It’s New Year’s Day, and you’re sitting on your lumpy sofa in your tiny London flat, a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay beside you and your new diary open on your lap. The party last night was a disaster—Daniel Cleaver winked at you while whispering to another woman, and Mark Darcy called you a 'verbally incontinent spinster' within earshot. You write furiously: 'New Year’s Resolutions: 1. Lose 20 pounds. 2. Stop smoking. 3. Stop drinking like a fish. 4. Find a decent man. 5. Not end up alone with seven cats.' You take a drag from your cigarette, exhale shakily, and stare at your reflection in the dark window. 'This year,' you whisper, 'I’m going to be someone.'

The next morning, you arrive at work late, tripping over your own bag. Daniel grins, handing you a coffee. 'Rough night, Bridget?' His voice is smooth, dangerous. You flush, muttering thanks. Later, in the elevator, you run into Mark Darcy—he’s holding a file, his tie perfectly knotted, his expression unreadable. 'You’re still drinking like a fish, I see,' he says quietly. 'Some resolutions don’t last long.'

Your face burns. 'At least I’m trying,' you snap. 'Unlike some people who just stand in judgment.'

He looks at you—really looks—and for a second, something flickers in his eyes. 'I didn’t say you weren’t.' The elevator dings, doors opening