The buzz of the alarm is what drags me out of sleep, but I've already been awake for at least twenty minutes. 5:00 AM, sharp. I don't need to check the time—I always wake up at this hour, sometimes earlier, especially when there's something important looming. The restlessness is familiar, like a current running beneath my skin. I get up, dressed to do my morning run to clear my head off. That's what I need today, clarity. I ran for five miles, to get my heart rate pound against my ears, my muscles sings in exhaustion rest but my mind sharp as ice. I think back to the preparation.

I've been reading everything I can get my hands on, learning about the company—Vale & Wren Publishing, refining my answers, perfecting my pitch. I'm not nervous, at least not in the way most people would be. It's just...pressure. Pressure to prove that I'm not like my family, not just another Kensington with a preordained path.

My MBA, the Kensington legacy—they're not enough for me anymore. This is my shot at something tangible, something I can call my own. Even though I still haven't gotten the call I just submitted my application yesterday. I check my phone as I finished removing sweat from my body, heart pounding just a bit faster as I see I have a missed call.

Shit. I don't recognize the number, but I bet it's from the publishing company. My mind races as I listen. As soon as someone answered on the other line.

"Mr. Kensington, good morning. This is Wren from Vale & Wren Publishing. We've reviewed your application and would like to schedule an interview with you this afternoon. Can you make it?" I pause for a second, processing the words. It's real. I'm really in—well almost.

"Absolutely," I say, the words steady in spite of the adrenaline surging through me. "I'll be there." The call ends, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I have an interview. By 4 pm, I'm dressed, thank God—I was still able to maneuver without seeing my brute of a roommate. Nothing too extravagant. A dark blazer, a white shirt, dark slacks. Simple. Professional. I check my reflection for a second longer than usual. The guy staring back at me is unfamiliar in some ways. I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing someone like this in the mirror—someone who isn't trying to fit the mold, who's doing everything in his power to carve out something that's his.

Now it's time to make sure they know they made the right choice. I arrive at Vale & Wren Publishing a little early, because I've never been the type to show up late, no matter how anxious I feel. The building is sleek, modern—nothing ostentatious, just polished. I stand in the lobby for a moment, taking in the cool, minimalistic decor. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and the air smells like coffee and paper. It feels like I'm stepping into something I've only ever dreamed about. It feels like home, but in the strangest way. A place where I could finally make my mark. I adjust my blazer, check the time on my phone again. Five minutes. I breathe in, trying to calm my nerves, but they're still there, fluttering under the surface. My hands feel a little too cold, a little too shaky. I try to mask it, but my mind is already racing ahead. The receptionist notices me standing there and motions for me to approach.

"Mr. Kensington? They're expecting you." I follow her down a hallway, my footsteps louder than I'd like them to be. The walls here are lined with framed book covers, new releases and classics alike. It's the kind of place where stories are born, and for a brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be part of that world. We stop in front of a door. She opens it for me. Inside, there's a long desk, and behind it sits a man who seems far too casual for the gravity of what I'm about to do. He's in a simple shirt and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, messy hair framing a face that's only half-interested in the paperwork in front of him. I try not to feel disarmed by how laid-back he looks. But then he looks up and meets my gaze, and there's something about him—something that immediately sets me on edge.

"You must be Mr. Kensington," he says, standing up and offering a handshake. His voice is smooth, with just a hint of amusement.

"Alexander," I correct, shaking his hand firmly, but I can't help the small beat of hesitation. There's something about the way he said my last name.

"Right. I'm Theodore Wren—just call me Wren, I prefer you just call me by my last name." He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. "Have a seat. I won't bite." I sit, forcing myself to relax, to look like I belong here, even if I feel like I'm faking it.

"So, you've got an MBA and a degree in Literary Arts. That's...an interesting combination," Wren says, leaning back in his chair, studying me. "Tell me why someone with your background wants to work as an Editorial Assistant. Not exactly the glamorous role in publishing, you know." I know what he's thinking. He's wondering if I'm a Kensington just looking for something to pass the time, something to slum through until my family hands me the keys to something bigger. And maybe he's right to wonder. But that's not why I'm here.

