Chapter 4 Buried
Valentina
The moment I stepped through the glass doors of Kane Publishing, every shred of emotion I’d wrestled with in the hospital vanished, not because they’d disappeared, but because I buried them deep. Locked them away in the darkest corner of my mind, alongside every other inconvenient feeling I refused to face.
The sterile scent of polished floors and faint hum of office chatter greeted me, but I felt none of it. The elevator ride up to the thirty-second floor was thick with silence, the kind that presses against your skin, heavy and suffocating.
When the doors slid open, Valentina Kane returned, CEO, founder, and the Ice Queen everyone feared to disappoint. The woman who wore power like armor, her expression unreadable, her posture like a statue carved from marble.
The receptionist’s eyes caught mine first. Her smile vanished instantly—not out of fear, but because she knew me. She knew something was wrong.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Kane,” she said, voice tight.
I nodded once, cold and clipped. “Rachel.”
The entire floor seemed muted, quieter than usual. Conversations paused mid-sentence as employees glanced up at me, then quickly looked away. Whispers died, footsteps quickened. Business as usual when trouble arrived.
I strode toward my office, and there was Madison, coffee in hand, worry etched into every line of her face.
I accepted the steaming cup without a word.
“Don’t,” she warned softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re making several.”
She snorted, a brief flash of warmth in an otherwise brutal morning.
“I hate that you know me so well.” I kept walking. “Any emergencies?” I asked.
Her expression shifted, tightening like a noose.
My stomach clenched. “What happened?”
Madison winced like she was swallowing glass. “Conference room three.”
I stopped. Slowly. Dangerously. “Madison.”
She rubbed her forehead, bracing herself. “Before you get angry—”
“What happened?”
“The marketing team is there.”
“Okay.”
“Editorial.”
“Okay.”
“Legal.”
“Madison.”
She sighed like the world had just cracked open. “Emily Carson’s release went to print.”
My brow furrowed. “And?”
Madison looked like she was willing herself to be anywhere else.
“The wrong version.”
Silence swallowed the hallway whole.
Complete.
Utter.
I stared, waiting for the punchline.
It never came.
“The wrong version.”
Madison nodded.
I laughed... sharp and humorless, cutting through the quiet.
“The wrong version.”
“Val—”
“The unfinished draft?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
My pulse slammed in my ears.
Emily Carson was twenty-six.
A debut author.
Two years of sweat and sleepless nights poured into that manuscript.
Endless revisions.
Months of editing.
A six-figure marketing campaign behind her.
Television spots lined up.
Bookstore displays ready.
National distribution.
Everything she dreamed of.
Shattered.
Because someone couldn’t be bothered to verify the file.
“How many copies?”
Madison swallowed hard. “Fifty thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
One.
Two.
Three.
When I opened them, Madison took a cautious step back.
Smart woman.
“Conference room,” she whispered. “Already assembled.”
Of course they were.
Word spread faster than wildfire at Kane Publishing.
The conference room door swung open the moment I reached it.
The room was packed.
Marketing.
Legal.
Editorial.
And sitting right in the eye of the storm was Senior Editor Mark Sullivan, the man who’d dropped the ball.
The second he caught sight of me, he stood.
Bad move.
Nervous people always stood.
I sat. Slowly. Deliberately.
The room followed.
No one dared speak.
No one dared move.
I folded my hands and smiled.
The smile drained the color from Mark’s face.
I stared at him.
The silence was thick enough to hear the air conditioner hum.
Mark shifted, nerves prickling at his skin. “Ms. Kane, I—”
“Shut up.”
Soft.
Deadly.
The room froze.
Mark blinked. “I—”
“I said shut up.”
My voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Several people jumped.
Good.
Because I was done being polite.
Done being professional.
Done pretending I had the patience for this.
“You know what?” I laughed. “Let’s talk about your mistake.”
Mark paled.
I shot up so fast my chair slammed into the wall.
The echo bounced around the room.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
“Two years.” I pointed at him. “Emily Carson spent two years writing that manuscript.” My voice climbed. “Two years of revisions.” A step closer. “Two years of edits.” Another step. “Two years of sacrificing sleep.” Another. “Two years of wondering if anyone would ever read her work.”
Mark stumbled back, instinctively.
Good.
He should.
“And because you couldn’t be bothered to verify a file, you almost destroyed the biggest moment of her life.”
“Ms. Kane—”
“No.” I slammed my hands onto the table.
The room flinched.
“Do not interrupt me.”
Silence.
I scanned every face.
Terrified.
Good.
Let them be.
Because if they thought this was bad, they should try sitting in a hospital room, watching their father die.
“You know what really pisses me off?”
No one answered.
Smart.
“I can fix this.”
Confused glances flickered around the table.
I laughed again.
That same jagged, bitter laugh.
“I can throw money at this.” I gestured to Legal. “We stop distribution.” To Marketing. “We issue recalls.” To Production. “We reprint every damn copy.” My voice cracked. “I can fix this.”
Silence.
My chest burned.
Because there was only one thing I couldn’t fix.
One thing no amount of money could buy back.
One thing I couldn’t negotiate away.
My father.
I looked away before anyone could see the grief bleeding through the cracks.
Then I looked back at Mark.
God help him.
He was still there.
Still breathing.
Still the target for my rage.
“Get out.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Get.” My voice dropped. “Out.”
“Ms. Kane—”
“Before I buy your mortgage from the bank, foreclose your house, and turn your office into a storage closet.”
The room fell utterly silent.
Mark looked horrified.
The others looked equally terrified.
Madison buried her face in her hands.
Because she knew.
Knew I wasn’t entirely serious.
Probably.
Maybe.
Honestly, even I wasn’t sure anymore.
“Now.”
Mark practically bolted.
The door slammed behind him.
And the room remained frozen.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
No one even dared look at one another.
I turned toward Legal. "How fast can we stop distribution?"
The attorney immediately answered. "Already working on it."
"Good." I looked toward Marketing. "Contact every retailer."
They nodded. "Done."
Unfortunately for Mark Sullivan... He'd chosen the worst possible day to make a mistake.
