An Invitation

Gripping your manuscript tightly against your chest, you waded through the muddy streets and towards the publishing house. You were almost an hour early, but your nerves could no longer stand to wait in that silent house with only the clock's ticking to break the silence. You ignored the stares of men almost twice your age and women who looked down on you and your "silly hobby." You held your head high and, as you had done almost your entire life, went on to take care of business by yourself.

The building was romantic in its way. Perhaps the oldest and least cared for building in your section of New York, its decaying edifice was but a friendly face to you. The chipped stones and fading statues were welcome friends. You marched up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors. The lobby of the publishing house was busy as usual. Ogilvie's secretary spotted you the moment you walked in and you could almost hear her shoulders slump with dread at your arrival. Smiling to yourself, you dodged the many writers and agents who carried stacks of papers and mountains of coffee, and made it to the main desk. The secretary, Kristen, forced a smile at you, her blue eyes icy cold and her hair pulled back into such a tight pony tail, you were worried that if the band broke, it might take someone's eye out.

"You're early," she said, clearly annoyed.

"I know," you explained. "But I couldn't help it. I was just too excited to see him and show him my new manuscript."

"I bet," she said flatly. She stood and held out her hands.

"He's in a meeting right now, but it's not important. I can drop it on his desk so he has it for your meeting."

You hesitated, not trusting Kristen not to drop it in the trash the moment you walked away, but you handed it over with the apprehension of a mother leaving her child. Kristen flashed you another fake grin and walked to the back of the room. She opened the door quickly and slipped inside. Moments later she returned, and, if you weren't mistaken, she was blushing profusely.

"Is everything alright?" you asked her as she sat back down at her post.

"Yes," she cleared her throat, looking flustered. She pulled at the collar of her dress. "Why wouldn't it be? He will see you in about fifteen minutes."

You thanked her curtly and took a seat near Ogilvie's door. Your tapping foot made little impact on the swarm of sounds around you. People were talking, typing, writing, and pacing everywhere. You considered just bursting into the room and forgetting the consequences because of your anxiety to meet with him. Just as you had almost rationalized the action, the door opened. Before you could even think, you had stood up. Expecting to see the wrinkly, old Ogilvie, your breath was snatched away by the sight before you.

He stood at least a head taller than you with an air of dark importance. His suit was perfectly tailored and exquisite, but at least a year old. Your eyes trailed from his silk necktie up to the pale skin of his neck. They followed up along his rigid jawline, pronounced cheekbones, thin lips, and at last, the most piercing eyes. His black hair was combed back, but you could tell it took a lot of wrangling to get it to look so relaxed. That accurately described the rest of the man as well. He had a presence of a hurricane, contained within a glass jar.

The man tilted his head to the side, clearly waiting for something from you. It was only after a few moments that you realized he must have asked you something. You blushed, ashamed that you had let this man's appearance distract you from the world for such a time.

"I'm sorry?" you asked, your voice shakier than you expected.

"I asked if you were alright, my lady," his voice sounded as smooth as his silk tie.

It was then that you realized you had your hands on his chest, shielding yourself as you had bumped into him. You quickly removed your hands, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. Stop it, you warned yourself. It was ludicrous to allow a man of all things to make you feel inferior or out of sorts.

"I am fine," you said haughtily, smoothing out your dress. "Why wouldn't I be?" you prompted.

You forced yourself to stare into his eyes although all you wanted to do was look anywhere else.

"Forgive me," he said, his lips curling into a shadow of a smile. He reached for your hand and you could do nothing but let him. "I did not mean to startle you." He slowly raised your hand to his lips, seemingly asking your permission with his eyes. As his thin lips touched your skin, you shuddered. You pulled your hand away, hoping to break whatever spell he seemed to hold over you.

"You did nothing of the kind, sir," you safely returned your hand to your side and he straightened up.

The reaction this man caused you to have was unlike anything you had ever experienced. He was attractive, objectively speaking, but so were many men who you encountered at your parties and dinners. There was something beneath the surface of that charming face that made your stomach feel as though it were dancing.

"(Y/n)!" you heard Ogilvie call from inside the room.

You couldn't believe this man had distracted you from your ultimate goal. Rushing by him, you nearly ran into the room and closed the door behind you. Even with the heavy door between you, you could almost feel those piercing eyes on your back. You shook the thought of him away and focused on Ogilvie's patronizing gaze.

"Have a seat," he gestured.

You saw that your manuscript was facing your chair rather than his and frowned.

"Did you look at it yet?" you asked. "I had highlighted the changes for you."

Ogilvie sighed and took his own seat opposite you.

"Yes," he said. "Our friend, Mr. Sharpe seemed to enjoy it, even if I had my qualms."

"Mr. Sharpe?" you repeated. "When was he here?"

Ogilvie gave you a conceded grin.

"My dear, you just met him," he laughed coldly. "He was seeing me about a possible investment. Kristen came in to drop off your manuscript and he asked if he could take a look."

