Based on You (Pages and Promises #1)

1. Violet

ONE

VIOLET

"I'll need to go grocery shopping soon," I murmured to the empty room, setting the last strip of bacon in the frying pan and cracking eggs into a small bowl.

The noise cancellation between rooms worked like a charm, and I loved that about my place. I hadn't known to ask for the feature when I signed the lease. But I'd caught it within my first week and had been quietly grateful ever since—that, and the neighbors.

The couple next door kept to themselves, and the woman above me ran on regular hours. Nobody knocked on my door except the super, and he only bothered me when something needed fixing, which wasn't often.

I need to keep this apartment, I reminded myself as I ate my breakfast.

A week ago, I'd gotten notice that my lease was expiring. I'd texted my landlord that same day to ask about a renewal.

But he'd stayed quiet—no reply, no acknowledgment, nothing.

Sighing, I unlocked my phone while I rinsed my plate, only to find the thread unread. I typed a quick second follow-up, kept it short, and hit send before I could second-guess the wording.

I couldn't afford to lose this place.

The privacy alone was worth more than the rent.

I didn't need much.

A bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a wide balcony I used on mild nights when the writing was flowing. The threat of losing it to a landlord who couldn't be bothered to text back kept gnawing at my gut as I prepared for work.

Getting myself ready was something I refused to rush, and I'd come to love the ritual of it.

I pulled on my dark blue trousers and a yellow chiffon blouse, swept my black, curly hair into a high ponytail, put on a pair of simple stud earrings, brushed on a light layer of makeup, and headed out the door.

I was running earlier than usual, so I skipped the subway—it had its uses, and I wasn't above it. I hailed a taxi, then settled into the plush backseat.

I'd be back underground by tomorrow.

Traffic moved fast, and I reached the Beckett Media building sooner than I'd planned.

I went straight to the top floor, the one that belonged to Simon Beckett alone—CEO of Beckett Media, one of the largest publishing companies in the country, and my boss.

It was a sprawling floor with floor-to-ceiling windows facing east and south, a sleek conference room at one end, and Simon's corner office at the other.

My desk was right outside his door, serving as the final checkpoint between him and the rest of the world. Most days, there were only the two of us on the floor, with the occasional board meeting or team visit to break the rhythm.

But on days like this one, with Simon's schedule out of the building, the space was mine alone.

I rarely went with him to outside meetings anymore.

That had become our unspoken arrangement a few months back—after an evening with investors went off the rails.

One particular businessman had made it clear that if I didn't drink with them, he might take it as an insult to the table.

I didn't want to be the reason a fat deal fell through, so I'd put away far more alcohol than I should have, despite Simon telling me beforehand not to drink.

I hadn't listened.

After that, he barely spoke to me for two full weeks. He'd answered my work questions and drunk the coffee I left on his desk. But he never stopped at my station on his way past or said a word that wasn't strictly necessary.

And I sat in that cold silence until I finally understood the reason why—he'd given me an order, and I'd ignored it.

Somewhere in those quiet days, though, a spark for a character started to take shape in my head. A specific, suffocating tension between two people who were everything to each other at work and nothing at all outside it.

I shook off the memory, reached my desk, and settled in for the day.

The morning rolled by without a hitch. I answered emails, returned calls, confirmed schedules, and prepped documents.

I cleared the overnight queue from the London office, rebooked a town car for the head of legal, and redrafted Tuesday's agenda after a note from Devika about a meeting running long.

There was a deep satisfaction in this work that I rarely said out loud—a quiet pride in watching a complicated system run like a well-oiled machine because I'd built it to, even if hardly anyone else knew my name.

When lunch hour came around, I made my way down the hall to the kitchenette.

Simon was picky about keeping the executive floor stocked, insisting on regular deliveries of healthy options—a policy I'd always liked in theory.

But with him out of the office and the catering staff with no one to impress, today's spread came down to a sad Caesar salad and a pathetic container of mixed fruit.

I glared at them, half hoping the shelves might cough up a sandwich.

"Why are they serving me a salad? What are they trying to say?" I grumbled, carrying the plastic containers back to my desk.

I was hungry, and the alternative was starving until dinner.

I pulled out my soft-leather notebook and started to eat, my pen gliding across the pages without much thought. This notebook was where my manuscripts lived in their rawest, most vulnerable form, long before I moved a single word to my laptop and gave them shape.

The current arc had been needling me for weeks—a practical heroine who'd let herself get too close to a man she had no business getting close to.

I kept my head down and wrote like a woman possessed until the salad was gone and the fruit half-eaten. Finally, I snapped the notebook shut and dove back into my corporate duties.

At four o'clock sharp, the elevator dinged.

I rose to my feet when a heavy set of footsteps echoed from the lobby.

A moment later, Simon rounded the corner.

He wore a sharply tailored dark blue suit, the same shade as my trousers.

His thick black hair was trimmed an inch shorter than I remembered, faded clean at the sides.

His shoulders were broad, his jaw sharp, and his brows thick.

He had gray eyes that corporate photographs never quite caught.

On instinct, I pasted on a professional smile as he approached my desk. His driver, Manuel, trailed a few paces behind with stacks of documents from the meetings.

"Welcome back, Mr. Beckett. How was the meeting?"

Simon paused, his gaze sweeping slow over my outfit. "We're matching."

I smiled wider. "I think butter yellow would look rather great on you."

He shook his head, his mouth pulling into an unamused grin as he started walking again. "It's terrible in my eyes."

I stepped forward to hand him the summarized reports I'd prepared. He took them, swept past me, and disappeared into his corner office.

Simon left for the day just before six. He hadn't glanced toward my desk on his way past, hadn't marked the end of the workday or the fact that I was still sitting there.

In the months before his sister, Elena, passed away, he'd sometimes stopped at my desk on his way out. He'd linger to confirm the next morning's schedule or ask a question he'd forgotten in the chaos of the day. Those small, strictly professional things had dried up since.

I hadn't missed it.

But I'd learned to notice a great many things about Simon Beckett.

I pushed the thoughts aside, finished formatting the last of the spreadsheets, packed up my things, and left the office a little past six.

Home meant a quick dinner and a fresh pot of coffee. With a mug in hand, I settled into my plush reading chair by the window. A serialized fiction platform loaded on the screen as soon as I opened my laptop.

Grinning, I logged in using the secret username I'd used for years: V.M. Ashby.

Five million followers sat beneath the bold handle—readers who knew the mind of V.M. Ashby down to the bone and had never once heard the name Violet Paige, who left thousands of comments addressed to a mystery woman they'd built in their own heads.

I took a deep breath and clicked to open a new project. The cursor blinked in the empty title field as my mind circled the email from the people at Forsyth & Webb three weeks back. They were pitching a fat deal to put Books One and Two of my current series into physical print.

But I'd ignored it.

Replying meant deciding, once and for all, whether I was willing to let the world attach a real face to V.M. Ashby. And the thought alone sent a chill down my spine.

My family measured human worth in titles.

My father was a respected federal judge, my mother a senior CPA, and my older brother a brilliant surgeon.

Romance novelist wasn't a title any of them would ever stomach beside our family name.

To them, writing love stories was a silly thing people did on the side—a hobby pretending to be a career.

And I'd spent four years pretending it wasn't real work just to keep the peace. That was easier than finding out what would happen the day I stopped.

I drew in a slow breath and typed out the words:

The Quiet Hour, Book Three. The Assistant.