Chapter 1
Sophie Rowan had stopped listening to breakup playlists two weeks ago, but only because she'd run out of tears, not because she was healing. Her Spotify algorithm, loyal to a fault, still served her slow, aching ballads like an emotional ambush. Every time Taylor Swift crooned about betrayal or being replaced, Sophie's chest tightened, her stomach twisting as if someone had reached inside and wrung her out like a cloth that had already given everything it had.
The worst part wasn't the sadness anymore. It was the exhaustion. Grief had settled into her bones, heavy and dull, turning simple tasks; showering, answering texts, getting dressed; nto negotiations with herself. She hadn't cried that morning. She took that as progress, even if it really just meant the hurt had gone quiet and sharp instead of loud.
She shoved her phone into her coat pocket as she stepped out of the rain and into the Manchester Gazette newsroom. The familiar hum met her immediately, keyboards clacking, printers sputtering, the low murmur of voices and the occasional dramatic sigh from an overworked editor. Normally, it grounded her. Normally, it reminded her who she was outside of being someone's almost-wife.
Today, it only reminded her she hadn't slept. Again.
Her blonde bob was still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends the way it always did when she didn't bother with a hairdryer. Her blue eyes were shadowed, bruised with fatigue, but there was something stubborn in them too. Determined. Defiant. She'd promised herself she would stop looking like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her heart.
If she could just look normal, maybe she'd start to feel it.
She made it halfway to her desk before the ache flared again, uninvited, an image of a ring box, unopened, still tucked in the back of her bedside drawer. She'd never thrown it away. She wasn't ready to decide what it meant yet.
She'd just sat down when her editor, Marla, came striding out of her office like a storm front in sensible heels.
"There she is," Marla announced, voice bright. "My favourite journalist who owes me a story."
Sophie blinked, brain lagging a second behind reality. "I turned in the charity gala piece yesterday."
"Which was good," Marla said, stopping abruptly in front of her desk. "But I need you to take a last-minute assignment."
Sophie glanced at the clock. "It's nine in the morning."
"And the interview is at eleven. So chop-chop."
Sophie's shoulders tensed. "Interview with who?"
Marla's mouth curved into that grin, the one that meant you can protest, but it won't matter. "Jane Vale."
Sophie nearly dropped her coffee. The lid rattled dangerously. "The Jane Vale? Internet phenomenon, queen of unfiltered vlog confessionals and dry humour? That Jane Vale?"
"That's the one," Marla said. "She's in Manchester for a live event tonight. Publicist approved one interview, and you" she poked Sophie's shoulder "are going."
Sophie swallowed. Heat crept up her neck, a mixture of nerves and something sharper. "Marla... I'm fine, but"
"I know you've had a rough month." Marla's voice softened, just a fraction, before snapping back into professional efficiency. "But you're good at this. And this could get you out of whatever swamp of emotions you've been drowning in."
Swamp was generous. This felt more like quicksand.
Sophie opened her mouth to argue, about the timing, about her concentration being shot, about the fiancée who had left her for her best friend and then had the audacity to ask for 'space' like Sophie was the one who'd done something wrong.
But the words stuck.
All that came was the familiar, cold hollow ache in her chest. The one that whispered you weren't enough, apparently, and repeated it until it sounded like fact.
"Where?" she asked instead, because asking anything else felt too close to breaking.
"Hotel Aurelia. Penthouse suite." Marla winked. "Don't fangirl. Please."
Sophie groaned weakly. "I don't fangirl."
"You absolutely do."
---
Hotel Aurelia was the kind of place that made Sophie feel underdressed just by existing inside it. The marble floors gleamed under soft lighting, the gold accents tasteful but excessive, and the chandelier overhead looked like it cost more than her yearly salary, and possibly her emotional stability.
She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall near the lift. She looked fine. Professional. If you ignored the way her shoulders curved inward slightly, as if bracing for another blow. She straightened them anyway.
In the lift up to the penthouse, she checked her notes again, more for the comfort of routine than necessity.
Jane Vale. Age twenty-eight. Internet star. Athletic. Funny. Tall, very tall. And famously private, despite posting daily content. One article described her vibe as "soft chaos meets seductive enigma." Another compared her to Carmilla Karnstein from the cult web series; mysterious, darkly charming, a little dangerous.
Great.
Sophie let out a quiet breath. She was about to interview a lesbian internet Carmilla while her own love life was a smouldering crater. The universe had a cruel sense of humour.
The lift chimed.
Her heart thudded, too fast, too loud.
She stepped out and walked down the plush hallway, every step feeling like it carried more weight than it should. She raised her hand and knocked.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Jane Vale stood barefoot on the penthouse carpet, dressed in black joggers and a fitted tank top that showed off toned arms and an easy confidence that made Sophie painfully aware of her own frayed edges. She was tall, 5'10, exactly as the internet promised, tall enough that Sophie had to tilt her head slightly to meet her gaze.
Oh God.
Her eyes were dark and sharp and impossibly attentive, amusement glinting in them like she already knew every embarrassing thought Sophie had ever had and found them charming.
"Hi," Jane said, voice low and warm, threaded with mischief. "You must be Sophie."
Sophie's brain short-circuited completely.
"I... I am." Brilliant. Stunning. Truly award worthy. "Um. Hi."
Jane stepped aside, gesturing her in. "I've heard good things about you."
Sophie blinked, thrown. "You... have?"
Jane smirked. "Your editor pitched you as 'smart, professional, and not easily intimidated.'" Her gaze flicked over Sophie, quick, assessing, not unkind, and then back to her eyes. "I guess we'll see."
Heat rushed to Sophie's cheeks. She clung to professionalism like a lifeline, lifting her recorder as if it could protect her. "Right. Yes. Interview. Professional things."
Jane laughed, soft, rich, and devastatingly genuine. "Relax, little journalist. I don't bite."
Her smile widened, slow and deliberate.
"Not unless asked."
Sophie's breath caught.
Her heart did something traitorous and painful, flaring to life after weeks of lying dormant. Guilt followed immediately, sharp and unwelcome. It was too soon. She was too broken. She was not supposed to notice this.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
This assignment was going to be a problem. A very tall, very charming, deeply distracting problem.
And Sophie Rowan, freshly heartbroken, emotionally raw, and absolutely not ready for whatever this was, could already feel her carefully contained world beginning to tilt.
