Read Chapter 1 of Spoiler Alert: I love you

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Chapter 1

I heard some noises coming from the basement. Now, when you’re alone in the house, the logical thing to do is ignore it. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, keep the volume up on your favourite show, and firmly decide that whatever’s in the basement can keep its own problems to itself. But no, I had to be the protagonist of my own horror movie.

“Shall I go check?” I whispered as if the walls would offer some sage advice. But of course, they remained suspiciously silent. With the bravery of a duck crossing a six-lane highway, I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find: my trusty tennis racket. Because, naturally, if there was a ghost, it would definitely be terrified of my slightly above-average backhand.

The noises continued; a soft thud followed by a scraping sound.

“Okay,” I said, voice shaking slightly. “It’s probably nothing, probably just the wind. Or… the serial killer who is all over the news now days. Definitely one of the two.”

Despite every single horror movie I had ever seen screaming at me to stay put, I edged toward the basement door. The creak it made as it opened was so loud and dramatic, I half-expected an orchestra to start playing sinister violins.

I flicked the light switch. Nothing. “Of course,” I muttered. “Why would the light work? That would be far too convenient.” Steeling myself, I began my descent. Each step creaked ominously under my weight.

“Hello?” I called, because announcing your presence to potential murderers was always a brilliant idea. "If you’re a ghost, you should know I have unfinished business too! I haven’t finished my latest episode of TV drama, and I swear I’ll haunt you right back!"

The basement was dark and cluttered, with the shadows creating sinister shapes out of old furniture and boxes. I squinted; my tennis racket raised.

And then it happened.

A box tipped over.

I let out a scream that could shatter glass and swung the racket wildly. It connected to something soft and warm.

“MEOW!”

My heart nearly exploded out. A small, very disgruntled cat shot out of the shadows and bolted up the stairs.

“Oh, come on!” I yelled after it. “I nearly died!”

I sank to the floor, my breath coming in short bursts.

And that’s when the world flickered.

The basement wavered, reality bent… and suddenly, there was the unmistakable voice of a flight attendant.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, could you please open your window shade? We’re preparing for landing.”

Her voice was gentle, the kind trained to remain calm even if the plane were doing cartwheels mid-air. I blinked up at her momentarily disoriented. She smiled, her lipstick immaculate, cheekbones gleaming.

Honestly, how? We’d been in the air for eight hours. I looked like I’d survived a massive tornado, and she looked ready for a skincare commercial. Did they reapply every hour? Was there a secret mid-flight glam room hidden behind the beverage cart? Some mysteries, I supposed, were best left to the skies.

“Huh? Oh. Right. Yes.” Blinking rapidly, Arina—or rather, me—snapped out of my adrenaline-rushing story. My heart was still racing from Murder on Hastings Lane, a plot twist so wild I almost clutched my pearls. I pushed up the window shade and squinted. Below, the city was stretching awake—golden, buzzing, blissfully unaware that someone in seat 23A was having a full-blown emotional crisis and silently questioning the false promises of waterproof mascara.

I shoved the book into my bag with a deep, internal groan. I had been reading this book for a month, and just when I was about to discover the killer, BAM! Life decided to interrupt me again. The sunlight streaming through the window felt like a personal attack. I squinted like a vampire seeing daylight for the first time. Life had a personal vendetta against my reading schedule.

“One day,” I muttered to myself. “One day I will finish this book.”

Oh, I almost forgot to introduce myself.

“Hi. I’m Ella. Ella Thompson.”

Yes, I said that out loud like a Bond girl auditioning for a spy movie. No, I did not regret it.

I loved books. While other kids were busy solving puzzles or building Legos, I was buried in them. The library was my amusement park — my happiest place. Each book was a teleportation device, taking me to new worlds, introducing me to different cultures, and teaching me things I’d probably never use in real life. I mean, at one point I knew 57 ways to identify a serial killer, but would that ever come in handy? Hopefully not.

Books have always been my comfort. They hugged me when I had my first heartbreak, patted my head when I argued with friends, and cheered me up when life threw lemons at me (spoiler: I didn’t make lemonade, I just ate the lemons like a bitter gremlin).

So, when it was time to choose a subject for university, it was a no-brainer: English Literature, of course. I mean, why wouldn’t I want to spend the next few years of my life reading books and writing stories? It was my dream!

