Monday faced another trial. She drafted a new story in a genre she never wrote, and the story's central theme had nothing to do with love.

When an author wished to write out of their realm, Charles reunited writers and editors of different genres to do the first reading. They usually noted the plotholes and improvement points, but they could also classify the manuscript as rubbish and send the writer back to the starting blocks. Monday submitted it to her publisher and waited for the feedback.

Dagmar was among the selected writers, and Monday expected the worst from the woman who hated seeing loose ends in stories.

The thriller author always said one's story had to make a complete circle, and smaller circles also had to close within it.

Monday had a lot of loose bits in her first stories. She sometimes related events she never returned to or introduced characters who finally never appeared. Neither did they do anything for the story. In this book, Monday tried to write something coherent and inspired herself from history. The door to the meeting room opened. Mina Yamamoto, a lover of poetic prose, patted her on the shoulder as she passed while Thomas Fillon stopped to ask her if she was sure about publishing the manuscript.

"You know your fans won't follow you on this. Why change? You sell thousands of copies with romance. I mean, if you want to treat yourself to a genre, write it on a platform and publish the stuff people like."

"I'm sorry, Thomas. I'm not inspired to write what readers are sure to like. I wish to write about subjects that are dear to me these days."

"Then keep a journal like everyone else. Honestly, I don't believe in this," Thomas added.

"Monday," Charles said from the meeting room's door. The woman passed Thomas without adding a comment though she just wished to say, why are you such an asshole?

The editor was a traditionalist whose sourness had Monday wondering why Charles hired him till that day. Thomas was against everything new and audacious. Not once did he encourage anyone to step out of their comfort zone. A rigid grammar freak, Thomas detested Mondays' writing style, which the editor considered poor, but readers had mediocre taste considering the books that became bestsellers according to him. Also, he hated the concept of woman's lit and regularly shunned the term saying people would scream scandal if there were a subgenre called men's lit. The editor was unbearable.

Only Dagmar, Charles, and a surprise visitor remained in the meeting room.

"Kadija, oh my God. I thought I'd never see you again."

"Sorry, darling, you won't be seeing me back here anytime soon," Kadija replied.

"What?" Monday exclaimed. She was looking forward to having her editor back.

"Kadija is taking the three-year maternity leave."

Mondays' lips drooped, "oh, I understand, but I'm just so sad."

"I know, that's why I came. I wanted to announce it to you myself, and also Charles asked me to participate in your new manuscripts' reading."

Mondays' eyes swept the room, "so what do you all think of it?"

Her heart pounded full regime as she waited for the answer.

"It's different, but it's good," Kadija said.

"Really?"

"We all agree it's not what readers expect. It's poignant, and authors don't risk writing about such themes. Those who do are directly concerned, but your story remains fiction so go for it," Charles said.

"Wow," Monday said, placing a hand on her heart that exploded instantly.

"Since Kadija is leaving, Dagmar is willing to help you with the edits and specificities linked to the genre.

Mondays' gaze drifted to Dagmar, who understood it was her cue, "there are some loose ends concerning police activity, but we can smooth and polish those scenes with more acute dialogues."

"Dagmar, I don't want to set you back on your projects."

"My new book is already at the printers."

"What?"

Dagmar smiled, "I need that frigging bear."

Charles laughed at the statement. Of all the writers, Dagmar was one of the rare authors to aim for the medals.

"So, are you okay with the program? If all goes well, I'm considering launching it at the next Berlin Buchmesse. It's a good testing ground. You'll be with Dagmar, of course."

"Charles, do you truly think it's eligible for such a fair?"

"I think it is; the suspense is great. I want to know if Moretti will discover Constance's secret," Dagmar added.

Monday facepalmed. It had been a long road. The woman recalled what she wanted to write when she started and what she ended up exploiting. She lost faith somewhere along the lines as she saw readers were not interested in specific subjects. She constantly desired to write stories of those who couldn't speak for themselves and finally had the opportunity to raise awareness.

"So, what did they say?" Ben asked an hour later when she joined him at Au Pays de Tsingtao, her favorite Chinese restaurant.

"I can't believe it, Ben. They liked it."

"See, I told you," Ben said with a smile.

Monday closed her eyes and opened them, "I'm super excited."

"I can imagine. I get stomach burns whenever I think I'll attend next year's BookInc as an author."

Ben also submitted his manuscript a little after the BookInc fair and got a green light. The two writers were relieved, but they knew their luck was also because the publishing budget rose when their publishing house got incorporated into one of the historical publishing companies. There were many new exciting perks, and the authors couldn't be happier.

