Chapter One

"So, Celeste, when can you start?" Roland Peckering folded his arms and smiled as he sat back on his big leather chair. It creaked under his weight.

"Er … really?"

"Yes, yes. Really. The job is yours if you want it. We have pages to fill with today's—no, make that tomorrow's—stories."

"Well, that's wonderful news. Pardon the pun." She grinned, her heart lifting. "I can start right now. I have nowhere else to be."

"Excellent." He stood and rubbed his hands together. His belly was rotund and his cheeks ruddy. Clearly her new boss was a man who enjoyed steak and port in the evening. "Usual routine with purchasing pap pics—negotiate beneath the parameters then send the invoice through me and I'll forward to Finance. Take the first desk on the left. Chap who was supposed to be using it hasn't been here for several weeks."

"Are you sure? What if he's…?"

He gestured to the door. "Now, chop-chop. Get to it. Basic rate as discussed, commission on stories that get the big clicks." He tapped the side of his nose. "Let's hope those contacts you mentioned come through for you, eh."

"I'm sure they will." Celeste stood. "And thank you. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." He smiled and his phone flashed. He grabbed it and his attention diverted straight to it.

Celeste picked up a leather tote that held her slim laptop, cables, and a few notebooks and pens. Her day was turning out much better than she'd hoped. She needed this journalism job since splitting with Patrick. A steady income, if only small, was required with rent and bills to pay, and the chance to earn commission with each celebrity news story was a great addition to the offer. The best she'd had in a while if she were honest.

Fulham Front, watch out, your website hits are about to skyrocket.

She strode from Roland's office with her heels clicking and her chin held high. She found the desk he'd told her to take. It was wide and wooden with the window behind showcasing the London skyline—The Shard, St. Paul's Cathedral, and if you looked hard enough through the rooftops, the London Eye.

The office was busy, thirty or fifty desks with people working at them. The buzz of conversation was loud and the air of urgent excitement she always associated with reporting thrilled her. It was where she wanted to be, and getting the next big scoop was what she wanted to do.

She pulled out her laptop and set it on the desk, then added a notebook and pen. She'd get a potted plant whenever she had the chance, claim the desk just a little more.

After finding a socket for her charger she sat and locked her fingers together, clicked them, then hunted out April on her phone. Perhaps she had an update on what Celeste hoped to be her first story.

"What the fuck are you doing sitting there?"

Shocked, Celeste looked up.

A man, blonde wavy hair and piercing blue eyes, was leaning like a gorilla on her desk—fists bunched and biceps straining at his blue All Saints t-shirt.

"I beg your pardon." She frowned up at him, her heart doing a flip at his sudden and loud intrusion into her space.

"That's not your desk. Hop it." His scowl deepened.

"Actually, it is." She pursed her lips and mirrored his scowl.

"No. It. Is. Not."

"So take it up with Roland. He just gave me this desk and the job to go with it."

"What? No." He straightened. "It's a mistake, pack up and piss off. I'll go and sort this out with him."

"I will do no such thing."

His jaw clenched, a muscle flexing beneath the shadow of pale stubble. "We'll see about that."

He turned and strode into Roland's office. The door slammed.

Celeste dragged in a deep breath and steadied her emotions. What on earth had just happened? How could she have made an enemy already? She'd barely sat down.

"Hey, April," she said into her phone. "Any news?"

"No he's still in there with the nanny. Curtains closed. If I get a shot of them together I'll ping it straight over. Perhaps they'll leave for his country retreat."

"Do you think it will be today?"

"I bloody hope so, I'm sick to death of hanging out in this buddleia bush. It's full of these little yellow hoverflies."

"It'll be worth our while if you get a shot of Raif Pennington with the nanny he's left his wife for. No one else has so much as a recent headshot of her."

"She must be hot for him to choose her over Melinda. She's beautiful."

"Or the nanny was just a challenge. Men, huh," Celeste tutted.

