The Fisherman's Promise

THE FISHERMAN’S PROMISE OLIVIA SNOW CONTENTS 1. Ella 2. James 3. Ella 4. James 5. Ella 6. James 7. Ella 8. James 9. Ella 10. James 11. Ella 12. James 13. Ella 14. James 15. Ella 16. James 17. Ella 18. James 19. Ella 20. James 21. Ella 22. James 23. Ella 24. James 25. Ella 26. James 27. Ella 28. James 29. Ella Epilogue Author’s Note © Olivia Snow 2023 All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in book reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For my dad 1 ELLA I thank the removal men, pass them a crate of beer to show my gratitude, and watch absentmindedly as they drive back to the city where I've spent most of my life. That isn't my home now; it probably never will be again. I close my eyes and try to blink away the tears that are always threatening to fall. How has it come to this? Twelve months previously, I’d been riding high on the success of my debut novel - a historical romance story set in the Victorian era. It had been so well received that the small publishing house I'd worked with had eagerly asked me to sign a new contract with them for two more books. At the time, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more. With the money they'd offered, I'd been able to give up my soul-destroying 9 to 5 and spend my days dedicated to doing what I enjoyed most in the world - writing. Yet now I could barely put pen to paper - or finger to keyboard. I was sure every author had to make do with unstable readers - I refused to call this man a fan. I guessed it was part of the job and just something you had to deal with when you put yourself out there into the world. But it was worse than I'd expected. I'd gone from successful debut author to anxious wreck in the space of a few short months. He was never far away from me, probing at my shortcomings and insecurities every single day. My mental health was shot, and, unable to get away from the constant messages and phone calls (how he'd found my personal number, I don't know!), I'd done what any sane person would have surely done. I’d logged onto the authors’ Discord I use and clicked over to the author retreat listings. A new one had recently been uploaded for Whitby in North Yorkshire - a six-month rental period with cliff-top views. It sounded perfect. Knowing I needed to turn my life around, I’d booked both the cottage and a removal company without a second thought. Now, here I was. My rental cottage overlooks the rocky coastline, and I breathe in the fresh sea air, marvelling at the spectacular view of the choppy waves just a stone's throw away. I watch the sun setting behind me in an orange and pink sky, reflecting off the water and creating a beautiful mosaic across the horizon. Seagulls chatter above me, and I roll my shoulders back, trying to encourage myself to relax. He can't find you here, I tell myself, willing myself to believe it. I walk inside, into the cosy living room where boxes are strewn about everywhere and pull the cable out of the Wi-Fi box that had been set up prior to my arrival. If I have any chance of healing, I need a complete break from technology. That means no smartphone, no laptop, nothing that connects to the internet at all. I open a few of the thick cardboard boxes, slightly damaged from the trip over here, revealing the old books and photographs I hadn't looked at in years but that I'd packed anyway. After taking a few minutes to reminisce, I potter around in the small kitchen, setting the water on the stove to boil and selecting my favourite mug from a box that I'd clearly marked "open me first". With a cup of tea in hand, I kick my shoes off and sink into the thick cushions of the chaise longue in front of the fireplace. The old chaise longue was one of the few items of my mother’s I'd kept when she died, and it comforted me in a way little else could. Its fibres were worn but somehow familiar, like an old friend. For the first time in months, I feel safe - like I can finally let my guard down and take time to process everything that has happened over the past year. I could sit here for hours, listening to the sea crash against the rocks below and watching the gulls dive for their dinner from my window. I know people will be wondering where I've gone. I'm supposed to meet with my publisher next week, and my best friend Jess has been checking in on me dutifully, so she'll be concerned. But I have no words of any use to show, and Jess needs to live her own life. She said she didn’t mind taking care of me, but there came a point a few weeks back when she'd