The Romance Plan: Cupids: Book 5

by Lila Monroe

  “Nice try,” I murmur, even as I rock my hips against his, “but this is our big night. Your night,” I add. “You’re the one who was determined to make this book happen.”

  We make our way back to the party, where Liam is quickly absorbed by a group of bros from the finance department. I’m headed to the ladies’ room to powder my nose when I spy Jen Hannaford waving at me from a cocktail table, her hot pink dress probably visible from outer space.

  “There you are,” she says, clinking her glass against mine. “The woman of the hour.”

  “I think that would be Verity,” I say with a laugh.

  Jen shakes her head knowingly. “Go ahead and be modest,” she says with a smile, “but everyone in the industry knows who really did the heavy lifting here.”

  “It was a team effort,” I insist.

  “Sure, sure.” Jen laughs, taking a sip of her wine and looking around the bustling party. “Well, I’m glad you’re all being so well-feted, at the very least. And I have to hand it to Sterling. This is some last hurrah.”

  “Huh?” I shake my head, thinking I’ve misheard her. “What do you mean, a last hurrah?”

  Jen blanches, her eyes widening as she takes in my clueless expression. “Wait, have you not heard—I mean, I figured they’d have to have told you all by now, right?”

  I feel myself get very still. “Told me what?”

  Jen shakes her head, looking panicked. “No, I don’t want to gossip,” she says, which is laughable. If there’s one thing Jen lives for, it is knowing insider info. “It’s really not for me to—”

  “Jen.” I fix her with my steeliest gaze. “Spill it. Now.”

  She sighs, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening before lowering her voice. “Look,” she says. “There’s a rumor going around—and I’m not saying it’s true—but what I heard is that Liam Sterling sold his father’s company to MediaCorp.”

  MediaCorp? I stare at her in disbelief. She must have it wrong. They’re a big corporate publisher, notorious for buying up small presses, stripping them for parts, and firing everyone. Liam would never do something like that.

  It sounds like the party gets significantly louder just then, drowning out everything else, but it takes me a moment to realize what I’m hearing is simply the roaring in my own head. “That can’t be right,” I tell her, my voice coming out more shrill than I mean for it to. “You must have misunderstood.”

  “Maybe,” Jen says, but it’s clear she’s humoring me.

  “We were at risk of a sale,” I continue, feeling off-balance. “But the Verity book helped everything.”

  “Or it just made the company more attractive to a buyer,” Jen notes darkly. “You know MediaCorp loves to grab up all those libraries of successful books.” Then she sees me wince. “Crap, I’m sorry. I hope I’m wrong. After all, it would be the end of an era.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Look,” she says, “the job in my office is still up for grabs.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I manage. I’m lightheaded, but I haven’t had enough tequila for it to be the booze.

  “Of course not,” Jen says dubiously, her gaze darting wildly as she searches for a way to get out of this conversation. I understand the impulse. “Take care of yourself, okay Eliza? Call me if you need anything.”

  She pats my hand again before waving wildly at someone—or something—across the room and disappearing back into the party. I stand where I am for a moment, my trip to the bathroom forgotten, the crowd swirling around me in a raucous, overwhelming blur.

  Jen’s wrong, I tell myself firmly. She has to be. There’s no way Liam would have sold the company to some faceless corporation after all the work we’ve put in—especially without talking to me about it first.

  Right?

  21

  Eliza

  I work my way through the crowd as quickly as I can, weaving my way through the thick crush of revelers, but Verity has a lot of fans and the room is completely packed. It feels like I’m trying to do the moonwalk through a swimming pool full of molasses. I’ve finally got Liam in my sightline when Celeste clinks her knife against a champagne flute up at the front of the room.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she says, sleek and elegant in a beaded cream dress and nude patent heels. It occurs to me that she probably has no idea what’s going on—no idea what Liam did to her. To the company.

  To all of us.

