Chapter 1

Sydney

With the windows down, summer air rushes through my car as I cross the town line into Lakeview. My GPS announces my arrival with a robotic "You have reached your destination," but I already know I'm here. The shift in atmosphere is palpable—like stepping from a crowded subway car into an open meadow.

I ease my foot off the gas, letting my Honda Civic cruise down Main Street at a leisurely pace. No need to rush anymore. That's why I'm here, isn't it?

"Well, hello there, small-town America."

Lakeview unfolds before me like pages from a travel magazine—not the glossy, over-edited kind, but the authentic ones that capture the soul of a place. Victorian houses with wrap-around porches stand proudly next to brick storefronts with hand-painted signs. Window boxes overflow with red geraniums and purple petunias, adding splashes of color against white picket fences. A wrought-iron clock in the town square reads 4:30, its hands moving with deliberate purpose, as if time itself has decided to take it easy here.

I roll to a stop at the single traffic light in the center of town. An elderly couple crosses the street, hand in hand. The man tips his hat at me with a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. I return it, feeling something in my chest loosen. When was the last time a stranger acknowledged me in the city?

The light turns green, and I continue my self-guided tour. Lake water sparkles through gaps between buildings on my right—the town's namesake stretching out in a vast blue expanse. On my left, rolling hills rise gently, dotted with farmhouses and what looks like horse pastures.

"You've really done it this time, Sydney." I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. "Traded skyscrapers for... whatever those are." I squint at what appears to be a flock of sheep grazing on a distant hillside.

My apartment awaits somewhere down Cedar Lane, but I'm in no hurry to end this first glimpse of my new home. The word feels strange even in my thoughts. Home. I've lived in three different apartments in the past two years, each one just a place to sleep between work marathons.

A banner stretched across the street announces "Lakeview Farmers' Market—Every Saturday!" below it, a smaller line reads "56 Years and Growing Strong!" I can't remember the last time I had fresh produce that didn't come prepackaged from the corner bodega.

My heart flutters with something that feels like hope mixed with terror. What if this move is another mistake? What if starting over is just running away with better PR?

I park alongside the curb to collect my thoughts, my hands still gripping the wheel as if it might provide answers. Three months ago, I was pulling all-nighters to finalize the Zimmer campaign at my old job—the one that was supposed to be my big break. The one my boss took credit for after I'd poured my soul into every pixel of those designs.

"It's not personal, Sydney, it's business," Marcus had said, not even looking up from his phone while delivering the blow. "You're still too green for client-facing roles."

Too green after four years of being the office workhorse? After picking up the slack for his hangovers and "emergency golf games"?

I was still seething when I stumbled across the job listing for Redmond Industries. Marketing Director. Small town. Big responsibility. A chance to build something from the ground up.

The memory of packing my apartment twists something in my gut. My mother's voice on speakerphone: "Baby, are you sure about this? You know how these small towns can be."

I know exactly what she meant. Would I be the only Black woman in professional circles? Would I stand out? Of course I would. But I've been standing out my entire career—might as well do it somewhere with cleaner air.

Then there's David. The empty space in my contacts where his messages used to light up my phone. Two years together ended with a text: "I need space to focus on my career right now." Translated from fuckboy to English: "I've been seeing someone at work."

I let go of the steering wheel and flex my fingers. That's all behind me now. New town. New job. New Sydney.

A horn honks gently behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. In my rearview mirror, a woman waves apologetically, pointing to a parking spot I'm partially blocking. I throw up a hand in acknowledgment and restart my car.

"Alright, Lakeview. Let's see what you've got for me."

Taking a deep breath, I pull back onto the street, the afternoon sun catching in my rearview mirror. Monday morning, I'll walk into Redmond Industries not as Sydney Nelson, overlooked assistant, but as Sydney Nelson, Marketing Director. The title still feels too big, like clothes I haven't grown into yet.

But I will.

I drive through the quaint, winding streets of Lakeview, following the directions to my new apartment. The GPS keeps insisting I've "arrived" at odd corners, making me laugh at its confusion with these narrow roads that probably haven't changed in fifty years.

"City tech meets country roads," I mutter, finally spotting the right building.

Cedar View Apartments sits back from the street, a converted Victorian house painted sage green with cream trim. Nothing like my sleek high-rise in the city—this place has actual gingerbread trim and a wooden porch swing. I park in the designated spot marked "Apt 2B" and sit for a moment, letting the finality of my decision wash over me.

This is real. I'm really here.

I step out of my car, and the air feels different—cleaner, with hints of freshly cut grass and something floral I can't identify. A breeze carries the distant sound of laughter from the direction of the lake. My shoulders, perpetually tight from hunching over my laptop, loosen slightly.

"I can breathe here," I whisper, stretching my arms overhead.

The trunk of my Honda contains the essentials I couldn't bear to ship—my laptop, portfolio, favorite coffee mug, and enough clothes to get by until the moving truck arrives tomorrow. As I gather my bags, a woman emerges from the downstairs apartment.

"You must be Sydney!" She waves enthusiastically, crossing the lawn toward me. "I'm Ellen, apartment 1A. I'm sort of the unofficial welcome wagon around here."

Ellen looks to be in her early sixties, with silver-streaked hair and gardening gloves still on her hands. She hands me a small potted plant. "Mint. Grows like crazy and makes wonderful tea. Or mojitos, if that's more your style after a long day."

"Thank you. I'm definitely a mojito girl on the right occasion." I accept the plant, touched by the simple gesture. When was the last time a neighbor in my building even made eye contact in the elevator?

"Let me help you with those." Ellen grabs one of my bags before I can protest. "Your moving company called the office earlier—they're running ahead of schedule and might arrive tonight instead of tomorrow."

"Tonight?" My heart races with a mixture of excitement and panic. "That's... great."

"Don't worry, honey. In Lakeview, help is just a question away. My husband can round up some of the neighborhood boys if you need muscle for the heavy stuff."

Sons? Neighbors? The concept of community assistance feels foreign and wonderful all at once.

I follow Ellen up the exterior staircase to my second-floor apartment. The key turns smoothly in the lock, and the door swings open to my new home.

Sunlight streams through bay windows, illuminating hardwood floors that gleam with a recent polish. The living room flows into an open kitchen with white cabinets and a breakfast nook surrounded by windows. It's twice the size of my city apartment for half the rent.

"This is... perfect," I breathe, setting my bags down.

Ellen beams. "Wait until winter. These old buildings hold heat beautifully, and your view of the town Christmas lights will be spectacular."

Winter. Christmas. I'm thinking seasons ahead now, imagining myself still here when the leaves turn and snow falls. Not just passing through, but putting down roots.

After Ellen leaves with promises of dinner invitations and local introductions, I wander through my apartment, running my hands along the built-in bookshelves and charm-laden imperfections—a slightly uneven doorframe, the subtle creak in one floorboard. Character, not flaws.

I unpack my laptop on the kitchen counter and pull out my phone to snap a picture for Mom. The late afternoon light bathes everything in a golden glow, making even my scattered belongings look artful and intentional.

My chest swells with something I haven't felt in a long time: possibility. Redmond Industries might be smaller than my previous agency, but here I'll have real impact, real ownership. No more Marcus taking credit for my ideas. No more being the only one still at the office at midnight. Here, I can build something meaningful at work while actually having a life outside of it.

And I'm excited. Summer in Lakeview is looking to be one of the best times of my life.