Spotlight: Once Upon a Midnight Clear by Michelle Miles

A Christmas Cinderella Fairy Tale Retelling

Once Upon a Time… in the holiday land of Rovenheim

A pair of enchanted glass slippers. A dark and dangerous queen. And the fate of a kingdom hangs in the balance.

Ella Rose Tremaine lives a life of drudgery as a servant in her own home, catering to the whims of her stepmother and stepsisters. All she wants is a life to call her own, but with no way out, she’s trapped. Even when the royal ball is announced, she is forbidden to attend.

Left alone on the night of the ball, a mysterious package arrives addressed to her. Inside, a pair of beautiful glass slippers. When she puts them on, she’s transformed and whisked off to the ball by none other than her fairy godmother—but with a warning. Remove the slippers before the last stroke of midnight to break the spell and all will be as it was before.

Lost in the magic of the evening while dancing with a handsome stranger, she is heedless of her fairy godmother’s warning. With the last strike of midnight, she is transported to the Christmas realm of Rovenheim.

Her arrival garners the attention of a dangerous queen determined to have the slippers for herself. She’ll stop at nothing to get them by issuing an ultimatum—bring her the slippers or she’ll destroy the enchanted realm and the Spirit of Christmas itself.

With time running out, Ella embarks on a perilous journey through the mystical realm on a quest to save it. She must embrace her destiny and discover the power of love and magic. But will it be enough to overcome the darkness that threatens to consume them all? 

Excerpt

The chiming of the clock tower in Whitebridge clanged the early morning hour. It was a faint bong, bong, bong that Ella counted as she laid awake in her narrow, lumpy bed under the thin blanket dreading the coming day. Dread was part of her morning routine now.

Sunlight peeked through the shabby draperies at her window as dawn arrived. Even as another day of labor loomed, nothing killed the spirit of the season inside her. Not even her stepmother and stepsisters. Not even their nasty dispositions or the fact that her stepmother, Lillian, refused to decorate for Christmas.

Except for a sad looking tree in the foyer with a few decorations.

But Ella was not to be dissuaded. She dragged out all her mother’s favorite decorations and placed them around her shabby third-floor bedroom, trying to make the drab appearance a bit more cheerful. She placed her favorite decoration on the top of the tree—a beautiful gold star.

She loved Christmas.

She shoved the blanket aside and walked to the window, pushing open the curtain to peer down at the estate that had fallen into disrepair. Since her father’s disappearance on a merchant trip several years ago, Lillian squandered what was left of the estate’s money on satin and lace, shoes and parasols for her two spoiled daughters. Meanwhile, the small manor they lived in needed many repairs.

In the distance, the offending clock tower stood tall and proud and ruled her day. From her window, the peak of it was clear as well as the high turrets and heraldry of Whitebridge Palace. What was it like living in a castle? Would she be a maid as she was here? Or would she find herself as one of the noble ladies wearing beautiful gowns and having her every whim attended?

She sighed when the rooster crowed. It was time to start the day. She looked out as the sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the outline of the castle beyond and the dusting of snow on the cold ground.

“One day, Papa,” she whispered, “I will find my way out of here.”

She often spoke to her father, even though he’d been gone all these long years.

She dressed, tied her long dark hair back with a blue ribbon, and headed down to the kitchen for the day. She put a tea kettle on to boil. Outside, she fed the chickens and gathered eggs, petted the dog, and gave the cat his breakfast. In the distance, at the pond, geese honked their arrival. She smiled. Later she would walk out to the edge of the pond and feed them, too.

The servant’s bell rang. Her stepmother. She poured hot water into the tea kettle, made a breakfast of porridge, eggs, and toast, and then carried it up to the woman’s room. At the top of the stairs, she turned right and headed down the hall to the largest bedroom. She rapped twice and waited.

“Enter,” came the abrupt, muffled response.

Ella pushed open the door. Just as she did, the cat sprinted past her and hopped onto the oversized bed where her stepmother sat waiting for her breakfast. The woman’s salt-and-pepper hair was tucked under her nightcap. Crinkles were at the corners of each eye and her mouth was drawn down into a permanent grimace. No doubt due to being unhappy for so many years. Her thin lips were a deep red, high severe cheekbones and a chin that ended in a point. She petted the cat, her long slender fingers ruffling the fur between his shoulders. Loud purrs emanated from the small feline.