  “This is a truly magical night, and I’m so enormously delighted to be sharing it with all of you.” Her toast seems to go on forever. She showers praise on Verity, on Harry—even on me, “Verity’s keen-eyed and steadfast editor, who made it her mission to shepherd this long-anticipated project over the finish line, with incredible results.”

  I raise my hand and smile weakly at the applause, even as I’m fairly certain I’m about to either pass out or throw up—maybe both. Jen’s words echo in my head over and over, skipping like the crappy CD player in my first car.

  Liam sold us out.

  I’m about to be fired. And so are all my friends.

  I think of my authors—not just Verity, but Katie, and Ana, who writes the slow-burn private detective series I love so much. Now I’ll never get to read about her characters making out with each other, I realize suddenly, and for some bizarre reason that’s the moment I’m absolutely sure I’m about to burst into tears.

  All along, I was fighting to keep Sterling alive… While Liam was just fighting to get a better price. Was he promised a cut of the deal? I feel like nothing would surprise me right now.

  After what feels like an eternity and a half, Celeste finally wraps it up. I’m swarmed by congratulatory well-wishers, and I say my thanks as graciously as I can before finally making my way to Liam, digging my short, polished nails into his arm through his suit jacket. “Hi,” I manage, faintly surprised when roaring fire doesn’t spew from my mouth the moment I open it.

  For his part, Liam looks more relaxed than he has all night. “There you are,” he says with a smile. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.” Then my furious, baffled expression must register, because his own face clouds. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I bite out. “I’m not. MediaCorp, Liam?” I demand. “Really?”

  Liam blanches. “Eliza,” he begins, but I hold my hand up to stop him.

  “Not here.” I’m on the verge of totally losing it, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I don’t want to take anything away from Verity’s night. “Outside.”

  Liam nods wordlessly. I keep my hand on his arm in case he gets it into his head to try and escape—insane, maybe, but in this moment I have no idea what he’s capable of.

  I have no idea who he is at all.

  I pull him out of the bar, through the elegant hotel lobby, and out onto the street, leading him far enough away from the hotel’s entrance that no one from the party will overhear us. It started to mist while we were inside, raindrops visible in the glow from the streetlights, as taxicabs turn their wipers on and the city street takes on an oily rainbow sheen. It’s the kind of thing I’d normally think was beautiful—romantic, even—but not tonight.

  “Is it true?” I demand, and even if I didn’t already know the answer the haunted look on Liam’s face would be enough to give it away.

  Damn.

  I step back, reeling. Trying to process the news.

  It’s true. He’s selling us out. “Does Celeste know?” I ask.

  Liam shakes his head. “No,” he admits quietly. “Not yet.”

  It hits me like a full-force blow to the middle of the chest. “So, what?” I demand. “This whole restructuring thing was all just a ploy to attract a buyer? You come in and pretend to turn things around, and meanwhile, sell the place out from under us?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” he protests. “I was waiting until after Verity’s big celebration for us to—"

  “How magnanimous of you,” I snap, i
nterrupting. I don’t want to hear his excuses. “Really, they should make you CEO of the year.”

  Liam’s shoulders drop. “Eliza—”

  “Was this always the plan?” I ask, aching with betrayal. It’s raining harder now, drops collecting in Liam’s dark hair and on his shoulders. I’m getting soaked too, but I can’t make myself care. “For you to let us put in months of work—to let me put in months of work—and then just sell us off to the highest bidder for the sake of making a profit?”

  Liam bristles at that. “I told you this might happen,” he begins. “From the very beginning, I—”

  “Yeah, you said it might happen!” I argue. “Unless we figured out a way to turn a profit. Which we did, thanks to Verity.”

  Liam shakes his head. “And now what?” he asks. “Verity would need to write a book a month to keep Sterling afloat long-term, and we both know that’s not about to happen.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry writing a book isn’t as quick as going to the drive-thru,” I snap. “I’m sorry my authors take real pride in what they do and that sometimes it takes a couple of tries to make it perfect—”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Liam argues, holding his hands up. “Don’t turn this into another pointless argument about the integrity of what you do.”

