Chapter 369: Helen Whitmore's Fingers Trembled Slightly

"Southeast Asia?"

"That's right. Both The Weapon and The Deserted School have made it into the top three on the bestseller lists for e-books and physical copies there."

Helen Whitmore's fingers trembled slightly, causing her coffee cup to clink against the saucer. She had never imagined her works would cross oceans.

Clara Whitmore held up five fingers. "I've done a rough estimate. The earnings from these two books over the years amount to about..."

Daniel Whitmore ventured a guess. "Five hundred thousand?"

"Be bolder."

"Five million?!"

"Fifty million," Clara said softly. "And that's a conservative estimate."

Daniel's spoon clattered onto his porcelain plate.

"Mom," Clara took her mother's cold hand, "I know this is hard for you. But the ten-year contract with Phoebe Ward is over now."

Helen's nails unconsciously traced tiny scratches along the rim of her cup.

"The real tragedy isn't the financial loss—it's all those good works that were buried. How many prime creative years does a writer really have?"

Helen suddenly turned toward the window, her shoulders trembling slightly.

"I reached out to a senior editor. He read your unpublished manuscripts." Clara handed her a tissue. "Will you meet with him?"

Helen took a deep breath, her throat working. "...Okay."

Late into the night, muffled sobs drifted from the guest bedroom. Daniel's low, comforting words came in broken fragments.

Clara lay awake, watching the shifting light patterns on her ceiling until dawn tinged the sky.

Noon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting diamond-shaped patterns on the wooden floor.

The café was nearly empty. A blue-eyed Ragdoll cat dozed by the register, ignoring the chime of the doorbell.

In a window booth, a man in a white dress shirt paged through a hardcover book. His sharp gaze, framed by black-rimmed glasses, immediately locked onto the trio entering.

"Ms. Whitmore." He stood quickly. "Spencer Hale from DecaCulture Publishing."

Clara tactfully pulled her father back. "We'll wait outside."

Spencer pulled out a wicker chair for Helen, adjusting the cushion behind her. "Would you like to try our signature pour-over?"

Helen shook her head, requesting only ice water. Her distant stare fixed on some point beyond the glass, as if all vitality had been drained from her.

A decade of trust had collapsed without warning, leaving no foothold for anger.

Spencer slid a folder across the table. "We'd like to publish these four works from your Lantern series."

Helen's pupils contracted sharply.

"Apologies if this seems abrupt." He adjusted his glasses. "But after reading the manuscripts your daughter sent, our editorial team made this decision overnight."