“Good morning, Stepmother,” she greeted in her best pleasant voice.

“Where is my newspaper?” her stepmother asked.

“I’ll fetch it for you.” Ella placed the tray with the breakfast on the woman’s lap. She did a quick curtsy then dashed from the room.

She hurried down the stairs to the front door and pulled it open. The rolled-up paper was on the doorstep as usual. But even so, Ella saw the hint of the headline. Something about a royal decree. As she snatched it off the stoop, she heard Lucinda shouting her name.

“Ella! Where is my breakfast?”

Ella hurried back up the stairs to her stepmother’s room, her chest heaving a bit and her legs burning from her brief sprint. Jet had curled up next to her in the bed, eyeing the breakfast tray.

“Your newspaper, stepmother.”

She scowled as she snatched it from Ella’s hands, then opened it with a snap. She glowered at her over the edge of the paper.

“What are you gawking at, girl? Don’t you have chores?”

Another quick curtsy. “Yes, Stepmother.”

“ELLA!” Lucinda shouted again.

Ella hurried back down the stairs to the kitchen. As she arrived, the other two bells were ringing. One for Lucinda and one for Daniella. She quickly made their breakfast trays. It was a balancing act, but she managed to carry both at the same time back up the stairs. By the time she arrived at the landing, her legs were burning and her arms ached. She used her elbow to push open the door to Lucinda’s room.

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About the Author

MICHELLE MILES believes in fairy tales, true love, and magic. She writes heart-stopping urban fantasy, young adult and adult fantasy, and paranormal romance with an action/adventure twist that will leave you breathless. She is the author of numerous series that includes everything from angels and demons to fairies, dragons, and elves.

She is a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA) and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA). A native Texan, in her spare time she loves reading, listening to music, watching movies, hiking, and drinking wine. She can be found online at Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, and more!

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Spotlight: Cul-de-Sac by Liz Crowe

Welcome to Connelly Court. A secluded, old money neighborhood, harboring a web of desires and deceit behind pristine facades and manicured lawns, where the lives of a group of neighbors, bound by their shared secrets and unconventional lifestyle, are about to unravel.

Michael and Amelia Ross move into their dream home, and get drawn into the seductive allure. But their house once belonged to a family whose lives were seemingly ruined by their participation, which leads Amelia to question everything about her new-found friends. Suspicions run rampant as the close-knit group turns on each other. Lies, betrayals, and hidden agendas are revealed, ripping apart the fabric that once bound the group together.

“Cul-de-Sac” is a dark tale of marriage, friendship, desire, and betrayal, where nothing is as it seems, and the truth may be more shocking than anyone could have imagined. Discover the twisted secrets of Connelly Court in this chilling domestic suspense novel that will leave you questioning just how well you truly know—or should know—your neighbors.

Excerpt

“Are you serious?” Melissa put the final touches on her makeup. It was Labor Day, but real estate recognized very few holidays, and she’d spent too many weeks out of pocket already. There was work to be done. Money to be made. “Hello? Emily? You there?”

“Yes, sorry. I had to…”

But Melissa didn’t hear her. Not really. Most times, she was barely aware of Emily Arya. Emily was that kind of a female—the easily ignored kind. She was a good teacher. Melissa was sure enough of that to have ensured that Danny was in her class this fall. And Melissa admired anyone who actually enjoyed being around little kids all day.

But Emily had said something fairly shocking, so Melissa blinked fast to dry her mascara then picked up the phone and took it back into the bedroom with her so she could find the shoes she wanted for today. Pressing the Bluetooth earpiece farther into her ear canal, she surveyed the footwear options on the long shelf in the walk-in closet Ryan had designed for her. Once she located the wedge sandals with open toes she’d been thinking about, she slipped her feet into them and sat a moment on the leather chair near the bedroom window. “Well? Are you? Serious?”

“As a heart attack. And I’d know.”

Melissa chuckled. Emily could be funny, in her wry, quiet way. “Well, I have to say, I’m surprised. I mean, we all know that Allen isn’t keen on it. He’s obviously intimidated by Michael.”

