The Lifeline Plan

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I’m pleading for mercy. For a break in this shit-show my life has become.

I clutch the campaign brief ‘Fall into Summer Love’ like it’s a drowning kitten, when really, I’m the one that’s desperately holding onto a lifeline.

The cursive font sits above a heart-eyed smiley face and a sun with shades on.

It reeks of female optimism—the kind that’s never been dumped or cheated on with multiple women.

“Yes, I just finished the meeting. It went fine,” I say into the phone, holding it to my ear with one hand while the other hovers over my head, as if it’s going to stop the rain from mocking me.

“So, you understand the assignment?” Jeff asks.

Unless he’s good with me vomiting red roses and cheesy taglines onto a slideshow, I’m screwed. Why couldn’t the theme have been ‘Cheating Bastards Burn in Hell’? Flames. Destruction. Violence. Anything but the fake promise of love.

“Yes, sir.” I understand it. I don’t control it.

I flag a cab. It drives past me without even looking.

“Pitch the campaign, put it in motion, and show them how it’s done.”

The brakes on a red double-decker bus screech as it halts at the light ahead. I half-jog towards it, desperate for a sign. A stop. Anything. But all I see are strangers that were seemingly born holding umbrellas. Before I can reach it, the light turns and the bus roars away.

“Right. Remember I’ve got a lot riding on you, Julia,” Jeff says—for the third time. “And so do you.”

He’s not wrong. This campaign is my last shot at salvaging a promotion at Mavericks. If I blow it, I lose the rest of my momentum. I stagnate. Get quietly passed until I’m forced to start over somewhere new.

One might think that’s fine. But I’m stubborn. Stubborn enough to put myself through this soggy nightmare. I’ve been climbing this ladder since I graduated. The last thing I’m after is losing years of progress.

Which is ultimately how I ended up here—in one of the rainiest cities in Europe. Freezing. Wet. And hating every second of it.

“I can do this, sir,” I say with a confidence that’s currently nonexistent in my being. “A romance-themed campaign is right up my alley.”

Tagline idea: ‘Matching underwear perfect for catching him with another woman!’

To combat my impending doom, I repeat my mantra in my head. You’ve put in the hours. You deserve it. Don’t throw away your hard work.

“I know you’ve not had the best year, and I want to make sure your personal life doesn’t affect this project as well,” he says, as insensitive as ever.

Like I need a reminder. I’m painfully aware that it’s my fault that I let the downfall of my relationship destroy my self-esteem and career focus.

“Since the board came up with the idea of sending someone from the Golden State to bring authenticity to the summer love campaign, all eyes are on us. I expect magic. Keep in touch.”

The call ends. My clothes are soaked. Cold water seeps into my boots. Strands of my light-brown hair stick to my face as if they’ve been put there with super glue. I huff—loud and dramatic. The need to scream builds up in my chest.

It’s not stopped raining since I landed yesterday evening. Seriously, how do people live in this?

I’ve just finished meeting with the London branch’s head of marketing. All I want is to get to my newly borrowed home. I don’t know how the subway works yet, and I don’t have the willpower to stand outside and wait for a ride.

I trudge down the road, shivering with every step. Cars honk loudly. Rain pours relentlessly. Headlights now appear hazy five feet in front of me. I press myself to the building’s wall, the eave above offering not nearly enough coverage.

In the distance, the Shard cuts through the grey sky—a sleek reminder that this city was made to withstand the elements, not shield from them. I was not.

A few blocks down, I spot a slightly dimmed pub tucked into the bottom floor of an old stone building. The only decorations are the faded golden letters reading The Anchor. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if not for the neon beer sign buzzing in the window.

The contrast between the shadowy entrance and the bright glow gives it an edge. I try to capture the moment, testing different exposures and angles. Nothing convinces me. It’s not good enough.

Back in the day, my camera would’ve been full of shots like this. But it’s been collecting dust for a long time now.

I eye the tinted windows, keeping secrets in and curious stares out. I hesitate. Who knows what kind of scene runs inside? But I’m soaked. If I don’t get out of the rain, I’ll be riding express to mild hypothermia.

I cross my fingers, open the door, and hope for the best.

It’s quiet inside, maybe thanks to the storm. The air is warm, cozy even. I walk up to the bar, where a short, round man is polishing a glass. His name tag reads Tony. His shirt is crisp white, perfectly ironed.

He looks up and flashes a tired, sincere smile. He’s maybe sixty, hair buzzed but unmistakably grey. The soft click of the glassware is the only sound filling the space.

