Page 1 of Meet Me In Winterberry

Chapter One

Penelope

“Youcan’tbeserious,”I mutter, gaze glued to the tabloid in front of me.

Staring back at me is a picture of my fiancé Drew sucking face with another woman. Above the photo a headline reads, “Drew Henry Gets Cozy with Mystery Woman Who Isn’t Fiancée Penelope Maxwell.”

My palms grow damp as my hands begin to tremble. This can’t be real. He was cheating on me?

Only six months ago, that man—who was caught in a serious lip-locking session with someone else—was on one knee asking me to marry him. Now, I get the delightful news that my fiancé is a cheating scumbag, along with the rest of the world. What the hell did I do to deserve this?

With my iced coffee in my hand, I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and gaze down at 5th Avenue. This has always been my favorite spot in my penthouse. The corner fireplace and built-in bench with the cream cushions are perfect for relaxing and watching the sunset over Manhattan. When I first saw this view, I knew I was home.

I always imagined making this my home after marriage, raising a family to fill the three empty bedrooms and crafting countless memories within these walls. But, thanks to Drew’s inability to keep his hands to himself, it looks like that dream isn’t coming true.

People mill about the red-and-white decorated streets below, clearly taking advantage of today’s Black Friday sales. They pop in and out of the storefronts, laden with shopping bags. Loved ones hold hands, parents work to get a handle on their kids, everyone is apparently getting into the festive mood. From this height, it’s like peering into a snow globe.

My heart constricts at the sight of so many people making beautiful memories with their loved ones while I’m up here. Alone. While my world crashes down around me.

I wrap my arms around myself and take a few deep breaths, trying to center myself. The tell-tale signs of a panic attack threaten to push through the surface. I fight to keep it away, focusing on each breath.

After a few minutes, my heart rate evens out, and I stand. Straightening my spine, I take a sip of my coffee through the aluminum straw. A single tear clings to my eyelash before streaking down my cheek. Using the sleeve of my robe, I quickly wipe it away.

A lump forms in my throat as a sob threatens to escape, but I take a few deep breaths, steadying my mind.

“That’s enough Penelope,” I tell myself. “You got this.”

My solo pep talk works, and I stop the sea of tears from falling. At least for now.

But as I watch the world go by from my window, I realize I haven’t checked my phone yet today. It’s still on the charger. All I’ve done is make coffee and discover Drew kissing another woman.

After a few more minutes, I drag myself from the window and make my way through the living room, sighing at the feel of the thick Persian rug beneath my feet. The large cream-colored couch sitting off to the side, so fluffy it feels like a cloud, suddenly seems too big and ridiculous for just me.

Honestly, the vibe and decor in my place isn’t what I would’ve chosen, it’s too cold, but the interior decorator talked me into it.

Thinking about my little trinkets and personal items sitting alone in storage, my heart squeezes. It hits me how cold and inauthentic my life has become. There are so many Christmas decorations from when I was little that have never seen the inside of my apartment.

I head into the kitchen, which is one of the largest kitchens I’ve seen in NYC. It’s a shame, considering I don’t cook. I’m more of a take-out and leftovers type of woman. With gray-colored cabinets that line both walls, marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances, and an island that makes all my friends jealous, you’d think I’d utilize the gorgeous space. It was less for me and more for the family I envisioned. I figured I could hire a personal chef or learn to cook when the time came. So much for that.

My phone sits in a holder on the counter, and as I approach it, it lights up with a message. And another message. And another.

An endless barrage of notifications flood in, covering the picture of me and Drew on my lock screen.

I hesitate as I reach for the phone, almost aborting the mission, but I’m going to have to look at it eventually. Might as well get it over with. The moment I unlock my phone, I regret it.

Hundreds of notifications from all my social media platforms await my attention. I scan a few, catching glimpses of the tabloid cover, videos speculating on my relationship, and a slew of opinions from strangers all around the world. My text messages and DMs are flooded, everyone I’ve ever met reaching out to check on me.

“Oh. My. God.” A cold sweat forms on my upper lip and the back of my neck.

I can’t believe how fast the news has spread. Once I silence my phone, putting it on vibrate instead, morbid curiosity gets the best of me, and I do the worst thing I can—search on Google. I type in “Penelope Maxwell” and an onslaught of articles on all the gossip websites show up. And the headlines are all similar:

“Drew Henry Caught Kissing Mystery Woman”

“Playboy Drew Henry Shows His True Colors”

“Actor Drew Henry Cheats On The Gorgeous Penelope Maxwell”

“Penelope Maxwell Heartbroken Over Drew Henry Scandal”

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