The brass latches on Marcus Vance’s briefcase snap shut with a sound like a starting pistol. In the heavy, mahogany-paneled silence of his office, the dust motes dance in shafts of mid-morning light, indifferent to the weight of the document resting between them. Marcus doesn't offer a pen yet; he simply watches through his silver-rimmed spectacles, waiting for the numbers to finish their work on her pulse.
Honor Bellweather stares at the figure on the final page. It isn't just a number; it’s the deed to her grandfather’s farm, Earl’s rising medical bills, and the breath she hasn't taken in six months. The NDA contract lists a ghostwriting advance of $250,000. It is a staggering sum for a biography of a man whose name remains redacted in every paragraph. To sign is to agree to a blind partnership with an anonymous athlete, a man the agency promises is the biggest story in the league.
This is the only way out, she tells herself, the thin gold chain at her throat feeling like a tether. She thinks of Earl’s calloused hands on the porch and signs her name in a steady, unhurried hand. Marcus’s hand slides a thick, black envelope across the desk, its wax seal unbroken.