Charles's words were the best Christmas present ever for Monday. She was impatient to see the New Year come.

While Monday rejoiced, someone else enjoyed their newly found freedom. It seemed Meredith's departure liberated some thinking space. Kenneth had never realized how much her presence weighed. Though extremely friendly, Bradley knew the distance to keep. He never called Kenneth after work unless it was necessary. Even then, he would only leave a voice message on Hangouts to alert Kenneth.

The entrepreneur finally had the impression of having time on his hands. Even Bradley didn't seem overworked. He prepared emails and set the time and dates. They all went out on the day Bradley scheduled them. He practically booked six months of transportation and accommodation for the venues and events to come; the man was on it.

Life was slightly sweeter for Kenneth, but something still bothered him. The man had brought Mondays' number to his phone screen multiple times. Yet he never conjured the courage to call.

What would or could he say after these long months?

The more Kenneth thought of his reaction, the dumber his behavior seemed. Everyone he spoke to about the incident laughed and lectured him. Even Morgan called him a dunce. Finally, ego and pride prevented him from contacting Monday, and months passed.

Her social media presence diminished just as her book sales deflated. Most of her titles dropped out of the top one hundred in many European countries. In the US, only a niche of readers knew her.

Most discovered Daye Yenis' books on the internet. They read and bought the books on Amazon before stores imported them.

Though their story was brief, Kenneth missed her, and the feeling hit its peak the day he passed a small bookstore and saw Noah's Little Boy in the window. Kenneth found himself entering. He walked straight to the shelf and brought the book to the counter.

"Would you be interested in another title from the same author? We're doing a fifty percent promotion."

Kenneth picked the book up and flicked through the pages, "why aren't they popular?"

The shopkeeper shrugged, "oh, you know trends fade, and there isn't much of a buzz around Daye Yeni lately."

Kenneth felt guilty. He hoped Mondays' absence was temporary, "I'll take what you have." The man ended up with four of Mondays' titles.

Once home, Kenneth placed them on the coffee table, sat down, and clenched his fist under his chin as he wondered why he bought them. Then he remembered the overwhelming nostalgia he felt. Perhaps because it was Christmas and in a fortnight, the BookInc fair where they met would be the main event.

He picked Just Ask; he read up to four chapters and abandoned the book. The story set in a luxury store work environment failed to spark his interest. Kenneth decided to try Noah's Little Boy. He had nothing else to do anyway. The first chapters were slow, yet Kenneth hung on, hoping for something exciting.

The plot was a little more elaborate compared to Just Ask. Kenneth surprised himself, giggling at a chapter where the female protagonist had an upset stomach. Thus, her condition gave way to a funny scene.

From the thirtieth chapter, Kenneth began to hate the male protagonist, who was too perfect. No man could be like him. Noah was gentle, helpful, honest, and loving. One could go on with an eternal clothesline of positive adjectives to define the man. Kenneth read on just to rebuke anyone of Noahs' actions. He finished the five hundred and so pages within two days.

There were many patterns and recurring themes in Mondays' works: trust, love, honesty, and many more.

The female protagonist always had complicated relationships with their parents. The male protagonists were wealthier or had higher job positions in her first books. The more recent ones had women earning an equal or higher wage. The multicultural aspect was everywhere; the main couple usually carried a good portion of it as they were often interracial. Her book screamed diversity and inclusiveness. Monday depicted the era Kenneth lived in, but the man felt as though he had discovered things. He recognized he had never read a book where the protagonists weren't white. Some would say her books were too Woke, but Kenneth found the characters balanced. Each character bought something that made them memorable.

One could find the repetition boring, but Monday somehow wrote something different with the same ingredients. The woman was a true tuna sandwich Michelin guide chef.

Kenneth went back to reading the book he had abandoned. When he finished Mondays' titles, he felt he had finally met her.

Monday portrayed the sweet but also the selfish and manipulating women. Prince Charming didn't exist, but neither did the Princess. There were no virgins or innocent college students; Daye Yenis' women had one common trait no matter their age or origins: They didn't expect anything except to love, to be loved, and to be respected the way they deserved.

Kenneth walked to his library and placed Mondays' books on his bookshelf five minutes before midnight. He then watched the city's fireworks from his panoramic window view. Again the man reflected on his year and thought about Monday. If he had called her back and explained, perhaps, they would be admiring the show together.