“Or he’s a racist.”

“Of course he’s a racist. Shit, Ryan’s a racist mick if ever there was one. But he’s pretty keen to have little miss pretty buns in on the fun. You know?”

The was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Melissa only noticed it when it stretched into a second minute. She was preoccupied, trying to gather all her crap together anyway. She passed by Danny, who was curled up on his usual end of the couch diddling away with his iPad. Of Ryan there was no sign, which irritated her. He knew she had appointments today. He’d said he’d stick around and hang out with Danny.

“Mama, do you have my Lunchables ready for tomorrow?”

Melissa sighed. Danny and his damn Lunchables. But getting mad didn’t help. Besides, in a way, she was pretty damn obsessed with routines herself.

She knew better than to make what was wrong with Danny into something as routine as an exaggeration of her own simple compulsion to have a specific salad with a certain kind of dressing on the side every day at twelve thirty. She’d been warned by enough doctors not to do that. Danny’s issues were deeper, more complex, and required way more patience. It was that, sometimes, her patience was stretched so thin by recalcitrant sellers or buyers with decision-making syndrome she had nothing left.

But there was no excuse to be bitchy this morning. She’d had three weeks of lake vacation, plus a reasonably pleasant return to the cul-de-sac status quo two nights ago.

A smile snuck across her face at the memory. It had been a real free-for-all. Something they’d never actually done in a group, or as a group, or whatever you wanted to call it. She’d enjoyed her time with Allen, as usual, but with the added bonus of Barrett, before she’d turned to find Sai watching from across the room. A shiver snuck down her spine.

Damn, but it had been wild.

And now they were going to add this couple, Amelia and Michael Ross? Really? She’d been ready to say no if it came to some kind of a vote. Then again, it wasn’t a democracy. It was the Janice and Allen Show.

“Emily? I’m gonna have to get to…”

“I don’t know if Sai and I…I mean, we…”

“I know, Emily. I feel that way sometimes, too. I mean, especially after this last...um...experience.”

“Right. It was kind of crazy. I don’t know. I mean, all this stuff with Laura. And you didn’t see Tom in that tub. I did. It was horrible.”

“I can only imagine.” Melissa’s pulse was racing. She needed this conversation to end. Now.

“I think that somehow, what we did, I mean, all those times we…”

Melissa rolled her eyes at the sound of Emily’s voice breaking. “I have to get to work, Emily. But to recap: We’re supposed to take Amelia out to lunch and ask her to, ah, join us in the, um, group?”

“That’s what Janice told me over coffee. She asked me to call you. She had to go do her volunteering. I need to get over to my classroom now, so I’m calling you, but I don’t know who’s calling Cassie.”

Melissa winced. Cassie had been as eager as any of them the other night, jumping right into the fray as it were, her baby bump sticking out like some kind of a bad omen. Of course, all she’d wanted was to mess around with Janice. Which suited everyone else, as a bit of a fluffer foreplay.

“So, we’re on a phone tree now?” Melissa was pissed Janice hadn’t told her first. She and Ryan had formed the original foursome after all. But Janice had something up her ass lately when it came to Allen and her. She needed to get over it. That didn’t stop the immature thrill of female friendship jealousy hitting her brain, making her skin hot all over.

“I guess,” Emily said. “I don’t know anymore, Melissa. The time we took off, those months, it was kind of normalizing.”

“And boring,” Melissa said, sharply. Too sharply. She was sick of her neighbor’s mealymouthed crap right now. Especially since she’d availed herself of Ryan’s talents the other night. Ryan liked her “softness” as he put it. The way she was so “pliant” and “sweet.”

Stop it, Melissa. You’re being childish.

“So, about this lunch…”

“Right. I’m going to call Amelia later today and invite her this coming Sunday to the country club for brunch. Just us girls, you know. Plenty of mimosas, gin and tonics, whatever. The guys are gonna take Michael golfing I think.”

