1
"Are you okay?" A man's voice asks. It takes me a moment to catch my breath as I lay on the cool hardwood floor, eyes shut tightly.
It's my first day. First day! And already, fifteen minutes in, I've embarrassed myself by face planting in front of the entire office. I knew I shouldn't have tried to wear new heels. Kate had convinced me they would help me look more professional.
All I had to do was was follow Claire's directions to my desk, sit down, and review today's schedule. But instead my ankle had to rebel and give way, leaving me sprawled on the floor. My first "grown-up" job, and already I've proven I'm not even competent at walking.
Yeah, I look so professional.
"Ana?" The man's voice says with concern. I finally open my eyes to face my coworkers and see Mr. Hyde's dark blue ones looking down at me.
"I'm okay." I say as Mr. Hyde takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Physics has always had it out for me. It's why I prefer literature."
"Well," he laughs and pats me on the back. "We're all very happy for that, but see if you can call a truce for now. I need you conscious. I didn't hire you just for that pretty face."
I can feel a flush warm my cheeks and hope Mr. Hyde doesn't notice.
"Of course, Mr. Hyde," I say quickly as I scurry to pick up the red folder containing today's projects, grabbing at a few papers that went flying when I did.
"Why don't you just call me Jack, Ana."
"Y-yes, sir-I mean, Jack." I stutter, attempting to reorganize the papers in my hand.
I assume you've already spoken with Kelly in HR about all your contract information?"
"Yes si-Jack," I say, catching myself. Jack smirks at me.
"And Claire has already given you a quick rundown of today's activities and the office procedures, I'm hoping." He continues. "I'm sorry to just throw you into the fray, but your duties won't consist of much more than what Liz and I discussed with you at your interview. You'll mostly be in charge of organizing my schedule, keeping track of deadlines, acting as my manuscript gatekeeper, and of course the occasional coffee run." He winks at me.
"Do you prefer Starbucks or Seattle's Best?" I ask him, grinning back.
"Detail oriented, I like that." Jack laughs. "And I prefer the independent shop at the end of the block. Double espresso. Now, I think that covers all the basics. So what's on the roster for today?" He nods to the file in my hand.
"Well," I say, shuffling through the papers to find today's schedule. "It looks like the first thing you have today is a meeting with Carl Johnson to go over the acquisitions budget. Then about 11:00 am you should be expecting a call from a Mr. Boyce Fox, he has a new book he wants to pitch you. Then after lunch you have another meeting with a GEH?"
There's nothing else written by the appointment, and I look up at Jack quizzically. His jaw tenses at the mention of GEH.
"Hmm," he grunts, offering no further information. The sour look on his face tells me it's probably best not to ask. "Anything else?"
"Uh, well, it seems after GEH the afternoon has been blocked out for something marked 'Slush Pile'."
"Oh, those are the unsolicited queries we receive." He clarifies this time. "Hundreds of undiscovered authors hoping to stand out from the mountain of paper dumped on my desk each day. Most of them should stick to writing as a hobby, but there's always a few jewels worth finding. In fact, that's how we acquire most of our authors."
"From the Slush Pile?" I ask. Given the name, and Jack's description it was hard to believe that enough viable works could be found this way to run the entire company.
"Bigger companies like to go to someone already hot and request something for a prepaid sum. It's almost impossible to get someone at Random House, or Harper's to read an unknown's work at all. They'll just let a story shuffle around the mail room for a few weeks before dumping it in the shredder without so much as a peek."
"So, you already need a popular reputation to be looked at by the popular companies?" I ask. "How do they find any authors with that method?"
"By letting the little guys like us do most of the groundwork." Jack says. "We spend most of our time reading through sometimes a hundred query letters and partial manuscripts a day. I choose maybe one or two a month I want to see the rest of and decide if they're worth publishing. And then, if one of our picks gets national attention by winning a Hugo or landing on the Times Best Sellers list, they'll try and poach our authors by offering a cutthroat agent and an advance on their next work two or three times what we could."
My heart drops into my stomach at this revelation. The entire reason I majored in English Lit was to hopefully become an author someday. It was true I was nowhere near ready to draft the novel I'd been constructing in my head since starting at WSU, but if the larger companies weren't even looking at new authors, and smaller ones like SIP were overloaded with as much as hundreds of manuscripts a day, how could my little idea grab any attention? They never covered "query writing" in any of my classes on classical through contemporary British Literature.
