The Proposal

Chapter 2

Geralt was exhausted. He hadn't intended to spend the entire night negotiating with Aldert Geert, but the man's awkward personality more than preceded him. He had foolishly thought that taking the renowned author out for a swanky meal and a few drinks would butter him up enough to sign onto Dark Horse Publishers, but it had been an all-or-nothing game of Gwent in the wee hours of the morning that had finally convinced the elusive writer to come aboard. Geralt would never admit that to the board of directors, of course. Not that they would ask; they didn't much care how you did your job, so long as you did it well.

Geralt stifled a yawn as the lift ascended to the top floor of the building. He had been in desperate need of that coffee Jaskier failed to provide. A peppermint hot chocolate was not enough to ward off the tiredness that seemed to seep into his bones. Gods, when was the last time he had taken a holiday? Not that he ever had time for that sort of thing. Or anywhere to go...or anyone to go with.

When the lift pinged and the doors slid open to the floor where his superior, Radovid, resided, Geralt stepped onto the floor and walked past his boss's assistant without so much as a passing glance. He knocked politely but firmly on the door to Radovid's office and waited patiently to be summoned. Still, it was nice to get some recognition for all of the hard work he had put in, especially from the board of directors. Now was probably a good time to mention that promotion he'd been after.

When Geralt heard the muffled voice of his superior call him through, he stood to his full height and pulled his shoulders back before entering the room. Carefully closing the door behind him, he nodded towards Radovid and Troyden, the two most senior members of the board of directors. "Good morning, gentlemen."

"Geralt, congratulations on securing Aldert Geert's next novel." Radovid motioned for Geralt to take the leather armchair in front of his desk. "Quite the accomplishment."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, taking his seat.

Troyden, a wizened-looking gentleman in a light grey suit, stood at his usual place behind Radovid's left shoulder like an old vulture. He smiled at Geralt and gave him a nod in greeting, but as per usual, he left Radovid to do most of the talking. Radovid, on the other hand, looked strikingly authoritative by comparison: his face and head were always clean-shaven, making his deep-set eyebrows all the more prominent. He always dressed well, today favouring a handsome charcoal pinstripe suit that Geralt would happily have worn himself.

"Geralt," Radovid began slowly. "Do you remember when we agreed that you wouldn't attend the Vizima Book Fair because you weren't allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?"

"Yes, I do."

There was a long, drawn-out pause before Radovid added, "But you went to Vizima."

"Yes, I did," he confirmed. "We were going to lose Premethine Shakeslock to the Fantastyka Publishing House, so I didn't really have much of a choice. I had to go."

"Well, it seems that the government doesn't much care who publishes Shakeslock's theories on Black Magic," Radovid muttered, pulling a folder towards him and flipping it open to the first page.

"We just spoke to your immigration lawyer," Troyden chipped in. Geralt frowned.

"Okay...does that mean that my visa application has been approved?"

"I'm afraid it isn't good news. Your visa application has been denied," Radovid informed him. Geralt stared back at him blankly for a few moments.

"Excuse me?"

"Your application has been denied," Radovid repeated evenly. "And you are being deported."

"Deported?" Geralt exclaimed.