Page 1 of Based on You

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.