"Don't worry," Jack smiles at me, as if he already knows what's going on in my head. "In today's market it's all about who you know, and already knowing the head editor of acquisitions for a publishing house is a great place to start from."
The weight in my chest lifts at his words. As I relax I catch a glimpse of the clock hanging on the far wall behind Jack. The long gold hands are positioned at 9 and 27.
"Oh!" I say with a start. "Your meeting with Carl starts in just 3 minutes."
"I better hurry then," Jack replies. "While I'm in the meeting keep an eye out for the mail delivery. Sort anything addressed to me, and set aside any manuscripts that arrive. Take down their information so we can get back to the authors." And without any further instruction Jack turns and bolts towards Carl's office.
Once he disappears behind a shelf stacked with old manuscripts, I settle down into the chair at my desk. At least if I'm sitting the chances I'll make a fool of myself once more drop considerably.
I begin to file through the papers Claire gave me. Most of it appears to be hand written notes on Jack's upcoming appointments. I find the little Project Manager icon on my desktop computer, and click the green and white P. A. calendar pops open, and I begin inputting the dates and times under June.
6/7 Tuesday:
9:00 AM to 12:00 PM: Maybe Tomorrow's launch advertising meeting
1:00 PM to 5:00 PM: Slush Pile
6/8 Wednesday:
10:00 AM to 12:00 PM: Review editor's notes on Starlight with Courtney
1:00 PM to 5:00 PM: Slush Pile
6/9 Thursday:
9:00 AM to 10:00 AM: Contract negotiation with James Burn (CC: Johnson)
10:30 AM to 12:00 PM: Review editor's notes on Creep with Courtney
1:00 PM to 5:00 PM: Slush Pile
6/10 Friday:
9:00 AM to 9:30 AM: Send final changes to Sara Frost for Nightingale
9:30 AM to 10:30 AM: Sales review for May
11:00 AM to 12:00 PM: Presentation of online media options
1:00 PM to 5:00 PM: Slush Pile
As I review the week's schedule I realize Jack wasn't exaggerating about how much time was spent wading through the Slush Pile. Even with four hours a day dedicated to only that, he and Courtney must be Olympic quality speed readers to skim nearly a hundred manuscripts between them a day. When did any real editing get done? It wouldn't surprise me in the least to hear he spent another 8 to 12 hours a day at home diligently marking up his chosen scripts.
At that thought I could almost see Jack sitting alone in a room, surrounded by papers covered in red ink. Eyes bloodshot from too much coffee, and too little sleep, intently focused on ensuring each word conveyed the correct meaning. There were far worse ways to spend one's night than obsessively reading over the next Hemingway or Hughes, I guess.
"Mail call!" Claire shouts, as she walks towards my desk arms full of letters and parcels.
"Can I help you?" I ask, moving to stand.
"Nah, I got it. Plus I saw how you handle transporting a file." She teases me, dropping the stack in front of me. "I've already separated Jack's mail for you. There's about ten queries here it looks like, and another twenty more, or so, at reception. If you start categorizing and organizing them I'll just grab the rest and set them on the side for you here."
"Thanks," I say, eyes wide as I look over the stack in front of me. I grab the one on top of the pile, and tear open the large yellow envelope. Once the manuscript slides out I notice the front page has the work's title, a summary, and the author's name and contact information in the top left corner. I begin typing up a quick sheet of the necessary information.
Author:
Title:
Genre:
Contact information:
Just as with the calendar, I input the information of each query. On several I pause to read their summary. There was an interesting one about a mystery surrounding an Australian primary school. The one describing a WWII tale from the perspective of a female french resistance character caught my eye. And then there were several generic teenage romance stories. Claire laughs when I mention the trend as she drops a new stack on my desk.
"I swear," she says, "the never ending flood of vampire romances is going to make Jack put a bullet in his head. He even put a note on our website that we would not be accepting any 'horror romance' in the hopes people would take the hint, but everyone out there wants to be the next Meyers."
"But don't people see the market is saturated? From what Jack's told me about how publishing houses are picking scripts I'd be afraid no one out there would even look at something in that genre."