"Yeah, men. I'll be in touch." April hung up.

At that moment Roland's door flew open. Blue-Eyed, Tight-Top strutted out. He threw an evil glare Celeste's way. "Don't make yourself at home." Before she could answer he took a seat three along from hers and sat with his back to her.

"Arsehole," Celeste muttered, opening her laptop. She had better things to do than worry about stepping on other journalists' toes, and heck, it wasn't even over a story, it was only a damn desk.

Her mind returned to work and she set about writing. When the photo April was hopefully going to snap came through, she wanted it ready to go.

An hour later, she had a decent first draft about Raif Pennington's indiscretions with the nanny of his four children. In need of caffeine she went in search of a kitchen, jar of Nescafe and her favorite mug in hand.

Everyone was immersed in either phone calls or busy tapping at their computers. There was a reason Fulham Front was a successful online news platform, its staff were hardworking and dedicated. A season here would look great on her CV.

Not wanting to disturb anyone's flow, she hunted around and after mistaking a large stationary storeroom for the kitchen, she found it tucked in a small room with a low-silled window. One long counter contained two kettles, a selection of jars and packets, and a medley of mugs. Beneath were three small fridges. It wasn't anything fancy. Likely the local cafes and wine bars did a roaring trade, thanks to time-poor, hungry journalists.

She flicked on the kettle and looked out the window. A flight of pigeons swooped in synchrony over the rooftops, an elegant dance that reminded her of home in Manchester.

"What's your name?" A gruff voice behind her.

She turned and irritation scratched up her spine when she saw Mr. Don't Make Yourself At Home. "Celeste Barclay."

"Well, Celeste Barclay, like I said, don't get comfortable. You won't be staying."

"And you are?"

"Ezra Todd. Roland had no right giving you a job without consulting me."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "He doesn't seem to think that way, Ezra Todd."

His jaw tightened. "I suggest you pack your things and take a hike. The likes of you…" He flicked his hand her way, "Are not wanted around here."

"I beg your pardon?" Her mouth gaped open then she closed it again. "What the hell do you mean, ‘the likes of me'?"

"Fresh from college, blonde, pert tits, with a simpering smile and fluttering lashes that get you anything you want."

Of all the goddamn nerve!

"I'm two years out of college and how dare you—"

"Do I look like I care?"

He took a step closer and his aftershave—open water laced with fresh citrus—filled her nose. "I haven't got time for women like you and I want that desk empty again so I suggest—"

"Actually, I suggest"—she wagged her finger at him—"you take this up with Roland or maybe even a shrink. Clearly you have issues."

"Yes, I have issues." He wrapped his hand around her pointed finger, surrounding it in the warmth of his flesh. "And you shouldn't forget that."

As suddenly as he'd appeared, he left the room.

Celeste gripped the sill behind her. What on earth had she done to invoke such instant dislike? Surely it couldn't just be the way she looked. And why would Roland give her a job and a desk that so definitely belonged to someone else?

Ezra certainly seemed to believe she was an imposter, some kind of siren sent to make his life harder. Well, she'd show him. She'd get the best stories. April would get the best pap pics, and their ratings would go off the scale.

With her hand a little shaky she poured water from the kettle. He'd gotten to her and that surprised Celeste. Usually she was made of tougher stuff. She had to be, battling through the cutthroat work experiences her degree in journalism had required had not been easy.

Perhaps it was the comments about her looks that had gotten to her. Ezra thinking she got what she wanted without effort. Or maybe it was the shards of ice in his eyes as he'd gotten up close. She wasn't sure. But one thing she did know, her stories would have to be damn good and they'd have to come thick and fast.

****

Later that afternoon, Celeste's phone pinged.

April: Got the shot. Check your email.

Quickly Celeste flicked to her inbox. Sure enough, there was a picture of the cheating rat, Raif Pennington, with the woman he'd left his Oscar-winning wife for.