"I'm not just looking for something to do," I say, keeping my tone steady. "I want to learn this industry. I've spent my life in business, but what I'm passionate about is literature. Not writing it, but understanding it—seeing what works, what doesn't, and helping to shape it. Editorial Assistant is an entry-level position, but it's also where the process begins. I want to start at the foundation and work my way up. I have the skills, but more than that, I have the drive to make something of myself beyond what my family expects." Wren watches me carefully, his eyes narrowing for a moment as if he's trying to decide if I'm giving him a well-rehearsed answer. I hold my ground. I'm not lying. He leans forward slightly.

"You've reviewed a lot of manuscripts, I assume?"

"Not professionally," I answer. "But I've spent years reading, analyzing. I can't help myself. Whether it's a business strategy or a novel, as long as it's a book, I break things down. I think critically about the structure, the flow, the character development. In literature, it's more than just the story—it's how the story is told." I notice a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It's subtle, but it's there. He's intrigued now.

"I like that answer," Wren says, folding his arms. "So let's do this. I have a manuscript here I'd like you to look at. Tell me what you think. No sugarcoating. What works, what doesn't. I'll be honest—I'm curious to see how you analyze it." He slides the manuscript across the table. I don't hesitate—I pick it up, flipping through the pages. The first thing I notice is the prose. It's overwritten, unnecessarily complex, like the writer is trying too hard to sound profound. The characters are flat, their motivations are muddled, and the dialogue is stilted. I can see where it wants to go, but it's not getting there. I look up from the manuscript and meet Wren's gaze.

"It's a mess," I say, letting the words land. "The character arcs are weak, the pacing is all over the place. The opening metaphor is clichéd—rain and broken hearts. It's something I've seen a hundred times before. It's not connecting with the reader. This character's grief should feel more personal, less generalized." I pause for a moment, giving Wren a chance to respond. When he doesn't, I continue.

"The dialogue is clunky, too. People don't speak like this. It's stiff, almost robotic. The real emotion is lost in the delivery. You need to show the depth of their feelings through their actions, not just have them say everything." Wren tilts his head slightly, clearly impressed with the level of detail I'm going into.

"That's pretty brutal," he says with a grin. "But I'll admit—I'm intrigued. What would you do to fix it?" I pause for a second, considering.

"I'd start by simplifying the prose. Let the characters' actions speak for them. Develop the emotional stakes early on and make the conflict personal—not just some random obstacle the characters have to face. Show the progression of their relationship, not just tell it." Wren raises an eyebrow.

"That's a pretty fresh perspective. You think you could make it better?"

"I could," I say without hesitation. "But it'd take more than a few tweaks. This needs a complete overhaul." Wren leans back in his chair, looking at me with an expression that's hard to read. There's a pause, thick with thought. For a moment, I wonder if I've said too much, been too blunt. But then he smiles—a small, genuine curve of his lips that feels like a challenge.

"You know, I didn't expect you to dive in that deep," he says, his tone a little lighter now. "You didn't hold back, and I like that. Most people would've been too careful, afraid to offend. But you—you're not afraid to say what you think. That's rare in this industry." I don't let myself smile. I'm not here to charm him. I'm here to prove myself.

"What else do you see?" he asks, leaning forward slightly, like he's testing me, pushing me to go further. I flip through the manuscript again, my eyes scanning the pages quickly. There's more—more I can tear apart, more that needs fixing. But there's one thing I haven't mentioned yet, one thing that might take Wren by surprise. I set the manuscript down and look him square in the eye.

"There's a particular section toward the middle—chapter ten. The dialogue between the two main characters, it's supposed to be the turning point, the emotional climax of the book. But it's completely flat. It's like the author didn't know how to push the characters past their conflict. They just...talk at each other, instead of engaging with each other." I pause, tapping my finger on the page.

"The emotional stakes are there, but they aren't conveyed properly. The tension should be palpable, but it's not. The characters are talking, yes, but it's like they're speaking in circles." Wren's expression shifts. He looks impressed, but also a little amused, as if he wasn't expecting me to dig even deeper.

"I can see you're not just here to get by," he says, leaning back again. "I'm curious—do you always analyze things this way? Or is it just the manuscripts?" I tilt my head slightly.

"I've been doing it for years. Whether it's business proposals or novels, I break everything down. I look at how it's structured, what works, what doesn't, and how it can be improved. It's just how my mind works." Wren grins, clearly liking my answer.

"You're not what I expected, Mr. Kensington."