"Eh," Claire shrugs. "Most people figure, 'if it ain't broke don't fix it'. No reason to try and reinvent the wheel when you find a formula that works. And to be honest there's nothing wrong with that."
"What do you mean? Shouldn't creating an original story be the goal of any author?"
"Not necessarily," Claire replies. "Most stories have been done in some way. New is a lot rarer than you think, and honestly most people like familiar stories. They're comforting. A new angle on an old tale is often a big seller. And isn't the real goal of any author to entertain their reader?"
It takes me a few moments to contemplate her sentiment, I'd never thought of writing like this. Claire wasn't wrong about plots being recycled throughout history. Just the amount of "twists" made to Romeo and Juliet alone could probably fill a library. The trillions made on a story about a boy who finds out he's a god, or a messiah, or a wizard who's destined to save the world are enough to keep the book industry afloat. But, is there really nothing new under the sun?
Before I can answer Claire, Jack appears from behind the bookshelf, his brows furrowed and face bright red.
"Claire," he snaps. "Call Mr. Fox and tell him we need to reschedule our phone appointment."
"I can do that-," I begin, but Jack cuts me off.
"No, Claire will do it. I need you to come with me."
I jump up from my seat, and follow him to his office. Did I do something wrong? Am I already being fired?
I stand in the doorway of his office, silently waiting for him to give me some kind of clue as to what's going on. He snatches several files from his desk and throws them in his briefcase.
"Entitled sonofa-" he mutters under his breath.
"I-is there something I can get for you, Jack?" I ask tentatively.
"Do you have a tape recorder on you?" he asks.
"No."
"Damn. Well grab a pad of paper and a pen. Ken may want someone to take notes."
"Notes for what?" I ask.
"The Grey Enterprises Holdings meeting." Jack answers. "The bastards have moved the meeting to 11:00 and Ken's assistant Hanna is out doing errands."
"Oh," I say, "why the change?"
"Just because they can." Jack says as he pushes past me. I grab my pad and pen, before following him through the office and out to a silver BMW parked by the curb. A tall man with jet black hair and matching peacoat, and an older man with nearly white hair are already standing next to it.
"This is Ana," Jack says to the older man. "She'll be acting as our joint assistant for this. Ana, this is Kenneth Adelson-CEO of SIP, and that is Carl Johnson." Jack points at the dark man, who waves but says nothing.
"It's very nice to meet you," I say holding out my hand to shake Ken's.
"I'm sure we'll get to know each other a little later," he says, not taking my hand. "But right now we're in a hurry."
Carl walks over to the driver side, opens the door, and slides behind the wheel. Jack opens the back door for me, as Ken slips into the passenger seat next to Carl. Jack's barely slammed the door shut behind him before the car whips out into the street and begins speeding down the road.
I remain quiet as the three men chatter about the meeting. Talking about the files on last year's revenue, the projections of several of our authors' new books based on the sales of their last ones, our 2011 budget for acquisitions, etc.
"We are a small company, Ken." Jack says. "We need to tread lightly here. Any sign of blood in the water and any negotiating power we have will be gone."
"Isn't that exactly why I'm bringing you along?" Ken says to Jack. "To be our liaison."
Jack bites his tongue. He looks as though he desperately wants to reply to this, but instead remains quiet as we pull up to the sidewalk in front of a towering skyscraper.
As I step out of the car, I see large silver letters spelling out "Grey House" over the building's entrance. The tower's endless rows of windows gleam in the few rays of sunlight breaking through the somber Seattle clouds. It's a far cry from our little red brick building of SIP.
"We're already late," Ken says, and he, Jack, and Carl all but run inside. I find it hard to keep up with them in my heels, keeping my head down, and focusing on my next step to avoid slipping on the smooth marble floor.
Jack holds the door open for me as I finally reach the elevator and hop in. The door closes, and I can feel the lift rising beneath my feet. Ken keeps looking at his watch every second, as though this will make us ascend faster, or perhaps turn time back just enough that we aren't nearly four minutes late for whatever it is we're here to meet about.
Finally a bright "ping" signals we've reached our destination. As the elevator doors open, and we file out, it's a little like stepping into a hospital. The floors, the walls, the chairs are all a brilliant white. It feels... sterile. The only variations in the monochrome decor are the odd use of grays and blacks dotting the reception area. Even the prim blonde woman at the desk is wearing a chic, grey skirt suit.