Raif looked as handsome as ever, though knowing he was an adulterer distracted from his A-lister looks somewhat. It made his eyes a little too narrow and his slicked-back hair greasy. The woman he had his arm around wore a green raincoat despite the warm day, and her wispy brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. Her features looked haggard, tired, as though the stress of what was going on in her life was all too much.

Perfect.

A picture spoke a thousand words and would compliment Celeste's article. It was quite the scoop and they'd be the first to run the story.

She did a final spell check, then hit "send" to the celebrity editor in chief. With a bit of luck it would be published before the end of the workday. Perfect for commuting scrollers looking for after-work gossip.

She replied to April: Thanks, you're the best. I'll organize your fee to be paid ASAP.

She tossed her phone to one side and stood, facing the window. After stretching her arms above her head, she yawned. It was time to call it a day. She'd been on the go for hours and had not only secured a job, she'd also written her first piece. Yes. Time to head home.

Stepping into the elevator, a woman a little older than her rushed in. Her tote bag had the words Pugs Rule written on it. "Hey, are you new?"

"Yes, first day. Celeste."

"Hi, I'm Jane. How'd it go?"

"Not bad, managed to get a piece written and submitted."

"You pleased with it?"

"Yes. It's a breaking celebrity story. Pretty scandalous, actually."

"Cool. I work in financial news. Breaking stories not quite so scandalous as a rule." She smiled warmly. "Fancy a glass of wine? I'm hitting Barrels, it's just opposite. It's my usual call-in before I catch the Tube."

"I'd love that." Celeste smiled. "It's murder getting to South London until after six."

"I agree. Where do you live?"

"Clapham. I have a postage stamp flat."

"Nice area, though."

"It really is."

"I'm in Battersea, so not far."

"I love the park there. For jogging and park runs."

Jane laughed. "I like it for walking my little pooch, Arc. He's in doggy day care down the road."

"Arc?"

"He's called Noah, somehow that got changed to Arc and it stuck."

They exited the elevator and stepped out the office block and into the sunny evening. "How long have you worked at Fulham Front?" Celeste asked.

"A little over a year. I like it, good people."

Celeste said nothing as she thought of Ezra's frosty—no, make that arctic, welcome.

"And it's well organized," Jane went on. "Stories get published quickly, you get paid on time and what you're supposed to. I like it, yeah."

"I'm sure I'll soon settle in."

"I'm sure you will too." They pushed into the bar. "What are you drinking? My treat, to welcome you to the team."

"If you're sure, thank you. White wine."

Within a few minutes they'd found a table in a cool corner and were sipping cold chardonnay. The seat upholstery was racing-green and tatty beer mats sat on the table. The walls were lined with some kind of textured floral paper and several frames held vintage front pages from decades ago.

"This place has seen better days in terms of decor but pretty much the entire Fulham Front office drinks here so it does okay," Jane said. "I reckon no one goes home without a few drinks in them."

"Work hard, play hard, huh." Celeste looked around. It was mainly guys. The scent of cologne hung heavy as did the smell of beer. There were heated debates, raucous laughter, and a few whispered conversations hidden behind hands.

"So," Jane said, glancing at her watch. "Has your story been published? Roland is usually pretty on the ball about ending the day with his leads."

"I hope it's a lead story. It's an exclusive." Celeste pulled out her phone. "I'll take a look."

Jane peered closer.

"Yes! It's there."

It's True! Raif Pennington has switched his Hollywood actress wife for the nanny after a bizarre series of denials from him and accusations from Melinda, star of blockbuster trilogy, The Damned Beautiful.

"Oh, let me see." Jane squeezed closer.

Celeste took in the images, and then the words she'd written. It was unchanged, every comma exactly as she'd penned it. It was a great first piece, even better because it was a breaking story.

"You sure it's your story?" Jane asked.

"What?" Celeste frowned. "Of course it is."

"But you're not credited with it. Ezra Todd is."