my breath and slam the laptop closed. No sense reading the same funeral sermon again and again.

I lean back into my couch, letting my head fall against the cushions. I’m used to dark content—my novels revolve around murder, psychological twists, and betrayals. I research homicide statistics like other people Google cat memes. But this is a kind of darkness I can’t exploit or shape into a plot. This is failure. No, scratch that. This is people telling me I’ve failed.

Through the large window, the Manhattan skyline flickers, each lit window reminding me how many other writers are probably tapping away at their keyboards, chasing success the way I once did. My place is usually a nest of organized chaos—notes pinned to walls, half-empty coffee cups, and sticky notes stuck to my fridge about new thriller ideas. Tonight, even my messy environment feels smothering. The chaotic comfort is gone.

I take another long sip of whiskey and feel its warmth spread through my chest. It doesn’t soothe the knot of anxiety in my belly, though. The contract with my publisher is my lifeline. I’ve published four thrillers. The first soared to the top of bestseller lists, and the second and third had proven I wasn’t a one-hit wonder. The fourth netted a film option so fast that people in the industry started calling me a phenomenon. I thought I had it made. I thought readers would follow me forever.

Turns out forever can end in a blink.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. The caller ID flashes Sophie Lin—my literary agent, my best friend, and the woman who never fails to bring me a reality check when I’m too deep in denial.

For a moment, I consider ignoring her. I’m in no mood for a pep talk, especially not one that’ll remind me how I’m failing to meet sales targets, how I’m letting everyone down. But I know Sophie. If I don’t pick up, she’ll find a way to get in, even if she has to scale the fire escape.

I swipe to answer. “Yeah,” I say, letting my exhaustion soak through the single word.

“Aaliyah, open your door,” she replies in that clipped tone that suggests she’s already here. “I’m outside.”

My gaze jumps to the front door, and sure enough, I hear a sharp knock. Setting aside my glass, I haul myself off the couch and trudge across the living area. I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark reflection of the TV—brown skin, tired eyes, hair in a messy bun, and lips pressed into a line. I look like someone who’s been awake for three straight nights, haunted by negativity. Which is probably true.

When I swing open the door, Sophie stands there in jeans, a blazer, and a look that says she’s not here for small talk. She pushes past me before I can say a word, carrying a tote bag that looks heavier than usual.

“I see you’ve graduated from ignoring my texts to ignoring my calls,” she remarks, taking in the clutter. “Hard at work, I hope.”

“I’m not ignoring you. I’m selectively responding,” I counter, running a hand over my tangled curls. “Since you barged in anyway, might as well tell me what’s going on.”

She lowers herself onto the couch and rummages through her bag. “Sit,” she orders, pulling out a stack of papers. “We have a problem.”

I flop down in the armchair across from her, my arms and legs feeling like lead. The smell of whiskey mingles with the faint scent of Sophie’s perfume. “We’ve had a problem for weeks,” I say flatly. “The new book tanked. My publisher’s losing faith in me, and I’m drowning in bad press. Which part did you want to talk about first?”

Her brow furrows. “All of it, but we need to get specific. I just spoke with Jameson House.”

That’s my publisher—Jameson House, a once-independent press acquired by Carter Media not too long ago. I’m vaguely aware of the buyout, but I never gave it much thought. Publishers merge and get sold all the time. It never used to affect me. Until now.

Sophie holds up a marked contract. “They’ve officially put you on probation. You have six months to deliver a manuscript that’s—by their terms—commercially successful.”

The words slice through the whiskey haze in my head. My heart rate spikes. “Probation,” I repeat, tasting the bitterness of it. “Meaning if I can’t produce a bestseller, they’ll invoke the clause.”

“Exactly,” Sophie says, flipping to a highlighted section. “This clause gives them the right to take over your entire brand. They could rewrite your future books, hire ghostwriters under your name, and do whatever they like with your intellectual property.”

I stiffen as she highlights each horrifying possibility. I’ve known about the clause for years, but I never believed it might actually be used against me. When I’d first signed, I was too swept up in my own hype to read the fine print properly. New authors often sign their souls away for that first big break.