  My mouth drops open. “Pointless?”

  Liam winces. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “The point is, the company is too deep in debt to salvage. Our creditors won’t extend our loans any longer. We’re lucky that Verity’s book made Sterling more attractive to buyers, which means I’ll be able to negotiate better deals for you and your friends—”

  “Lucky?!” I explode, interrupting him. I can’t believe he’s even saying this. “I thought we were in this together. A team. But you don’t care if I lose my job!”

  Liam sighs. “I’m not going to let that happen,” he says.

  “Oh, sure you’re not,” I say with a snarl. “And why should I trust anything you say, exactly?”

  “I tried, Eliza!” Liam bursts out, his voice harsh in the night. “The numbers didn’t work.”

  I shake my head. I feel like we’re speaking two entirely different languages. I don’t know how I ever thought we understood each other at all. “Some things are more important than numbers,” I argue.

  Liam looks stony-faced. “Not this time.”

  His words enrage me. I want to lash out in every direction all at once. “I should have trusted my instincts about you,” I say bitterly.

  Liam’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug, trying to sound careless. “I knew you were an empty suit the moment I met you,” I tell him. “All you care about is the bottom line. You don’t understand that some things are more important than profit.”

  “And you’re an impractical romantic with her head in the clouds and no clue how things actually work in the real world!” He fires back. “I’m sorry real life isn’t like one of your precious romance novels, Eliza. But not everything ends with a happily ever after.”

  I give a pained laugh. “You’re telling me.”

  We stand there a moment in the rain. If this were one of my books, then he’d kiss me right now. He’d say that he was sorry, and that he made the wrong call. That he’d make it up, somehow.

  But Liam’s right. It’s not. I can already see the shutters coming down over his expression: That cool, remote look he wore when we first met. And when he speaks, it’s with a low, defeated voice.

  “So, I guess this is over then,” he says, and there’s a note of finality in his voice that breaks my heart.

  “I guess it is.” I reply.

  And then he turns and walks away.

  22

  Eliza

  The following week seeps by in a miserable sludge of heartbreak and loneliness, not mention brutally sudden unemployment. It turns out that senior editor job Jen Hannaford waved under my nose wasn’t quite mine for the taking, so now that Sterling is officially kaput I’ve been scrambling to try and find something else.

  Anything else.

  I’ve applied to be an editor of a quarterly publication for vintage car enthusiasts. I threw my hat in the ring to be a story coordinator for a software company that specializes in extremely grisly war games. And I wrote a very charming cover letter to go with my application for a job as the salacious sex advice columnist at a low-end men’s magazine, only to have them request my cup size along with my resume. At this point I’d be willing to proofread the copy on a Chipotle takeout bag if it meant I could pay my rent next month.

  All that rejection isn’t helping keep my mind off Liam, so in the meantime, I’m cleaning house. I blast Whitney’s greatest hits album as I pack up three huge boxes of old books to haul down to Goodwill, then list a bunch of designer purses on a secondhand site and scrub the shelves of my tiny refrigerator with bleach. I’m trying to decide what to do with my extensive collection of heels—I’ve heard there’s a big market for previously worn shoes on Craigslist, though I don’t really want to think about why—when my phone rings. I’m buried too deep in my closet to get to it in time, but when I press play on my voicemail a woman’s gratingly cheery voice fills my ears.

  “Eliza!” she trills. “Ciao and hello! This is Anne Brower with MediaCorp. We’re getting ready for the big transition over here, and I’d love to get your input. Give me a call back at your leisure—” She pronounces it lezzure—“and we’ll set up a time for you to come in and chat.”

  “Ugh!” I throw my cell phone clear across the apartment.