Melissa sighed again. She had her purse on her shoulder. Her leather briefcase was at her feet. She needed to get the hell out of here. To work. To put this behind her. She hadn’t realized how much this past year had been spent normalizing things. Letting go of the things they did together with their neighbors. Things that, on the face of it, were so completely sordid she had them neatly compartmentalized, tucked away in the inner recesses of her brain during the days she woke, rose, fed her son and husband, and went to work making money. A lot of money. While Ryan did the same.

On the other hand, they were all consenting adults. They’d made this arrangement over a lovely steak dinner and too many bottles of expensive Cabernet. They’d consummated it that very night. A night that would go down in Melissa’s memory as the most erotic, amazing, eye-opening experience of her life.

The Franks were the first to arrive. She’d met them, gotten a good feeling about them, introduced them to Janice then closed the deal on the house. Ryan’s company had more or less gutted it and put it back together to Laura’s specifications. Tom Franks was an accountant. They’d moved here when he got hired by a large firm in Detroit. But, after three years, he’d gone out on his own, opened an office in a restored building downtown here. And seemed to be doing very well, considering Laura didn’t work.

It had always struck her and Ryan as odd that they had top-of-the-line new Audis every other year. They went on fancy vacations all over the world with their kids. Laura had had plenty of surgical help to keep herself looking fresh, thanks to Allen’s practice. “I mean, seriously, how much can the guy make doing taxes for the yoga studios and restaurants?” Ryan asked her repeatedly, as if she would know.

They’d taken Tom up on his offer to take a look at their situation, which was triple complicated since Ryan had an LLC and she worked on 100 percent commission. Once he’d figured out what a genius Tom was with tax shelters and whatnot, Ryan had stopped complaining about him. And she’d forgotten about it altogether. As long as she didn’t have to write a big-ass check in April to cover her tax bill, she was fine with whatever Tom and Ryan did with the money.

“Sunday brunch with the neighbor ladies, huh?” Melissa picked up her bag and glanced around, trying to figure out where in the hell Ryan was hiding himself. “All right, fine. I’m in.”

“But what are we going to say to her?”

“Not sure. But I am sure we can follow Janice’s lead. She’s the boss lady in all of this after all.”

“Right. Sure. Okay.”

“You don’t sound too convinced.”

“I’m not. I told you already, Sai and I are probably going to, um, stop. You know.”

“Well, it’s a free country.” Melissa would miss Sai. He had an amazing cock, truly. Even Ryan was impressed by it. They always paired off in the same room and had spent several pleasant hours with the Ayras. The one time she let Ryan play outside of her line of sight in the early days after they’d added the Franks into their mix, she’d been so jealous she’d almost given him a concussion later in a knock-down-drag-out fight that had ended with Ryan in the emergency room, telling the doctor that he’d fallen off the ladder at a job site earlier that day and her in hysterical tears at his bedside while they kept him overnight for observation.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. Not really. I mean, don’t you ever feel, I don’t know, weird about all of this? Isn’t it kind of...sick and wrong?”

“No, I don’t ever think that, Emily,” she lied. “I really have to go to work.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Melissa felt guilty within a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap or cut you off. I’m kind of busy. But I’m so thrilled Danny’s going to be in your classroom this year. He’s a handful. As you already know.”

“I love Danny. He’s a wonderful boy.” The sincerity in Emily’s voice, which had switched into teacher mode, relieved Melissa. She looked over at her son, his nose so close to the screen it lit his face up with a weird, sickly blue glow. “We’re going to be fine.”

“He has his educational plan already set. And gets therapy twice a week.”

“I know. I’m ready for him. I’m really looking forward to it. You’ll see. He’s going to love school this year.”

“God. I hope so. Listen, I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

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About the Author

Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of Louisville living in South Carolina. She's spent her time as a three-continent expat trailing spouse, mom of three, real estate agent, brewery owner and bar manager, and is currently a digital marketing and fundraising consultant, in addition to being an award-winning author.

The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight and linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.

Her favorite things to do when she’s not scrolling social media for cute animal videos is walk her dogs, cuddle her cats, and watch her favorite sports teams while scrolling social media for cute animal videos.