I rake a hand over my face, then rub the back of my neck. “So they basically own me if I can’t deliver.”

Sophie nods, her expression grim. “Yeah. It’s not just your next book on the line—your entire career. They’ll churn out spinoffs, sequels, tie-ins, all using your name. You’ll have no control.”

The possibility of losing creative control makes me feel like I’m suffocating. Writing is more than a paycheck for me. It’s my identity, my refuge, the only part of my life where I feel in charge. I think of my childhood in Chicago, where everything was out of control—absent father, bills that always came up short, nights spent listening to my mother pace our tiny apartment, worrying about where to find work. I promised myself I’d never be helpless again. But here I am.

I slam the palm of my hand against the armrest. “I can fix this,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice. “I’ll write something new. I have half a dozen thriller ideas swirling in my head. I just need to pick one.”

She glances down at the contract again, as though searching for better news. “That’s just it,” she says slowly. “They’re not interested in another thriller.”

It’s like she’s speaking another language. I stare at her, struggling to process the words. “Not interested in… thrillers? That’s what I do, Sophie. That’s what I’ve always done.”

She purses her lips. “Well, they want you to switch genres.”

I wait for her to explain, a strange chill creeping up my spine. I suddenly want to laugh, but the dread pooling in my stomach is stronger.

Sophie licks her lips. “They want you to write… a romance.”

The moment the word falls from her mouth, my brain short-circuits. I can’t recall the last time I was left speechless, but apparently, there’s a first for everything. Finally, I bark out a laugh so sharp it hurts my throat. “A romance? Me?”

“Believe me, I was shocked too,” Sophie replies, folding her arms. “But they think it’s the perfect pivot. Romantic comedies and contemporary love stories are selling like crazy right now. Their logic is that your name recognition alone might carry a romance to the bestseller list, provided you put in the work.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. None comes.

I rub my temples in a desperate attempt to ward off the migraine building behind my eyes. “Sophie, I write psychological twists and gritty murder scenes. The only relationships I’ve written are toxic ones that end with one character six feet under. You think I can churn out a heartfelt love story?”

Her shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “You don’t really have a choice. They’ll pull that clause on you if you don’t deliver what they want. They already made it clear it has to be a romance, or you’re done.”

The weight of her words crashes down like a rogue wave. I feel pinned to my seat, my heart struggling to keep a steady rhythm. I’ve always dismissed love as a fairytale—something gullible people chase while ignoring the realities of heartbreak, betrayal, and everything else that can go wrong. When I was nineteen, I caught my college boyfriend cheating. He tried to spin it like it was a “mistake,” but that moment cemented my cynical worldview. Romantic illusions never appealed to me after that.

But now I’m supposed to write about it?

I push up from the armchair and start pacing, the room too small to hold my frustration. “This is insane,” I mutter, glancing at the whiskey glass still sitting on the table. “I built my entire career on thrillers. I don’t do love stories. The critics will eat me alive if I try it. And even if they don’t, I’ll hate every second.”

Sophie levels me with a look that’s too sympathetic for my pride. “Hating it won’t matter if it sells. This is about survival, Aaliyah. You’re one flop away from losing your future. Or letting them rewrite it for you. Which is worse?”

Her words force me to pause. She’s right. Ghostwriters producing some subpar “Aaliyah James Thriller” while I watch from the sidelines… No. That’s my personal hell. I can’t let it happen.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, ignoring how often I do that when I’m stressed. It’s apparently become my signature tic. “Okay,” I breathe, forcing my voice to stay even. “I guess I’m writing a romance. But I’ve got no idea where to start. Happy endings make me nauseous. I wouldn’t know how to craft a love scene if my life depended on it—”

“Which it does,” Sophie interjects, her tone gentle but firm. “Your life—your creative life—is on the line. But you’re not alone. I’ll guide you. You’ll do research. You’ll read romance books, maybe talk to a few romance authors we know. You can figure out what tropes and arcs might resonate with readers. You’re talented, Aaliyah. If anyone can pivot genres, it’s you.”

