Reserved For Me

The 23rd floor smelled of money.

Coffee, expensive cologne, and the quiet kind of competition that never had to raise its voice.

Lyle Noris didn't look up when the glass doors slid open.

Three years at this desk.

Three years staring at a floor-to-ceiling window that made the city look like it belonged to her. Three years of taking nobodies and turning them into trending names.

Three years of talking down clients who threatened to walk out at midnight

She was the girl they called when everything was on fire.

She was the girl authors begged for.

And according to Mr. Daniels in last quarter's meeting, she was "the reason this place still has a reputation."

So she kept typing. Her fingers moved as if she was writing her own name into history. Lyle Noris, the client whisperer.

"Making us look good again, huh?"

The voice came from behind her. Lyle spun her chair halfway and raised one brow.

Mr. Daniels, in his late 40s, silver at the temples. The kind of smile that meant she'd just saved another campaign. He looked at her like his best weapon.

"Just doing my job," Lyle said, leaning back. She kept her voice flat, but her eyes gave her away. They always did when he praised her.

He walked in and dropped a thick folder on her desk. The thud made her teeth ache.

"Your new client."

Lyle stared at it in a disgusting way. "I already have six."

"And now you have seven." His grin got wider. "This one's special."

"They're all special until they're screaming in my DMs at 2AM." "This one signed for five years, Lyle."

Her fingers stopped.

Five years.

In this business, five years wasn't a contract.

It was a marriage, a life sentence.

Nobody signed for five years unless they were desperate... or dangerous.

She flipped the folder open. The name on the first page hit her cold.

Ms. Ridley Sydney.

CEO.

Bestselling author.

Known for: firing three managers in eight months.

Lyle shut the folder. Slow.

"No." "Don't 'no' me." He laughed, but it wasn't mean.

"You're the only one who can handle her. You always figure out what they want. You make them feel heard, even when they're impossible. That's your gift."

"My gift is migraines," Lyle muttered.

Mr. Daniels ignored her.

He went to the window, hands in his pockets, looking in a way a man is about to ruin someone's week.

"I've told every author we signed the same thing," he said quietly.

"If you want to trend, if you want to be seen, you go to Lyle Noris. And they believe me. Because you've never failed me."

She hated that voice. The proud-father voice. It made something tight in her chest.

"So handle her," he finished.

"Cope with her anger. Give her what she wants. Five years, Lyle. Don't mess this up." He left before she could fight him.

Lyle pressed her fingers to her temples. She could do this. She always did.

Angry clients were just scared clients.

Scared people wanted control. Give them control, give them results, and they'd love you for it.

She could make Ms. Ridley Sydney love her.

She reached for her phone. It buzzed first.

Not work.

It was worse.

Tasha: Girl. Blind date tonight. 7PM. Wesley. He's tall, owns a tech company, and his mom already loves you. Don't ruin this for me.

Lyle dropped the phone. A blind date again.

That made eleven this year.

Eleven "perfect men" who all ended the same: her checking her watch at thirty-seven minutes and making up an emergency email.

Lyle wasn't bad at love. She was bad at settling.

Every guy her friends found was "nice." "Stable." "Would treat you right."

None of them felt like they were reserved for her.

None of them made her feel the way a book hitting #1 did. That rush, that this is it feeling.

So she went, smiled. She asked about their jobs and left before dessert.

Her friends called her picky. Lyle called it standards.

How do you explain that you're waiting for a man who feels like success?

Who feels like home and war at the same time?

You just keep going on blind dates and failing them.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tasha: I'm serious Lyle. This one is different. He asked about your work. He actually read one of your client's books. Please don't cancel.

Lyle sighed and typed back: I won't cancel. But I'm not promising fireworks.

She tossed the phone and opened Ms. Ridley's file. Had once canceled a book launch because the font was "too weak."

Lyle took notes anyway.

Six months of content mapped in three hours. That was her, to take chaos and make it a plan.

But her mind kept drifting. To tonight.

Another restaurant.

Another "nice guy" who would nod politely when she said "ghostwriter" and never ask what it felt like.

To build someone else's dream with your bare hands.

To be invisible and essential at the same time.

Her chest ached. Not for a man. For being understood.

At 6:30PM she was still at her desk. Mr. Daniels paused on his way out. "You're not leaving?"

"Five-year client," Lyle said without looking up.

"She deserves a plan before I sleep." "You deserve a life outside this office too," he said softly.

"Go on your date, Lyle." Lyle looked up.

"How did you know?" "Tasha called me. She's desperate." He smiled.

"Go. The work will be here tomorrow. Perfect men won't." Lyle almost laughed.

She packed her laptop anyway.

Because Tasha would never let her hear the end of it.

Lyle sat at the reserved table and checked her watch.

It was 7:02 PM.