“What brings a lady like you here?” he asks kindly.

“If I’m being honest? Shelter from the rain and the cold.”

He hears my voice, his smile turns crooked, and his eyebrows lift.

“American, huh? Even more surprising,” he teases.

I nod.

“What can I get you?”

“Whiskey. On the rocks. Hopefully that’ll thaw me out.”

“Not used to the cold?”

“Not at all,” I answer, accepting the glass. “I’m from Los Angeles.”

“Well, I hope the city treats you right, young lady.”

And just like that, he’s back to polishing glasses.

I turn, leaning against the worn counter to take it all in.

It’s nice; something about it makes it feel special, although I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is.

Each booth glows under its own dangling yellow light.

Black-and-white photos cover the walls. An old wooden pool table sits unused in the center of the room.

I peel off my coat and drop it on the stool beside me. I was hoping the whiskey would also give me the courage to text my mom—but the cursor blinks and I write nothing.

We’re a tight-knit family. We’ve never been apart for more than a week. I didn’t have the guts to tell her I’ve been struggling at work, so in her mind, this trip is a reward. Not a last-ditch effort to prove I’m worthy to be marketing manager. Fear of disappointment, they say.

I groan and drop my phone on the counter with a loud thump. I reach for a napkin and helplessly try to stop my hair from dripping. I go through so many, I end up with a soggy little pile in front of me.

“And here I thought I was having a bad day,” says a man a few stools away.

His voice sounds familiar, even wrapped in a thick British accent.

I turn. His face is half-hidden beneath a black cap. Odd. It hasn’t been sunny all day.

“Yeah, sorry. Bad days are kind of my brand,” I say. His smile crooks upwards slightly. “If you want any tips, I’m your girl.”

“Work troubles?” he asks. “Got a fix for those?”

I raise my glass to eye level. “Have a drink.”

He laughs quietly. “On it.”

“You seem to be rolling with the punches pretty well,” he says.

“I fully believe the key to life is ‘fake it till you make it,’” I reply, shrugging. “Do your make-up. Dress nice. Wear glasses even if you don’t need them…”

He tilts his head. “I don’t think you need any make-up.”

Is he flirting? Or have I been out of the game so long I can’t even tell?

“The glasses, though,” he adds. “Those are always a nice touch. I’d have to agree.”

I roll my eyes, amused. “You’re dangerously charming for someone hiding under a cap.”

“This old thing?” he says, leaning his head down. “Creature of habit.”

He pulls it off, his hair falling messily over his face. He runs his hand through it, brushing it back.

I realize I’m staring when the silence stretches.

His eyes—baby blue. His beard is new, his hair is longer, but I know why he sounded so familiar. I’ve seen that face before.

His eyebrows lift in response to my frown, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he turns to the bar.

“Can I get a refill, Tony?” he calls, lifting his nearly empty pint.

“Sure thing, Josh.”

My head is bouncing between the man and the bartender. Josh.

I’m right.

I’m talking to Joshua Harrison. ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ according to People Magazine. He’s been MIA for months since the show that skyrocketed his career ended.

I know this because my best friend, Emma, is obsessed with him.

And yes, I can positively say he is indeed as good-looking as advertised.

Tony returns with his beer, a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye. He knows that I know. There’s an unspoken confirmation in his stare.

“Where are you from?” Harrison asks, bringing my attention back.

“Los Angeles.”

“Ah, the city where dreams are made and crushed. I’ve been there,” he says with a playful twist of his mouth. “It’s a lo––“

The door creaks open, and three girls walk in, closing their umbrellas and taking a seat at the bar. I catch his eyes flickering back to his cap, but he doesn’t reach for it. Instead, his eyes meet mine.

“What do you say we move this conversation to one of the booths?”

I shouldn’t. This trip was supposed to be work exclusive, and he checks all the boxes for being a great distraction. So naturally, I do the opposite and nod.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing my glass. “You don’t seem like a serial killer. What are my chances of getting in trouble?”

“Zero.” He smirks, following me over to one of the tables. “Not today, anyway.”

I look back at him, a spark of laughter behind my smile. A candid shot of everything I should avoid: funny, charming, and disarmingly handsome.

The old floorboards creak under my feet with every step.

I sit down in the wine-colored booth, with him taking the seat in front.

The leather, overused and discolored, highlights the spots where people rest the most. I run my hand over the rugged wooden table, each crack trying to tell its own story.

“I didn’t catch your name.”