"Kenneth Adelson to see Mr. Grey." Ken tells the woman.
"Of course," she replies. "He's expecting you. Follow me please."
She leads us to a glass conference room. And through the windows I can see there are already two people sitting at the long white table in it's center. A woman with red hair appears to be looking through a file in front of her. The man sitting next to her is already watching us through those glass walls. His eyes remain fixed, unblinking, as we approach.
"Mr. Adelson to see you." The receptionist says.
"Thank you, Martina." The redheaded woman replies, finally looking up from her papers. She and her partner both stand. "Pleased to meet you, I am Ros Bailey. And, of course, this is-"
"Christian Grey," the man finishes, holding his hand out to shake Ken's. I'm taken aback at the realization of how young Mr. Grey actually is. He appears to not even be thirty, younger than Jack. Was this really the man who created Grey Enterprises Holdings?
"Morning," Ken says, taking Christian's hand in a firm grip. "These are my associates, Mr. Johnson, and I believe you've already met Mr. Hyde."
"Yes," Christian says with a slight grin. "It's been awhile, Jack."
"Christian." Jack nods, though I notice he does not return Christian's smile.
Suddenly, Christian's cool, slate colored eyes meet mine. "And you are?"
"U-uh, Anastasia Steele." I manage to babble out.
"Miss Steele will be taking a record of today's meeting for us." Ken says.
"Well, welcome," Christian says. "Please, have a seat."
We all grab a place at the table.
"Mr. Grey." Ken starts in before the shuffling of chairs even stops. "It's no secret that this company has been looking into acquiring Seattle Independent Publishing. I've been told you've been wanting to expand into the publishing industry for some time now, but I'm afraid SIP is not the place to start."
"Why is that, Mr. Adelson?" Christian asks, leaning back in his seat.
"Because, as CEO of SIP, I have no desire to sell to you, Mr. Grey."
Christian's stormy eyes seem to harden at Ken's statement. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck rise as I watch his gaze become more and more focused, like a predator honing in on it's prey.
"You may have no desire," Christian begins, "but you do have a need, Mr. Adelson. From what my partner, Ms. Bailey, has discovered SIP is on the verge of bankruptcy. Just six months away from insolvency, I believe."
"I can assure you that we are in danger of no such thing." Ken says indignantly. "Our corporate accountant Mr. Johnson can confirm."
"Yes," Carl pipes. "Though our profits have dropped 20% this quarter that is actually average for us. The fall quarter nearly always makes up for any losses we see during the summer months."
"That may be true from a seasonal perspective," Ros says, "but SIP's profits have been falling for five years straight. A 20% summer loss may be average to your yearly model, but it is still 20% of a smaller overall gross. And, from what I can see here, you appear to only have twelve authors actively working on projects."
"Twelve with contracts," Jack clarifies. "I oversee those authors personally, but I am currently considering offering contracts to 8 more myself."
"And how exactly will you do that, Mr. Hyde?" Ros asks. "Because between 12 other contracts, the average author getting a $15,000 sum, plus royalties, I can't see how you are possibly going to offer and fulfill 8 more contracts on… is this right, $200,000?"
"We are proud to be a small independent company, ma'am." Ken says, emphasizing "independent."
"Small, independent, but dying." Christian says. "Mr. Adelson, I don't think you seem to understand your situation fully. SIP is a sinking ship. Both your acquisitions, and distribution numbers have shrunk. Your stock has fallen by nearly 36% since February. And I am already in a position to buy a controlling amount from your shareholders-including your COO Mr. Lucas, who I notice is absent from this meeting. SIP will become a part of Grey Enterprises Holdings."
"Christian," Jack interjects. "There's no need to be hostile. Clearly we can reach a mutually benefic-"
"I'm sorry, Jack, but no." Christian cuts him off. "Mr. Adelson, I understand you probably thought that coming here with a hard-line stance would give you some leverage to end this on your own terms. That I would give you a few soft ball offers Miss Steele could record for your investors so you could possibly stir up some alternative interests, and even broker a better deal in a few weeks. But the fact is, you have no leverage. I've done my homework, Mr. Adelson. I know exactly what you don't have to bargain with. And, I know exactly who is not standing by you."