On the last day of college before summer break, the campus buzzed with goodbye hugs, grand summer plans, and dramatic promises to ‘text every day’ (which we all knew meant twice, tops). And, to add to the day’s drama, Mrs. Davenport, my English teacher, mentor, and absolute favourite human, summoned me to her office.

My first thought?

What did I do this time?

As I walked toward her office, I tried to recall every possible thing I could've messed up. A late assignment? An overdue library book? Accidentally roasting Shakespeare in my paper? But then again, I knew I was her favourite. We were going to miss each other terribly, though just for a few months, but that couldn’t be why she called me in… right?

I reached her door and knocked. She looked up from her glasses, which were hanging around her neck, and squinted at me like she was trying to identify me from a great distance. She didn’t even bother putting the glasses back on, which was classic Mrs. Davenport. Honestly, that woman’s comedic timing was one of the reasons every student adored her… well, disregarding the nightmare-inducing assignments.

“Come in, Ella! I’ve been waiting for you,” she said warmly. “So… how are the goodbyes going? Must be tough, huh?”

“Tough, yes,” I admitted. “But we’re all equally excited for summer break.”

“So, what’s your plan?” She asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Well… I haven’t thought much about it yet,” I said, shifting in my seat. “My dad’s running for Parliament this year, so I think I’ll help with the campaign.”

Mrs. Davenport’s face lit up.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! But before you jump into politics, I have something for you. Do you remember applying for the summer workshop at ‘Writers at New York Academy’?”

My heart stopped. “Yes! Oh my gosh, yes! I really wanted to join that program; it’s one of the most prestigious writing workshops in the world! They invite only a handful of final year students each summer, and students get to learn from famous authors, attend masterclasses, and network like crazy. It’s basically the dream!”

Mrs. Davenport smiled as if she’d been waiting for this moment.

“Well, pack your bags, Ella, they have accepted your application! You’ve been invited to join their summer program, and I couldn’t be prouder of you!”

I jumped out of my chair so fast it nearly fell over. “Are you serious? This is really happening?!”

“Yes! Yes! And I know we’ll soon be just a university to you as you get more of these opportunities,” Mrs. Davenport smiled warmly, her hands settling near her collarbone in a soft, thoughtful gesture, like the moment meant just a little more than she let on. “But don’t forget to write up your regular column for the summer newsletter.”

I smiled, the kind that wobbled dangerously on the edge of a lump in the throat. “Oh, Mrs. Davenport… this will never just be a university for me,” I said, suddenly getting emotional.

Duke University was my dream ever since I realized my love for books and writing. It was the most renowned university in London, and even my family's history was linked to it. My great-great-grandfather helped establish it before it was taken over by a charitable trust. Generations of my family have studied here, so when I said I wanted to go to Duke’s, everyone just assumed I’d get in without a problem because of my last name.

But that wasn’t what I wanted — not really. I wanted to earn my place here; to know I had clawed my way in, fair and square. I had worked my butt off in high school, pushing through every late-night study session and hot chocolate-fuelled meltdown to get the grades I needed. And when I finally got in on my own merit? I was on cloud nine — no, scratch that, cloud ninety‑nine.

“And now,” I whispered to myself in a praising tone, “I am getting selected for the best writer’s programme in the world — the very thing I’ve been dreaming about for what feels like forever.”

“Ella? Ella, why are you crying?” Mrs. Davenport’s voice pulled me out of my emotional spiral.

“Oh! It’s nothing,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Just… nostalgia. And gratitude. And I promise I won’t forget about my regular column.” I hugged her tightly, and with a goodbye, I left her office, my heart full and my mind racing. But the excitement was quickly replaced by nerves. How was I going to break this news to my family?

My dad, Mark Thompson, was a powerhouse. He had inherited our family’s hotel business and turned it into a global empire. He was one of the most successful hoteliers in the world, and he was now taking on politics—running for Parliament because he had always wanted to serve the people and fight for what was right (though he would never admit just how much he had always wanted it).

My mum, Rosa Thompson, was equally impressive. She was a financial genius, a self-made highflier in the stock market, and a well-known philanthropist. Basically, I came from a family of overachievers.

And then there was my brother, Andrew Thompson. My dad had always hoped one of us would take over the family business, but when Andrew decided to join the army, Dad supported him without hesitation. That was the kind of parent he was—he never said no to us, always encouraged us to chase our dreams. Which brought me back to my own dilemma…

While driving back home, the only thing going through my brain was telling my wildly successful, goal-oriented family that I was about to run off to New York for a summer writing workshop. Yeah. That was going to be interesting.