Sophia's day started the same as always.

Lemon water. Six-kilometre run. Yoga. Shower. Cleanse, moisturize, sunscreen. She'd been doing the same routine for so long that some of her Instagram followers would do it with her, posting stories of their downward dogs. It was, Sophia reflected, one of the best parts of being an influencer: connecting with people you would have never met otherwise.

She towel-dried her hair, padding towards the kitchen. Eggs for breakfast? No; her stomach lurched. She was still feeling a bit hungover from last night. Toast. Definitely. And then she could try a banana to see—

She stopped dead.

The sickly-sweet tang of maple syrup and fried batter drifted into the hall, making her stomach churn. Someone was in her kitchen cooking pancakes. Oh, god. That was a bad sign.

Firstly, her mother never came to her apartment. Like, ever.

And secondly, Jenna Huntington never made breakfast — and when she did, it was always egg whites and roasted tomatoes. Her mother had only made pancakes twice in Sophia's life: once, when Sophia had a nasty fever, and then again after her father died.

This was bad.

Sophia wrapped her black silk dressing gown around herself, treading cautiously towards the kitchen. Jenna was dressed in a navy suit, her red hair swept into a sleek chignon. A spatula hovered in one hand.

"Sophia," she said, without turning. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine."

"No headache?"

Her voice was so breezy that Sophia winced. "Just a small one." She fumbled for the medicine cabinet. "You could have called."

"It was urgent."

"Oh?" Sophia popped an Advil. "What about?"

"You," Jenna said. "Making international headlines."

Sophia almost choked. "I—what?"

"The paper's there," her mother said, nodding toward the counter. "Why don't you read it for yourself?"

Sophia swallowed. She moved toward the counter, picking up the newspaper gingerly. It was the front page of The Toronto Times — a notoriously trashy tabloid — but there was no mistaking her face, staring up at Kit, a gram of ketamine clutched in her hand.

The words over her lacy black bra read, Good girl gone bad? Sophia does drugs with notorious playboy.

"Oh, god," she whispered. "Mom, I can explain—"

"Really?" Jenna set down the spatula. "Drugs, Sophia?"

She didn't sound disappointed; just wary. She was using what Sophia privately referred to as the Jenna Huntington Special ™, which her mother reserved for bankrupt actors and hockey players busted for coke addictions. Jenna was a senior PR manager, and one of the best. Sophia admired her for it.

Sophia just wished that — at times like this — her mother could also be her mother.

"They weren't mine," Sophia said. "I swear."

Jenna put a hand on her hip. "Then who did they belong to?"

Ophelia.

Sophia clamped her lips together. No. She couldn't sell out her cousin; Aunt Carmen was hysterical when it came to drugs. Just last year, she nearly shipped Ophelia's brother off to boarding school after finding weed in his backpack.

"I got it from some guy," Sophia lied. "At the club."

"Some guy?"

"A bouncer."

"Sophia," Jenna sighed. "I can tell when you're lying, you know."

Sophia clutched the newspaper. "Your pancakes are burning," she said truthfully, and her mother gave a little gasp, spinning around to rescue her creations. Sophia bit her lip. "How bad is the damage?"

Her mother had safely steered her out of several scandals before: a video of her skinny dipping in the Seine; a disastrous interview with the World Wildlife Foundation where she mixed up organism and orgasm. But looking at her mother's face, Sophia could tell this situation was worse. Much worse.

"The issue, darling," Jenna said, "is that your brand is all about being wholesome. Lemon water and journaling and sustainable clothing. That's what companies pay for." She flipped a pancake. "And a coke habit is more..."

"Rockstar?" Sophia suggested.

"I was going to say tacky."

"So what do we do?"

"I was thinking..." Jenna trailed off, piling semi-burnt pancakes on to a plate. "Do you want berries, darling?"

"Blueberries," she said automatically. "You were saying?"

"I think you should go somewhere." Jenna passed her a plate of pancakes. "Somewhere you can ride out the storm."

Sophia brightened. "Like Paris?"

She had spent six months there for a modelling contract, drinking champagne on a riverboat and eating picnics of brie and grapes in the gardens outside of the Louvre. She had even met a cute French boy named Michel, who had taken her biking around Versailles. They hadn't kept in touch, but she could always look him up.

As for Kit...

She was done, Sophia thought, her heart squeezing. Nobody left Ophelia alone in that state and got away with it. She'd break things off with him. Today.

"No," Jenna said slowly. "Not Paris."

"Oh. New York, then?"

"No."

"Oh, god," Sophia groaned. "Please tell me you're not sending me to London." She didn't mind London, but it was so grey and drizzly. And she never understood what people meant when they said things like peng or bare rude. "It's only for a few weeks though, right?"

Her mother wouldn't meet her eyes. "More like a few months, honey."

"Oh." Sophia considered this. "So I would be transferring universities, too?"

"Just for the year."

"King's College?"

"Well, that's the thing." Jenna pushed her pancakes around the plate. "I've spoken with some of the other people at the firm, and we don't think London is the right fit for you, honey." She set down her fork. "How do you feel about Bashaw?"

Sophia froze, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

"Bashaw?"

"In Alberta," Jenna clarified, as if Sophia might have been thinking of some other Bashaw. "You can stay with Tabby's family. And you'll be out of the public eye."

"But there's nothing but grain towers," Sophia said. "And fields."

She couldn't live in the country. She really couldn't; there were too many cows. And too many people that liked cows, more to the point. And how was she meant to keep up with her Estrella contract? There would be photoshoots and launch parties and press events. Good lord, the nearest airport to Bashaw had to be a two-hour drive. At least.

"It's just so..." Sophia struggled for the right word. "Rural."

"Exactly." Jenna stabbed a fork at her. "Think of how good that'll be for your brand. Pictures of morning yoga in a barn. Horseback riding through the fields. Organic farmer's markets. People will love it."

But I won't love it, Sophia thought desperately; I'll be miserable. She didn't say it, though. It wasn't the sort of thing Jenna Huntington would understand; her mother was in the business of appearances, not feelings.

"Have you spoken with Estrella?" Sophia asked instead. "Have they seen the photos?"

Jenna picked a misshapen strawberry off her pancakes, wrinkling her nose. "I spoke with Callie. She'll call you later today."

Sophia nodded, her throat very dry. Callie Winthrope was the head of Estrella's marketing department. She was in her mid-forties, with a sleek bubble-gum pink bob and the kind of withering gaze that made grown men cry. She spoke in a hushed voice; not, as Sophia had initially assumed, because Callie was ill, but because she liked to force you to lean in and listen to her.

"How did she seem?" Sophia poked at a pancake. "Upset? Relaxed? Ready to grind up my bones and turn them into jewelry?"

Jenna leveled her with a look. "As I said, she'll call you later."

Sophia sighed, pushing her pancakes away. Jenna's face softened; just a fraction of an inch, but it was there. Her mother reached across the table, patting her hand. The gesture was awkward and clumsy — they'd spent years out of practice — but she was trying. And that was something, Sophia thought.

"It's up to you, Soph," Jenna said. "You don't have to go to Bashaw. But just think about it. That's all I'm asking."

"Fine," Sophia said. "But I'm not promising anything," she added quickly, seeing her mother's expression. "I probably won't go. So don't get your hopes up."

Jenna smiled. "Consider me warned."