He’d known. He just *knew*. The editor’s email, carefully worded to soften the blow, sat unopened in his inbox for a full twenty minutes. Charles spent that time meticulously arranging his collection of first editions on the mahogany shelf, each volume placed at a precise angle. Finally, with a sigh of exaggerated weariness, he opened the email.
"We regret to inform…" He let the sentence hang, savoring the moment. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, glancing in the polished reflection of his screen. What a pity. He felt, a slight, almost imperceptible twinge of… well, it certainly wasn’t disappointment. It was more like the tiniest ripple of amusement.
He chuckled softly, a sound filled with the gentle self-satisfaction of someone who has predicted the inevitable outcome. He’d had his own publishing house in mind anyway, of course. He’d just wanted to give them a *chance*. Poor dears. They simply lacked the vision. He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning slightly, and reached for the phone. "Martha," he said into the receiver, his voice calm, even, and just a little bit world-weary. "Start drafting the press release."