Website: https://lizcrowe.com/

Facebook: @lizcroweauthor

Instagram: @lizcroweauthor

Spotlight: Honeycomb by S.B. Caves

Big Brother meets Black Mirror in this high-concept techno-thriller in which six strangers take part in a mysterious medical experiment in an isolated mansion. Suspense, intrigue and mystery surround this novel, with events and puzzles that challenge both the characters and the reader.

After winning the popular reality talent show Searching for a Star and a subsequent record deal at the age of nineteen, Amanda Pearson was the hottest thing in the UK. But as her short-lived fame started to fade, the cracks began to show: stumbling on stage, slurring during live TV interviews, suspicious photos of her at nightclubs with powder around her nostrils. The dream was over. Amanda Pearson would forever be a one-hit wonder.

Six years later, after cleaning her act up but failing to re-establish her career, her ex-manager informs her of an unexpected opportunity that will help alleviate her dire financial situation and potentially thrust her back into the spotlight. The proposal is simple: Six strangers alone in a mansion, under constant observation, for the duration of a week. Every day they take a pill. Five people are taking a placebo, but one person will be taking an experimental drug, which they are assured has no adverse side effects.

The other participants - a dinner lady who moonlights as a comedian, an eccentric theatre actor, a popular YouTuber, a dance choreographer, and a car salesman - all seem normal at first. However, as each day goes by, that changes. Paranoia leads to violence. Who is taking the real pill, and what exactly does it do? Amanda realizes that this is no normal experiment: she is trapped, the old mansion is rigged, and there is no way out. Can she find a way out of this nightmare with her sanity intact?

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About the Author

Born and raised in North London, S.B. Caves is the internationally bestselling author of A Killer Came Knocking and I Know Where She Is, which The Sun described as 'sinister, unsettling and gripping'.

Spotlight: Summer Heat by Defne Suman

"'In our family, secrets were buried deep like treasure, never to be spoken of...'

1974. Melike should be happy: school is shut and her parents have stopped hosting parties for their rowdy political friends. But she's scared. She can tell from her parents' urgent whispers about prison, invasion and military coups that Istanbul is changing. So when the family relocate to a quaint village in the south, Melike is hopeful life might get better. And for a while, it does. But then her beloved father disappears...

2003. Nearly three decades have passed, and Melike has done her best to move on. But despite her successful career as an art historian and a husband who adores her, she has always felt a lingering discontent. When she meets mysterious – and extremely handsome – stranger Petro, Melike feels her fortunes changing. But Petro isn't who he says he is. And when Melike uncovers his true identity, she also lays bare a lifetime of hidden pasts...

With a backdrop of the Turkish army's occupation of Cyprus in 1974, Summer Heat explores family secrets, tangled identities and one woman's place in her country's devastating history." 

Excerpt

Petro and I met for the first time at the Bloody Church. 

It was his idea. I thought it was a coincidence. I agreed immediately, excited by the location and the old memories it would evoke: many years earlier, my grandmother Safinaz had lived in a three-storey stone house directly across from the church. My father and I used to visit her every Saturday, and when I pulled back her curtains and peeped out, I could see its red dome. The entrance was almost impossible to locate, concealed within a high wall beneath a tangle of honeysuckle vines. The door was kept locked most of the time; you had to find Pavli, the caretaker, to open it.

But nothing about our meeting was coincidental. 

It was a hot summer’s evening, so hot that even the leaves were parched, their edges curled. Out on Buyukada Island, where I was staying for the summer, the pine forests were on fire, the flames racing across the dark green hills and turning them to desert in the space of an hour. It was stifling in the centre of Istanbul. I sweated my way up the slope to the Bloody Church, stopping to catch my breath under the fig trees of my childhood. In the years since I’d last been in that neighbourhood the trees had grown quite a bit, their thick, dry branches contorted into strange shapes as they reached for the sun along the walls, the steps and the tin roofs. I was annoyed with myself for having taken this job in the middle of summer, as if I were a penniless university student excited to be paid for showing a tourist around the city. What was I thinking, exchanging my cool, breezy house on Buyukada, where my husband would happily make me a glass of ice-cold mint lemonade, for this sweaty trip to the city in the heat? 

