It’s only the fifth of January, but the office still has that weird post-holiday energy—half the people are pretending to work while still mentally on vacation, and the other half are already diving into their new year, new me personas with disturbing enthusiasm.
To make things worse, late New Year’s gifts have started trickling in, meaning every time I pass someone’s desk, there’s another beautifully wrapped box of chocolates, a fancy candle set, or an expensive bottle of wine sitting smugly in the middle of it. Like some sort of smug reminder that other people have their lives together.
My desk, of course, remains gloriously bare. Apart from the half-empty coffee mug, a stack of notes judging me silently, and a single, lonely biscuit I forgot about three days ago.
Not that I care. I mean, sure, it would be nice to get a package—something that says, Sophie Hollis, you are valued and deserve fancy things!—but that’s not the point. The point is… okay, maybe I’d like to feel a little bit special. Not even in a romantic way, just in a look at me, someone thought of me kind of way.
But no. Instead, I’ll probably spend the evening watching reruns of Bake Off and eating cheap pizza while everyone else pretends they’re not trying to re-gift their office champagne.
Which is why I’ve decided to lose a few pounds before Valentine’s day. Not because I’m trying to snag a date. Definitely not. It’s more about, you know, self-improvement. A New Year’s goal. A symbolic act of control over my life. And, fine, maybe there’s a tiny part of me that’s hoping Alex will finally notice me as more than his sarcastic underling. But that’s not the main reason. It’s secondary. Background noise, really.
Lucy, as always, is having none of it. We’re at our usual café for lunch, and I’m dutifully picking at my sad little salad while she’s devouring a grilled cheese sandwich the size of her head. It smells amazing, like melted happiness on sourdough, and I try to remind myself that lettuce is good for the soul.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lucy says, watching me with one eyebrow raised in skepticism. “You’re starving yourself to impress a man who flirts with everything that breathes? Including, probably, the espresso machine?”
“It’s not just for Alex,” I protest, stabbing at a piece of cucumber. “It’s for me too! New year, new me.”
Lucy snorts loudly, drawing a few curious glances from the other tables. “Please. You’re fine the way you are. What you really need is to stop letting people—Alex, your dad, your mum—walk all over you.”
I glare at her, though mostly because I know she’s right. Lucy has a way of getting straight to the heart of things, even when I’d rather she didn’t.
Speaking of my mum, she’s been calling me non-stop this week to complain about my dad and his girlfriend, Melanie. Every time my phone buzzes, I feel a twinge of dread because I know it’s going to be another rant about gluten-free baked goods or inappropriate age gaps.
“He’s flaunting her like some kind of trophy!” Mum fumes during our latest conversation, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Can you believe it? She brought gluten-free brownies to brunch. Brownies, Sophie. GLUTEN-FREE BROWNIES.”
“Mum, you know people eat gluten-free stuff all the time now, right?” I reply, regretting it immediately.
“That’s not the point!” she snaps. “The point is, she’s showing off! Parading her ridiculous dietary preferences like some kind of badge of honor. And your father! He just sits there smiling like an idiot. It’s disgusting.”
I murmur something vaguely sympathetic while trying to edge her off the phone. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that my tolerance for Dad-and-Melanie drama has reached its limit.
Back at the office, I’m still replaying Lucy’s words in my head when my phone buzzes again. For one horrifying moment, I think it’s Mum, but it turns out to be worse: a message from William Darcy’s assistant.
“Miss Hollis,” it reads, in predictably formal language. “This is a reminder about your meeting with Mr. Darcy tomorrow morning. Please arrive on time.”
My stomach twists at the thought of seeing him again. Not just because of the humiliation from last time, but because I know I’ll have to impress him, and I’m not entirely sure I’m capable of that.
And the worst part? Darcy is bound to look as annoyingly gorgeous as ever, all tall and brooding in his fancy suits, while I sit there trying not to sweat through my blouse.