Chapter 70

Isabella Sullivan stopped abruptly.

"I forgot to get the thirteen-spice blend earlier. Clara, could you grab a packet from that shelf over there?"

"Sure." Sophia Sullivan nodded.

She understood her mother wanted a moment alone.

Once her daughter was out of earshot, Isabella turned to the woman opposite her.

"I told you this morning, I'm still considering it."

"Considering? I brought this up three months ago. You said you needed time, and I gave it to you. But you still haven't given me a definite answer."

Isabella frowned. "We've worked together for years. You know I only write suspense and thriller novellas, around two to three hundred thousand words. Now you want me to pivot to web novels? They're completely different genres."

"They're all fiction! Literature is universal!"

The woman's smile vanished, her tone turning sharp.

Isabella tried to explain. "Web novels are long-form, often over a million words. The popular genres are urban romance and billionaire marriage plots. Neither are my forte. How could I possibly write them?"

"Didn't you learn your lesson with 'Unripe Fruit'? How did that genre shift work out for you?"

'Unripe Fruit' was the young adult campus novel that had been brutally panned, tarnishing Isabella's reputation.

Editor Moore's eyes flickered. Her voice softened. "I know that book devastated your ratings. You've never gotten over it. You even withdrew from online platforms…"

"If you know I left that space, why are you pushing me to write cliché billionaire romance for the web novel market?"

"Isabella, please, don't get upset," Editor Moore said placatingly. "'Unripe Fruit' didn't break into the adaptation market because you were too slow. By the time you finished and it was published, three or four years had passed. The trends in film and TV had completely changed. Back when I first suggested the shift, young adult campus stories were genuinely hot."

"So you can't put all the blame on me, right? We both share responsibility. I'm not making excuses, just learning from past mistakes."

Isabella fell silent.

She admitted her pace was slow. But that genre was outside her expertise. Her thoughts were chaotic. How could she have written any faster?

Seeing her hesitation, Editor Moore pressed on. "This time is different. In the web novel market, urban romance and billionaire marriage plots are evergreen. It doesn't matter if you're fast or slow. The issues from last time, I promise, will absolutely not happen again."

Isabella's brow remained furrowed. "I read the web novels you sent. They're fast-paced, exaggerated for刺激. The beginnings are engaging, but they get progressively watered down. After a million words, even the protagonist's name might change. I'm not saying web novels are bad. Their popularity is justified. But they truly don't suit my creative style."

Editor Moore's gaze turned stern. "I've said all this, communicated for so long, and you dismiss it with just 'not suitable'?"

Isabella was puzzled. "What else? It genuinely isn't suitable."

"Heh," Editor Moore scoffed coldly. "Must I spell it out? Fine, let's be clear today. In the last decade, you've only published one novel. Its sales were abysmal. If you don't produce something new soon, what value do you have left as an author?"

"An author who can't produce works or generate sales—is she even still an author?"

Isabella grew angry. "I have many ideas, but you—"

Editor Moore cut her off bluntly. "Those ideas of yours lack distinction. They have no selling points. Publishing them would just waste ISBNs. They wouldn't sell at all! Do you still think you're the hot 'Queen of Suspense'?"

"To be blunt, you're outdated! Isabella, you need to face reality. And face yourself!"

"Mom—" Sophia couldn't listen any longer and stepped out from behind the shelf.

Isabella forced back tears, managing a strained smile. "Did you get it?"

Sophia held up the thirteen-spice blend. "Right here. It's getting late. Dad might be back from school already. Should we check out and head home?"

"Okay."

"Auntie White, we're leaving now." Sophia bid farewell on her mother's behalf.

She knew Isabella was too upset to face the woman right now.

Editor Moore smiled. "Alright, I'll browse a bit more." She looked at Isabella. "Think about what I said. Sigh. We're old friends, partners for so many years."

Isabella lowered her eyes, silent.

Sophia took the shopping cart and guided her mother away.

"Mom, did you sign a ten-year contract with Auntie White?"

"Yes."

"If I remember correctly, this is the final year?"

Isabella calculated silently. "It really is."

"What do you think of her as a person?"

Isabella paused for two seconds. "...Very professional."

Sophia smiled slightly. "Is the contract still at home?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Can you find it and show me tonight?"

Isabella: "What do you want to see it for?"

"Just curious. Can't I see it?"

"Of course you can! You can look at anything of mine!"

"Hehe... Mom, you're the best. Could you also send me copies of all the stories you've written at home over the years?"

Isabella was surprised. "They're just practice drafts, discarded manuscripts. Why would you want to read those?"

"I suddenly realized having a writer for a mom is really cool. I want to properly study your work. In case someone asks, I can actually talk about it! Otherwise, people might think I'm lying!"

As a child, Sophia had desperately wanted to read Isabella's bestselling novels, 'The Weapon' and 'The Deserted Village School'.

But Isabella always said they were "too bloody," "not suitable for children," and that she had to "wait until you're eighteen."

By the time she actually turned eighteen, Sophia had lost interest.

It was during countless nights after graduating college, waiting for Ethan Roscente to come home, that she finally read both books.

She had to admit, her mother was a suspense genius!

The logic, the suspenseful setups, the plot twists—all were flawless and impeccable.

No wonder these two books were still on the bestseller lists.

But in the last decade, her mother hadn't published any new suspense works. Sophia found it strange but never looked into the reason.

Until today, meeting her mother's editor, she seemed to understand the problem.

Since when could a publishing house editor afford full DIOR sets? And carry a Hermès crocodile skin Birkin bag?

What publishing house paid that well?

How come she never knew about it?