Petro Paraskos, the man I was due to meet in front of the Bloody Church, was a documentary film producer. He wanted to explore some Byzantine churches for a new project he had in mind and had come across my name when searching online for an art historian to accompany him. Would I be his guide? It was a strange proposal; I should have been suspicious from the start. Even though I’d written my master’s thesis on churches of the late Byzantium era, I wasn’t a well-known art historian – I had no articles published in international journals – so it was odd that my name had even come up. Perhaps I should also have queried his tone throughout our correspondence – was it too insistent, too assertive, even pushy? For example, he’d guessed that it would be tiring for me to come into the city from Buyukada Island every day, so suggested booking a space for me in the hotel where he was staying. Time was short and his budget was generous enough to cover an extra room. This sort of arrangement had worked well on previous assignments, he said. If it was convenient for me, we could meet on July 19th at 7 p.m. in front of the Bloody Church. 

Ah, Melike, you disregarded all the signs! You ignored the voice inside your head, which whispered that your meeting with this stranger would alter the course of your fate, and jumped on a ferry to the city for the possibility of some momentary pleasure. 

A woman must nourish her soul, keep her spirit fresh with little adventures, right? One man is never enough. (Who had said that? Was it grandma Safinaz?). But that was not what I was thinking as I traipsed up to my grandma’s old neighbourhood to meet Petro that evening. I wasn’t going to cheat on Sinan ever again. I had made that decision. I was tired, worn out. It wasn’t just the keeping of secrets, being clandestine about everything and planning my moves several steps ahead in these delicate games of chess. Even more exhausting was having to deal with the offended hurt of men who would, initially, declare that they had ‘no expectations’, only to persist in pursuing me once we’d slept together. Where such affairs were meant to be a liberation, an escape from daily life, they had instead become just another burden. I had neither the desire nor the energy for new loves. Also, love, I had realized, as with many other pleasures, lost its flavour with repetition; in the end, it was always the same. If I was looking for novelty, I needed to shift my attention inwards, closer to home. I would be turning forty in a month. In this new phase of my life, I would discover not how many conquests I could have, but how to enjoy fidelity. 

So, just that morning, instead of slipping out of the house before Sinan woke up and hurrying to Uncle Niko’s bakery, where I usually had my morning tea and pastry and play sudoku, I waited under the white mosquito netting for my husband to stir. Uncle Niko, who was familiar with my grumpy morning state, always set down my breakfast on my table beside the window without greeting me, then returned to his portable radio behind the till. Sinan, on the other hand, was very talkative in the morning. He woke up with a hundred worldly and otherworldly ideas, rattling them off like machinegun fire before he even lifted his head from the pillow. From now on, though, I was going to listen to my husband’s brilliant early-morning schemes with patience and smiles. 

Leaving him was the last thing on my mind. 

As was finding my father. 

At no stage in my life had I wanted to find my father. Not during the tearful nights of my childhood when I used to secretly mourn his absence, nor in my adolescence when I might momentarily catch his aftershave on the skin of a lover I was kissing on a rickety jetty over the dark waters of the Bosphorus. When I smelled that scent, a wave would swell inside me like a tide rising in the moonlight, but even that didn’t make me want to track him down to learn why – and for what new life – he had abandoned us. Why would I feel that need now? Twenty-nine years had passed since then. That morning on Buyukada, listening to Sinan’s breathing, my father was not among the thoughts passing through my mind. I had closed the Orhan Kutsi chapter of my life a long time ago.

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About the Author

Defne Suman was born in Istanbul and grew up on Buyukada. She gained a Masters in sociology from the Bosphorus University, then worked as a teacher in Thailand and Laos where she studied Far Eastern philosophy and mystic disciplines. She later continued her studies in Oregon, USA and now lives in Athens with her husband. Her English language debut The Silence of Scheherazade was published by Head of Zeus in 2021. 

Spotlight: The Scandalous Life of Ruby Devereaux by M J Robotham

"Everyone knows Ruby Devereaux's books. But no one knows her story... until now.

From a teenager in wartime England to a veteran of modern-day London – via 1950's New York, the Swinging Sixties, Cold War Berlin, Venice and Vietnam – Ruby Devereaux has lived one hell of a life: parties, scandals and conflict zones, meeting men and adventure along the way. In a writing career spanning seven decades and more than twenty books, she's distilled everything into her work. Or has she?

