CHAPTER ONE
WYNTER
I dig deep into my pocket and pull out a ten-pence piece, holding it up triumphantly. The guy behind the counter rolls his eyes.
“I knew I had it,” I say smugly, handing it over.
In exchange, he gives me my hot chocolate to go.
I step out onto the busy London street, the cold air biting at my cheeks as I glance around. Six months ago, I arrived here, full of dreams and ambition.
That lasted all of five minutes . . . right up until someone snatched my bag the second I stepped out of the underground.
Since then? Nothing but bad luck.
My phone shrills in my pocket. I pull it out, take a steadying breath, and answer.
“Lucy, hi,” I say brightly.
“Wynter, how’s it going?” she asks.
Aunt Lucy. My dad’s sister. They’re close, and she’s been like a mother to me since mine died two years ago.
“Great. How’s Dad?”
“Being a pain in my arse,” she says with a laugh, and I hear him grumble in the background.
Moments like this make my chest ache. I miss them more than I’ll ever admit.
“I can cook,” she fires back at him. “Your tastebuds have gone to crap since you hit sixty. Anyway, Wynter, we were wondering if you’re coming home anytime soon? We miss you.”
I’ve only been back to Stamford once since I left six months ago. I’d give anything to go again, but my bank account is empty, and I just spent my last two pounds twenty on this hot chocolate.
“I’ll try. I’m so busy at work right now,” I lie.
“You always say that. You need time off. It’s not good working all these hours. What about weekends?”
“Ignore her, Winnie,” Dad calls in the background. I smile at the nickname he’s used since the day I was born. “She forgets what it’s like to be young and single. You enjoy your weekends. Get out there, make friends. Come home when you need a break.”
“Thanks, Dad. And, Lucy, I’ll try to get home soon, I promise.”
“Okay. I’ll call tomorrow. We love you.”
“I love you both too.”
I hang up and groan, guilt twisting in my stomach.
I hate lying to them.
The truth is, I never got the job as a junior literary agent. They gave me a month’s trial, then hired the other girl. Said she had more experience. Personally, I think she was fucking the boss.
So, now, I’m living off the money Mum left me. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t go back home and tell Dad the truth. He was so proud when I left.
I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs since, but every publisher gives me the same bullshit answer.
Apparently, the best grades in my class mean nothing. They want experience.
My phone rings again. This time, it’s Kate, my best friend from back home.