Six months out of university, living on her best friend's sofa in a dingy house share in Clapham with no job and no money, the bright future Fia Holliday had envisioned for herself is fading fast.
At least, until she scores the internship of a life...
"It might not be that bad," Charles reasoned, following her inside. "You haven't looked at the post yet."
Fia felt unsteady on her feet, not just from all the alcohol—although she was, by any standard, drunk—but also because she was terrified of what she would find if she clicked the notification.
She leaned her hands on the table and put her head down to try and catch her breath. A tiny seed of certainty germinated inside her. She somehow knew that this was it—the moment she had always dreaded, the one she had tried so hard to avoid.
"Fia." He rubbed her back soothingly. "Please open it."
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Fia stared at the image and felt her happiness unspooling.
"It's not that bad, right?" Charles asked. "It is not like we are kissing."
"We might as well be," she choked out. "Three hundred and twenty-eight likes." The number made her feel sick. And the comments—she daren't even read them. "How did they get this picture? I...I don't understand."
The realisation that it must have been someone on the boat was crushing. It felt for a moment like the ground was coming up to meet her.
"Fia." Charles showed her his phone. "It was Rebecca. She posted it on her story. She must not have known—"
"How could she not have known? Why didn't you tell her not to post anything about us?"
"I did not think I needed to!"
Overwhelmed, she stumbled backwards as fingers of panic squeezed her throat. How could they have been so stupid and reckless?
"There are ways we can explain it," Charles said, reaching for her hand. "It is not so bad."
"How can you say that? It isn't your job on the line, Charles. It's mine. You don't get to decide how bad this is."
Tears prickled in her eyes. She bit her lip, cursing herself for being ruled by the whims of her heart. She had dared to imagine a life where she could have it all, forgoing the sensible voice in her head that promised a steady job and professional success for something as fickle as love. This was her fault.
"Please don't cry."
"I'm allowed to fucking cry," she sobbed. "It's my birthday."
"Hey." The world around them stilled when Charles placed his hands on her shoulders. His green eyes held hers. "We will get through this."
"You don't get it." She stepped back to put distance between them before he could draw her in again. "I need this job."
"Your job is safe."
"Of course it isn't."
"Now that you've signed your new contract, nothing is stopping you from being with me. We don't have to worry anymore, we can—"