Now beyond her 90th year, Ruby's energy is ebbing and her beloved typewriter put away. Until a call from her publisher presents Ruby with an ultimatum, and the impetus to embark on one last book – “warts and all”, as she says. Even in her dotage, Ruby M Devereaux has the power to surprise, because whatever this author does, she does on her own terms. Always.

Is Ruby finally about to reveal the secrets of her infamous life?" 

Excerpt

With a sense of expectation and a tinge of dread, Marina Keeve opens up her email inbox and sips at the palliative flat white by her side. Thank God the office manager upgraded the coffee machine, she thinks, and not before time. A bitter cappuccino with inordinate amounts of froth just doesn’t cut it when faced with the demands of the British publishing world. 

As feared, there’s the one email she hoped might have been cast into cyberspace, marked with a star, as is his habit; Marcus Trent not only thinks himself important, he tells you so. Although she’s alone in her office at Grantham & Harris, Marina looks around her before opening the document tentatively, with a sideswipe of her finger rather than a determined clunk of the key. Experience dictates that with a hornet’s nest it’s wise to tap it gently and stand back for the onslaught. 

Marina 

Lovely to see you at last week’s launch, and I hope you are well.

Like hell he does. 

I wonder, is there any progress on the topic we spoke about briefly? As you can appreciate, the market is terribly tight at present and I’m getting pressure from the board on contracts that are so far unfulfilled. I’m keen to secure a manuscript from Ruby asap, before events overtake us… 

Say it, Marcus – before she kicks the bucket. Because that’s what you mean. 

It might be the flat white, or the affrontery that she feels on behalf of her oldest client, but Marina reaches for the phone instantly, punching the redial button with irritation. Uncharacteristically, because for those who know her, Marina Keeve is not a particularly forthright woman; she negotiates the publishing arena (gladiatorial often being the correct analogy) with a quiet charm, and – though her modesty means she would never advertise this – she’s well thought of by her clients and publishers alike. People tend to like Marina. Today, though, Marcus may not warm to her. She will not be pushed around, not on the subject of Ruby M Devereaux, easily her trickiest client, but oddly her most favoured, too. Though she might never admit that to anyone, least of all Ruby. 

‘Mon courage,’ she mutters. Big girl knickers are in situ. 

‘Marcus,’ she trills as he comes on the line, the wheeze of his cigar breath oozing through the receiver. 

‘Marina,’ he says flatly. 

Battle lines are drawn, clearly. 

‘I’ve just opened your email. Regarding Ruby.’

‘Ah, yes. Dear Ruby. Any update on a work in progress?’ 

‘Not as yet.’ Marina draws in a breath – nerve and a good deal of resolve tucked into her knickers. ‘Marcus, perhaps I don’t need to remind you, since you were present, that our dear Ruby recently celebrated her ninetieth birthday. Her eyesight isn’t good, and she doesn’t get out much. To all intents and purposes, she’s retired.’ 

‘Has she communicated as much to you?’ 

‘Well, you know Ruby, she would never admit her writing days are over. Not even to herself, I suspect.’ 

‘She rather appeared to be all there,’ Marcus says. ‘Am I wrong on that score?’ 

Hard-hearted bastard. 

‘No, Marcus, she is very much “all there”, as you put it. But is Phoenix Publishing really so keen to drag out another manuscript from her? You have plenty of other bestselling authors under your roof, several from this agency I might add.’ 

This time the cigar fumes are pushed with force down the line, weapons drawn. He intends to smoke her out. ‘Lawyers, Marina. Sadly. A contract is a contract, they say, and you know these bastards, they won’t be stonewalled. Not even by me. The fact is, she owes us a book.’ 

Lawyers, she thinks. Is he seriously quoting lawyers at me? 

‘Liar,’ Marina mutters under her breath. 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘Ah, nothing. I did have lunch with Ruby last week,’ she adds, ‘and I honestly think she’s done, Marcus. I mean, she is still writing – short pieces, the odd article about the old days, but…’

‘So, a memoir then?’ he punts with enthusiasm. With grotesque clarity, Marina pictures him leaning forward with a squeak of the leather under his copious behind, suddenly animated. ‘I think the board would be more than happy with that. She’s had a somewhat colourful life. I’m sure it would sell very well. Sex sells very well right now.’ 

