Page 172 of Darling Venom
Wow.
“Normally, I wouldn’t show my enthusiasm like this. It shifts the tides of negotiation in your favor. But we both know, whatever the advance ends up being, this book will earn out fast and move on to several print runs, adaptations, and translations. So, what’s the point of hiding my excitement for the project? But there is one thing I’m curious about.”
“Oh?”
She lifted the manuscript, flipping the first page and skimming its empty backside.
“I noticed you left the writer’s name off the title page and headers.” She narrowed her eyes. “And that you often refer to him as ‘the author.’ Don’t tell me you got this off a prolific serial killer.” Her head slanted. “Actually, that would be quite a marketing goldmine. The next The Imperfections, written by Ted Bundy’s protégé.”
I swallowed.
Of course, she’d noticed.
I took my sweet time answering.
“The author’s name is Kellan Marchetti, and he’s not a serial killer.”
“Marchetti…” And the shock just kept coming. She shook her head. “As in, Terry Marchetti? Any relation?”
“Kellan is… was his son.”
The words came out slow. Reluctant.
She must’ve sensed my discomfort because she hid her reaction, pasting a neutral expression onto her face. Still, I caught her vibrating palms and flushed cheeks.
“It makes sense now that you say it.”
Her fingertips met the manuscript again, grazing the title so gently, I doubted she’d handle Reagan’s babies with more care. I understood the reaction. What this meant for the book world. It was why I’d waited until after I knew she adored the book to tell her.
She caught herself in another caress, returning her hands to her side. “The talent must be h
ereditary.”
“I think so, too. I see a lot of Terry in his writing, though they have their differences.”
The same tortured outlook.
Two very different circumstances.
“Not that I’m keeping Kellan’s identity from Reagan,” I added, “but can you let me be the one to break it to her? I want to explain how I came to acquire the manuscript myself.”
“Of course. She told me to take care of you when I visited her at Morgan-Dunn. Also said she had high hopes for your future. I can see why. Frankly, I don’t think you need any preferential care. You’re bolder than I expected.”
Because I have something to fight for.
“Thank you.”
“I do have notes on the manuscript for the author. If you decide to sell it to us, I’ll expect them to be addressed. Now that I know it’s a posthumous novel, the problem becomes who will do the rewrites. Is this the raw manuscript you received or did you do any passes through it?”
“I did three passes and two rounds of proofing. It’s very similar to the original manuscript with a few tweaks here and there, particularly the woman’s reaction to the hero.”
“Hmm… I actually found an issue with that area of the piece. Venom’s reaction to the unnamed hero lacks consistency. In most areas, it’s raw, guttural, real. Chock-full of insecurities that make my heart ache for the hero.”
I waited for the but, and damn, Helen delivered.
“But the book is first-person, past tense, single point of view. Venom’s reactions need to be shown through the hero’s lens. If he’s anxious and tortured, he won’t notice that Venom loves him. He’ll notice the bad things—her hands fiddling, skittishness, etcetera—and assume she dislikes him. When he sees her and becomes hyper-aware, it’s sometimes about the wrong things. Those passages don’t land.”
She flipped to a tabbed page of the manuscript and slid it to me, pointing at the passage.