The room remains frozen for what seems like an eternity. My eyes dart between Ken and Christian, waiting for someone to move, or speak, or even break out in song, but both remain as stone.
"I think we have come to the end of negotiations." Ros finally says, breaking the spell and coming to a stand. "We will be in contact once our legal department can draw up the contracts for the acquisition. It was good to meet you, Mr. Adelson."
Ros puts her hand out for Ken, but instead of taking it he looks her up and down, face twisted in revulsion. Without adding another word Ken stands and stomps out of the conference room. Carl quickly jumps to follow him.
"Never a disappointment, Christian." Jack says as he rises from his own seat. Christian simply smirks back, and nods. "Let's go, Ana."
I scramble to get out of my seat, still dazed and confused about what's all just happened. Witnessing the possible demise of the company I work for was not exactly what I had expected for my first day on the job. Then, as I turn to follow Jack, it happens.
For the second time today I feel my legs fly out from underneath me. The new, black, polished heels I'd so carefully chosen to start my new professional life in slip on the glossy, trackless floor. The world around me slows as I watch my pen and pad hang in the air above me, and I attempt to brace myself for meeting the ground.
But I never do.
My pen and papers clatter to the floor. It takes me a second to realize I'm being held upright. I look up behind me to see the steely eyes of Christian Grey looking down at me, his hands gripping my shoulders.
"Are you alright, Miss Steele?" He asks, as my heart begins to race.
"U-uh, y-yes, Mr. Grey. T-thank you, " I reply, trying to right myself. His eyes fall on my shoes as I reclaim my balance.
"You may want to find a more practical pair. And, please call me Christian." He smiles once more but, somehow, as he grins at me, this time is different. It seems, almost, warm.
"Ana!" Jack calls, once more holding the elevator for me.
"Excuse me, Christian." I say.
"Anastasia." Christian replies with a nod, and I rush as fast as my heels will allow to the lift.
The doors are barely shut when Ken finally breaks his silence.
"That pompous little shit." He seethes.
"I warned you, Ken-" Jack tries to say, but Ken rounds on him.
"Warned me? What good are your warnings? I already knew the kid was a prick. Anyone who does business in the Tri-City area knows that. The whole reason you were brought here was to talk some sense into him since you actually know him beyond a board room. Bring out whatever humanity he even has in him so I could broker an arrangement. But you could barely get a word in at all! What good are you?"
A loud bang fills the tiny room, and I realize Jack has punched the wall. Ken's bombast deflates a bit at the hit.
"I already told you, Ken." Jack says, his voice shaking in anger. "Christian Grey is devoid of any 'humanity'. You can't appeal to the goodness of his heart, because he doesn't have one. It's not my fault you ignored me and allowed yourself to look like an ass by going in unprepared and under false assumptions. Best you can hope for now is that he was lying about the shareholders, and for the love of God get a hold of Lucas ASAP."
The car ride back to SIP is a quiet one. I try and pretend to be occupied by focusing on the few notes I had scribbled on the yellow paper, but the only things written are the names of everyone at the meeting.
SIP
Ken Adelson
Carl Johnson
Jack Hyde
GEH
Ros Bailey
Christian Grey
Christian Grey. Head of Grey Enterprises Holdings. A man seemingly younger than Jack, who has already built a business empire. The man looking to overtake SIP. A Man without a heart, and eyes the color of his name.
I'm aching to ask exactly how Jack knows Christian outside the boardroom, but every instinct I possess is screaming to leave it alone. At least for now. From how the meeting played out I have a feeling it won't be long before Christian Grey will become an unavoidable topic around the office.
Upon returning to SIP Claire greets us with her bright, toothy smile.
"Ana!" She says. "UPS has dropped off several more queries it looks like. I've set them on your desk for you."
"Thanks." I reply.
"That meeting went awfully fast, I figured you'd be gone past lunch." Claire continues. "Want to grab a bite before heading back to the grind?"
"No, thanks," I say. All the nervous energy from our "fast" meeting had my stomach in knots, and left me a little nauseous. "I'm not all that hungry. How about tomorrow?"
"It's a date."
I wander back to my desk, and slump down in my chair. Looking down to my feet I kick off the patent leather pumps, and wiggle my toes to help bring the feeling back into them.
She means well, but I really need to stop listening to Kate's fashion advice. Tomorrow I'll try something a bit more practical.