You hated yourself for wondering what he thought of it. You also realized that those women had been accurate in their descriptions of Thomas Sharpe and you scolded yourself for not deducing who he was earlier.

"He was rather impressed," Ogilvie answered your unasked question. You saw the look of disapproval in his eyes as he looked towards your papers.

"You were not, I gather," you said. Ogilvie gave a slight shake of the head.

"I will not deny you have a talent," he said, although it looked as though it pained him. "But there is something missing."

"Something missing?" you repeated. It had adventure, ghosts, mystery, and an epic heroine! What more could a reader need?

Ogilvie nodded slowly.

"Romance," he said simply. "It needs a romance."

You failed to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"Romance is trivial," you dismissed him.

"Romance sells," Ogilvie countered.

"I'm not making a product, I'm making art," you felt silly saying it, but it rang true.

Ogilvie shrugged.

"I won't touch it until there's something in it I can sell," he said. He looked absolutely defiant. He sat there in his chair with a smug air of superiority that made you sick.

"Fine," you answered through gritted teeth. "I'll see if I can manage something."

Ogilvie smiled in his small victory. You hated that you acquiesced to the romance angle, but it seemed that it was the only way to even be considered for publication. What I do for my art, you thought.

You finished your meeting quickly after that and headed towards the door. You had your manuscript tucked under your arm and were determined to go home and write for the rest of the day. You just wanted to get whatever romance you had to put into it out of the way so you could go back and revise the important parts. You weren't paying attention when you left the room and once again found your face in the chest of the tall man.

"We have to stop meeting like this," the voice above you chided.

You looked up to see Thomas Sharpe smiling down at you. Although the darkness you had sensed still surrounded him, he seemed sincere in his friendliness. You pulled back, taking two steps away from him and holding your manuscript in front of you like a shield. Only with the moving air as you stepped back did you take in the smell of him. Your head spun with the delicious scent of the combination of a fire, books, and something else you couldn't quite name.

"Indeed," you finally managed to speak.

Thomas' eyes flitted down to your manuscript.

"That was yours?" he asked inquisitively. He searched your face for answer.

"Yes," you said defensively. You felt as though he had seen you naked already, having read your words.

His face was unreadable but you could tell he was processing this.

"I should go--" you started to say before he cut in.

"You are a fantastic writer," he sounded genuine enough. "I was enthralled. Ghosts? Mystery?" You felt yourself blush again. "Surely Ogilvie will publish you?"

You sighed, returning to the problem that had laid before you.

"Not yet," you said. Not wanting to get into it, you moved to side-step Thomas. You were not expecting him to counter you and step aside as well, keeping in front of you.

"Would it be forward of me to ask you to dinner without us even being formally introduced?" he asked. His gaze was intense, but there was also something inviting about it.

You looked him up and down again, decided you definitely had no time for that and shook your head.

"It would. I do think I will refuse you. Have a nice day," you answered curtly. Too many times had you held the interest of men just like Thomas who charmed and wooed you, only to be interested in your money or your virtues.

Thomas frowned and his eyes seemed to darken. He flexed his shoulders and seemed to become taller, larger. You flinched. Surely he would not force you into anything?

"It is a shame, I should have been honored to dine among the likes of a great writer such as yourself. Mary Shelley would have been quite jealous, I think." It was almost as though he knew who your hero was and so held that smug grin on his face while waiting for your reaction.

"Mary Shelley?" you repeated. "Jealous of my writing?" You knew he was simply trying to flatter you, but you had to admit that it was working. Perhaps he could see the skepticism on your face.

"I do not mean to trap you, my lady," he placated.

"(Y/n)," you interjected. "You can call me (y/n)."

"(Y/n)," he repeated. The sound of his voice saying your name made you shiver almost imperceptibly. You wondered if he had noticed for his head tilted slightly and he smiled. "And you may call me Thomas."

You nodded and looked towards the floor, suddenly nervous.

"My father is almost never home," you heard yourself say without your brain's permission. "If you were to stop by some night, I am sure my maid and I should like the company."

Only after you had spoken the invitation did you glance up to find his eyes sparkling. Suddenly you felt uneasy. Why had you given into this man's demands. You did not wish to form a friendship or any sort of relationship with him. If you could only think before you spoke, you might have saved yourself some trouble. On the other hand, one dinner wouldn't kill anyone, and perhaps it would be nice not to be so lonely in that big house.

You realized he still hadn't responded. He was reaching for you hand again. You let him take it and he wrapped both his hands around it. They were softer than the other men who had held your hand, more inviting.

"I would be truly honored, my lady. I will call by your house tomorrow night then?" he confirmed.

"That would be fine," you tried to sound uninterested. The thought of this man in your house with you sent chills through your body. For a moment you were reminded of the feelings of sensing your mother's ghost. There was something extremely frightening, but also strangely comforting about all this.

You left Thomas staring after you as you walked through the lobby. You saw Kristen staring daggers at you before she returned her gaze to where it apparently had been before - Thomas. You did not look back. You did not see that Thomas had eyes only for you, though throngs of equal or superior beauty surrounded you.