I sink back down onto the couch, letting my head fall against the cushions. Every part of me rebels against this plan, but there’s no escaping it. I’m cornered. Anger flares up, hot and insistent, but I don’t know who to direct it at—my publisher? Myself for failing? The world for not wanting my thrillers anymore?

“How long do I have?” I ask quietly.

“Six months.” Sophie eyes me carefully, as if she’s expecting me to lash out again. “They expect a polished draft. No half-baked attempts to stall. And if you don’t, they’ll brand you as uncooperative, breach of contract, and then the ghostwriters move in.”

“Six months,” I repeat, letting the word settle. Six months is not a lot of time to figure out how to craft a love story that sparkles, but it’s all I have.

“This is a tight deadline, so you need to start now,” Sophie says. She rakes her hand through her short hair. “I was out scouting deals for you, seeing if another publisher might buy you out of your contract. But nobody wants to take on that clause risk. Everyone knows Carter Media is ruthless. If you breach, they’ll bury you in legal trouble. So your best shot is to survive—by doing exactly what they say.”

A wave of exhaustion hits me. It feels like no matter which direction I turn, I’m trapped. My father’s abandonment taught me not to rely on anyone but myself. My mother’s endless struggles taught me that when you’re cornered, you fight to survive. Maybe that’s what I have to do now: fight a battle I never wanted.

I look at Sophie. She’s been by my side since my first query letter, always pushing me to take risks. She found an agent for me when I was nobody, then negotiated my first publishing deal. If she says there’s no alternative, I believe her.

I press my palms against my knees and push up, determination sparking in my chest. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll write the romance novel of the century if I have to. But don’t expect me to like it.”

Sophie’s lips quirk in a small smile. “Nobody said you had to enjoy it—just that it has to sell. You’re Aaliyah James. You can do it. And who knows?” Her tone lightens, though her eyes still watch me warily. “You might discover that you’re secretly good at writing about love.”

A sharp laugh escapes me. “I doubt it,” I say, reaching for the glass of whiskey to drain what’s left. “Love and I are not on speaking terms.”

Still, I find myself picking up my laptop, already listing possible romance tropes in my mind. Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, marriage of convenience, second-chance romance… Those are the big buzzwords I’ve seen plastered all over top-selling books. The entire concept feels foreign, but if it’s the lifeline that keeps me from drowning, I’ll grab it.

I glance at Sophie, noting the relief in her expression. She stands, collecting her tote. “I’ll get you a list of research reads by tomorrow. And we’ll schedule some brainstorming sessions.” She heads to the door, pausing only to level me with a serious look. “Remember, if you run into any snags, call me before you panic.”

I nod, the faintest hint of a wry smile on my lips. “Thanks, Sophie. And thanks for bulldozing your way in here tonight. I probably would’ve just wallowed otherwise.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Wallowing’s my job. You’ve got a romance to write.”

When the door shuts behind her, the silence returns, thick and suffocating. I stand in my living room, letting the bizarre new reality sink in: I’m about to write a romance novel. For a second, panic flares, twisting my stomach into knots. But there’s nothing to do except move forward. I can’t lose everything I’ve fought for—the control, the creative freedom, the voice I’ve honed since I was a scared kid in Chicago just trying to survive.

I settle on the couch again and flip the laptop open. The empty document glares at me. With a resigned breath, I type two words into the blank space:

Working Title

Then I delete it. Maybe I’ll call it something ironically sweet—“The Contract of the Heart,” or “The Unwritten Deal.” My fingers hover over the keyboard, and for the first time in months, there’s a spark.

I might hate every step of this process. But I’m going to fight like hell to make it a success. Because the only way I lose is if I give up, and I learned a long time ago that I am incapable of surrendering to someone else’s terms.

Closing my eyes, I whisper a silent promise: I will survive this. I have to. Then I crack my knuckles, take a steadying breath, and begin to type, forcing hope into every keystroke—hope that I’ll somehow fool the world into buying a love story written by the biggest cynic on the planet.