This time Marina does sigh. Audibly and with the intent that he must register her frustration through the fug of his cigar. ‘Believe me, Marcus, I’ve tried that tack, many times, about a memoir. She won’t be drawn on it. Insists it wouldn’t be of interest to her, or her readers.’ 

The firm refusal from Marina’s client was actually intoned with far more verve and colour, but that’s Ruby M Devereaux for you – never one word where ten will embroider the point nicely. 

‘I think, Marina,’ – and here Marcus pauses, drawing his voice down an octave, from faux friendly to a Mafia-style low growl – ‘that we will have to insist. Or it’s out of my hands and the money-men will come looking for their pennies. In court if they have to.’ 

Bastard. Marina swallows, bitter spit instead of silky flat white. He’s let the lions loose in the arena. ‘I understand, Marcus. I’ll talk to her again, and we’ll speak soon.’ 

‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’ 

No one beyond her office door will hear the frustration Marina takes out on her own desk, because she does it with relative decorum, her hand thudding down on the manuscripts and piles of admin just once, her anguish well controlled behind gritted teeth. How dare he? Fucking dinosaur! Marcus Trent started life as an editor back in the 1970s and still resides there, as far as she can tell. 

Publishing is, inevitably, competitive and always has been, but in Marina’s twenty plus years as an agent, a new breed of editors has gradually pushed out the cigar-toting, hard-nosed old guard. The new swathe are resolute and hungry, but younger and seemingly kinder (and dare she say it, but it’s thanks largely to many women who are book-lovers rather than money-rakers). The market still dictates, and there’s no fluffy sentimentality in the world of fiction. But there is compassion, too, and a certain loyalty towards Ruby and her legacy among the writing fraternity. Though not from Marcus, it seems, even if his career has been bolstered nicely by Ruby’s previous offerings to Phoenix, the last five reaching the bestseller lists.

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About the Author

M J Robotham saw herself as an aspiring author from the age of nine, but was waylaid by journalism, birth, children and life. After twenty years as a midwife and an MA in Creative Writing, she is now a full-time author, writing historical fiction as Mandy Robotham. She lives in Gloucestershire with her partner and muse mutt, Basil.

Spotlight: One String by Aleatha Romig

Release Date: July 4 

Second-chance, enemies-to-lovers, fake-date, little-sister’s-best-friend, forbidden, stand-alone contemporary romance.

Ricky Dunn is the equivalent to a splinter under my fingernail.

Romantic?

Right.

He’s the older brother of my best friend, and no matter how hard either of us try, we can’t seem to avoid each other. The problem started on the night my best friend and I graduated from high school. The party was joyous, a celebration.

That night, I willingly gave Ricky a part of me—more than the kiss we told others about.

Our deal was simple.

No strings.

Ricky kept his side of the bargain.

Years have passed.

Being from the same small town and crossing paths, I haven’t noticed how handsome he’s become or the way he’s filled out.

If you ask me, he hasn’t noticed me either.

Until he calls.

I’m working for a finance company, one he’s now interviewing for.

“Marilyn, will you be my date for the dinner with the partners? It’s only for one date and no strings.”

The problem is my heart hasn’t kept my side of our bargain.

I want at least one string.

Do I agree to his proposal, or do I turn him down flat?

Have you been Aleatha’d?

Check out Aleatha’s 2024 Lighter One—ONE STRING—second-chance, enemies-to-lovers, fake-date, little-sister’s-best-friend, forbidden, stand-alone contemporary romance.

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Meet Aleatha Romig

Aleatha Romig is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Indiana. She grew up in Mishawaka, graduated from Indiana University, and is currently living south of Indianapolis. Together with her high-school sweetheart and husband of over thirty years, they've raised three children. Before she became a full-time author, she worked days as a dental hygienist and spent her nights writing. Now, when she’s not imagining mind-blowing twists and turns or her new lighter side, she likes to spend her time with her family and friends. Her pastimes include reading and creating heroes/anti-heroes who haunt your dreams! 

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