Submit.

Pilot.

(Picture of Alice)

Alice's POV

I'm just a girl. Nothing special. One of those people who floats through the background, quiet, observant, too polite to interrupt the world.

If it weren't for Katherine, I probably never would've left Wyoming.

She was the one who convinced me to move to London and go to college with her....well, community college. It's not glamorous, but it's something. She was so sure it would "change our lives," and maybe she was right. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. In this tiny, drafty two-bedroom apartment with peeling paint and a broken oven light that flickers every time you try to bake anything that isn't frozen pizza.

We keep telling ourselves it's temporary.

Katherine's confident. She always has been. And when she believes in something, or someone she commits. I think that's why I came here. Not because I believed in myself, but because she did. Her belief in me always made things feel possible.

We're nothing alike, really. She's vibrant and fearless, always chasing a new dream, a new project, a new boy. Her strawberry-blonde hair always falls perfectly no matter how late she wakes up, and her green eyes are the kind that make people pause mid-sentence. She's artistic, loud, magnetic. The type of person who was born to take up space and never apologize for it.

Me? I've never taken up much space. Not physically, not emotionally. I'm pale and soft around the edges, with straight brown hair that never quite cooperates and wide, unsure blue eyes. The kind of girl you pass in the hallway and forget two seconds later. The kind of girl who always says "sorry" first, even when she didn't do anything wrong.

But I can write. That's one thing I'm sure of.

I'm taking a literature class. It's the only time I feel like I belong somewhere. Stories make sense to me. I understand beginnings and endings more than I understand people. Words don't lie or leave. They stay exactly how you write them.

Someday I want to write something that matters, something that reaches into someone else's chest and says, "Hey, you're not alone." But deep down, I don't think I'll ever get there. That dream feels too big for a girl like me. So I work part-time at a home goods store, folding throw blankets and ringing up overpriced tools and candles, wondering if there's something more for me out there... or if this is it.

"Kat, no," I say flatly, arms crossed as she barges into my room holding up a flyer like she's discovered the Holy Grail.

"But come on, Al," she insists, flopping onto my bed like she pays the rent (she does not pay as much as I do). "This interview is going to be huge. It's a job you're basically made for."

"Uh-huh." I deadpan. "You said that last time. And that guy tried to sell me vitamins out of his trunk."

"This is different," she insists, shoving the paper in my face. "Read it."

I glance at it, half-heartedly at first.

Looking for a personal assistant. Must be reliable, punctual, quick-thinking, and discreet. Over 21 only.
—Chris Maxwell

Wait.

"Chris Maxwell?" I blink. "As in the rich guy with a penthouse in Kensington? That Chris Maxwell?"

Kat nods eagerly, biting her lip like she's already imagining the movie montage where I rise from nobody to girl boss billionaire's muse.

"I can't apply to this," I mumble. "He's like... powerful. British. Important. And I'm..."

"An insanely talented writer with a spine of steel and the emotional stamina of someone who's been through hell and came out still hopeful?" she cuts in.

I just stare at her...

Memories flood in. Cold kitchen floors.
Slamming of doors. Layers of paint peeling after Mother's episodes...

Kat doesn't know the half of it.
But no one ever will.

A gift and a curse, I suppose.

Kat sighs, softening. "Look, I know you think you're average. But you're not. You're brilliant, and you've got grit. You survived stuff most people wouldn't. You're already halfway there, Alice."

I look back at the paper snapping my mind out of it all.

My thumb brushes the edge.

Chris Maxwell.

His name sounds like a locked door.
Cold. Unreachable.

But something in my chest stirs at the idea of opening it.

I don't know why.
Maybe it's the challenge.
Maybe it's the possibility.

Maybe I'm just tired of saying no to things.

I did come here for a fresh start, after all.

"I'll think about it," I mutter, retreating to my room.

Once I'm alone, I curl up on my bed, the flyer still in my hand.

Fairy lights dangle above me, the soft glow making my old posters and Wyoming trinkets feel more magical than sad.

My gray teddy bear with sapphire eyes sits on the pillow beside me, worn and a little flat from years of squeezing.

I run my fingers over her little face.

When things got bad back home, and they usually were- I'd hold her tight and imagine something better.

Somewhere far from the shouting.
The cold silences.
The dreams that got crushed before they even had names.

I shake my head, snapping out of it.

I grab my phone and glance at the flyer as I start typing.

"Veritas International."

The name sounds cold. Expensive. Like it doesn't return calls.

Still, I tap the link.
I fill out the form.

Name. Number. Experience.

With one final tap, it's done.

Now all I can do is leave it up to fate.

I close my eyes, pressing the flyer to my chest like it might absorb into me and become courage.

Maybe they'll call...

Maybe I just opened the door.

⸻