  The big transition, my Aunt Tilda. Is that what they call firing dozens of employees and dismantling the beloved company that took Harry his entire lifetime to build? It’s exactly the kind of corporate euphemism Liam probably loves. His diary is probably full of them. “Transition,” I mutter angrily to myself, shaking my head in disgust. “Downsizing. Trimming the fat!”

  That’s when my apartment door swings open and Maddie and Katie walk in.

  “I used my key,” Maddie announces, bending down and scooping my phone off the floor before handing it back to me. “We brought wine.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “Sorry. Just a dumb call from MediaCorp. Apparently, they want me to come in for a meeting so they can have the pleasure of firing me in person.”

  Maddie frowns. “That doesn’t sound very efficient,” she says thoughtfully. “You’d think Liam would have advised them better than that.”

  “Screw Liam!” I say savagely.

  “Speaking of which,” Katie says pointedly, grabbing a trio of glasses, “are you sure that phone call is the only thing you’re upset about?”

  “What? Yes, totally.” I shake my head like a person who didn’t just involuntarily roar her ex’s name like a wounded lion. “I’m fine.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure you are,” Katie says, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to put on a brave face here, Eliza. I’m the Breakup Artist, remember? There’s literally nothing I haven’t seen.”

  “And I’m literally telling you, I haven’t even thought about him that much this week.” I lie.

  “Oh no?” Maddie fires back, taking a wine glass from Katie’s outstretched hand and peering at my bookshelves with a knowing smirk. “Not even while you were curating your fiction collection both alphabetically and by color?”

  “It’s a perfect system,” I protest. “Both practical and beautiful! I’ve been refining it for years.”

  “Uh-huh. I see you’ve also reorganized your spice rack and purged your sock collection,” Katie observes, looking around the apartment. “And also built what appears to be a Jenga tower out of tampons on the bathroom shelf? I thought April went crazy cleaning after a breakup, but you could teach her a few tricks.”

  “It’s an art installation!” I insist. “I needed a way to channel my creative energy while I was waiting for my face mask to dry.”

  “Okay,” Maddie announces, setting her glass down on the counter with a clink. “
The wine is clearly not going to do it. We need tequila. And we need it fast.”

  They take me to a hipster cantina around the corner where we post up at the bar with chips, guac, and a trio of palomas in tall frosty highball glasses. “You could always just call him, you know,” Katie points out, licking the salt off the rim of her glass. “Liam seemed great that day we all played kickball—not to mention hot as all hell. There’s no shame in wanting him back.”

  “I don’t want him back,” I insist, though even as I say it there’s a part of me that isn’t entirely convinced it’s the truth. “He deserved everything I said to him, and more. He betrayed me. He betrayed the whole company. And for what? To get back at Harry for being a crummy dad all those years? To make a buck?”

  “Did you ask him why he did it?” Maddie asks gently.

  “Yes!” I say, although honestly at this particular moment I can’t actually remember if I bothered to or not. Our entire argument is a big horrible blur in my memory. “And anyway, that’s not even the worst part.”

  “Oh no?” Katie asks, subtly signaling the bartender for another order of queso. “What’s the worst part?”

  “That he didn’t just talk to me about it first,” I admit. “If he’d just come to me I know we could have figured out… something. We make a good team, usually.” I think back to the way we teamed up to handle Verity back in the Hamptons, and that late night in the file room at the Sterling offices, and feel my eyes fill with tears. “There,” I say, reaching for my cocktail as my voice cracks. “I’m wallowing. Happy now?”

  “Of course not,” Katie says, reaching out for my hand and squeezing. Maddie just orders us another round.

  “I really liked him,” I say, feeling truly wretched. “I can’t believe I was so wrong.”

  “You don’t know that,” Katie tries to comfort me, but I shake my head.

  “How can any of this be right?” I ask, gesturing—at the booze, and my tear-drenched tissues. “Let’s just face it, we were doomed from the start. I should have known better than to fall for a guy who doesn’t like Taylor Swift.”