Chapter 28

The Carter family dining room was elegant without being ostentatious—high ceilings, original crown molding. Victoria had grown up attending dinner conversations that doubled as editorial meetings, learning the publishing business through osmosis while passing the salt.

“The numbers on the Stone book are extraordinary,” her grandfather Richard said, reviewing reports on his tablet between courses. “We should have been the ones to acquire it, but Penguin moved faster.”

Victoria’s mother Margaret, who served as the house’s editorial director, nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not just the Oprah boost. The reviews have been exceptional. Even literary critics who usually dismiss YA fiction are taking it seriously.”

Victoria’s sister Caroline, who worked in acquisitions, was scrolling through her phone. “The author is apparently a former teacher and military veteran. No social media presence, very private, but the interviews he’s done have been surprisingly thoughtful.”

“What’s the book called?” Victoria asked, only half paying attention while pushing asparagus around her plate.

“‘Chilkoot Pass: The Adventures of Finnegan Meehan,’” her grandfather replied. “Historical fiction about a newsboy and a young woman traveling to the Klondike during the gold rush. The work is good—clean prose, authentic period detail, strong character development.”

Victoria’s fork stopped midway to her mouth. “Who did you say the author’s name was?”

“Jason Stone. Why?”

Victoria set down her fork carefully, her mind racing to reconcile the Jason she knew with the bestselling author her family was discussing. “I dated him. For eight months. In Seattle.”

The table went silent. Richard, Margaret, and Caroline all stared at her with varying expressions of surprise.

“You dated Jason Stone?” Margaret asked finally.

“I dated Jason Stone. I knew he wrote, but I had no idea he’d finished a book, let alone a bestselling one.”

“Wait,” Caroline said, her professional curiosity overriding her shock. “You dated this guy for eight months and didn’t know he was an author?”

Victoria felt a flush of embarrassment mixed with confusion. “He told me he was a graduate student working on his master’s in history. He taught high school and ran these evening classes about life skills for students.”

“Did you ever ask what he was studying specifically?” Margaret’s question was gentle but pointed.

“I ... not really. I knew he was interested in history, but we didn’t talk much about his academic work.” Victoria realized how shallow that sounded. “Our relationship was more physical than intellectual.”

“Clearly,” Caroline muttered, earning a sharp look from their mother.

Richard was reading from his tablet. “There’s an interview here from the Seattle Times. Stone says he wrote his first novel as a way to process his military experiences and explore historical themes related to class mobility and immigration.”

He continued reading. “He mentions that writing helps him understand patterns in how people navigate systemic challenges, and that his teaching work and his fiction writing serve similar purposes—helping people think strategically about their circumstances.”

Victoria listened to her father describe Jason’s motivations and felt a growing sense of having completely misjudged someone she’d spent months with.

“What else does it say?” she asked.

Margaret had pulled up reviews on her own device. “The Washington Post calls him ‘a significant new voice in historical fiction.’ The Times says his work ‘combines rigorous historical research with deep empathy for working-class experiences.’ NPR did a whole segment on how his books challenge romantic narratives about poverty and self-reliance.”

“He’s being compared to Robert Lewis Taylor and Mark Twain of all people,” Caroline added, scrolling through literary blogs. “There’s speculation about whether he’ll write adult literary fiction or continue in the YA space.”

Her grandfather set down his tablet and looked at Victoria directly. “How did you not know any of this?”

It was the question Victoria had been asking herself since the conversation began. “I thought I knew him. He was this intense, competent guy who seemed to have everything figured out. Former Special Forces, taught at this innovative program for at-risk kids, very self-contained.”

She paused, trying to articulate something she was only now recognizing. “But I realize now that I never really asked about his internal life. I knew about his work and his routines, but I didn’t know about his creative process or his intellectual interests or what drove him beyond the practical stuff.”

Margaret’s expression was understanding but critical. “Victoria, you dated someone for eight months without learning fundamental things about who he was?”