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💕Madly Deeply Always releases Feb 14th 2026 on Valentine's Day
📁 Click here to Download the Cover to share on social media!

Perfect for readers who love:

• 🌊 Coastal romances
• ☕ Coffeehouse vibes
• 🎞️ The romantic melancholy of a BBC period drama
• 🌷 Austen vibes
• ⚡ Harry Potter nostalgia
• 🫖 Reserved, British love interest
• 🏡 When she’s staying under his roof… and things get complicated
• 🎸 Bonding over music
• 🎭 Witty banter
• 💔 Emotional healing and quiet devotion
• 🫶 A hero who loves patiently, even when it hurts
• ❤️‍🔥 Aching, slow-burn longing
• ✨ Emotional, heartfelt comfort reads
• 🌶️ Lyrical, emotionally focused spice (1x open-door scene – not explicit)

🌹Sample Chapters:

Please note: These are from the second draft and still require professional editing and polishing.

🌸CHAPTER 1: Escape

Lily-Anne

🌸CHAPTER 1: Ghosts of Silence

Lily-Anne

I stand frozen in the Sydney International Airport carpark, pulse spiking as I stare into the open boot of our old sedan. The closed black case stares back silently, clasps gleaming in the predawn light, the lid sealed tight like a secret.

My guitar case.

It’s been a month since I opened it, and although this trip was my idea, I’ve put it off until now. A part of me still questions if I should take it.

Mum joins me by the boot, pulling my suitcase behind her. She follows my gaze and sighs. “It’s not a dead body, Lily.”

No. But it holds the ghost of one. I unlatch the hard case and carefully lift the lid, my stomach knotting at the sight of my pride and joy—a Cole Clark semi-acoustic made of Australian blackwood.

I haven’t touched it in months, though every part of me still aches to play.

Tears prick my eyes.

“You’ll see love,” Mum says gently. “This trip is just what you need. Sea breeze, new people… maybe even inspiration?”

She doesn’t say how much she hates flying. How much she’d rather I stayed. It makes her words mean more.

“Thanks, Mum,” I murmur as I reach down tentatively to brush the strings. They hum in response, a soft, aching sound that cuts deeper than it should. Beautiful, even now.

I shut the lid, my throat growing tight. For now, that’s all I can bear to do.

We both hope I’ll write music again. I’d settle for simply being able to play a chord. Funny, how hauling my guitar across the globe might make that possible.

“Dad would be proud of you,” Mum says.

“Would he?” A whole degree in music, six months of performing, and now… nothing. No gigs. No plans. No fire. Just this gnawing fear that I'm drifting further and further away from who I was.

“Yes, he would.” She touches my shoulder, but it only makes the ache in my chest worse.

I turn into her and hug her, wrapping my arms around her middle like I used to when I was small. She’s soft and warm, her blonde curls tickling my face as the familiar scent of rose and eucalyptus calms my racing heart.

My hair snags on her silver hair clip as we try to pull apart.

“Ow! Sorry—” I let out a half sniff, half laugh as I untangle our blonde curls, mine a shade lighter than hers.

“Careful!” Mum cries as the clip falls. “That was an—”

I catch it before it hits the ground.

“Anniversary gift from Dad,” I finish, handing it back to her. The last one he would ever give her. It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.

I watch as she twists her curls neatly and secures them with the clip.

“Right,” she says. “Shall we head inside?”

I smile sadly. “Yeah.”

My guitar case bumps awkwardly against my leg as we move through the crowd. No one gives it a second glance, but I feel like an imposter carrying it.

As we wait in the check-in line, a Fiji Airways poster draws my attention—a luxury resort with turquoise water at its doorstep, bright hibiscus petals scattered over stone paths, and palm trees gracing blue skies.

It looks peaceful. Tranquil. And I imagine myself there, stretched out by the pool, sipping a fruity cocktail, soaking in the sunshine…

And then gunning it across the water on a jet ski loud enough to drown out the thoughts planted in my head by my ex-boyfriend.

“Wishing you were going somewhere warmer?” Mum asks gently, nodding at the poster.

I let out a breath. “Just a little. Did you see the forecast? It’s raining all week in Whitstable.”

“That’s the English summer for you,” she says lightly, squinting at her phone. “Let’s see… Oh, look! Next week’s supposed to have a top of eighteen degrees there. Partly cloudy, with only a mild wind.”

“Yay?”

Her attempt at optimism makes me smile, but we both know I didn’t book this trip for sunshine.

I’m flying to England for a man I’ve never met.

Not for love, but for music.

For a chance to get my creative spark back.

When we reach the counter, I hand over my passport, the guitar case heavy at my side. I hope it’s not dead weight. That I’ll actually find the courage to play it.

Check-in goes smoothly, and I’m handed four boarding passes. Two for me. Two labelled EXST—extra seats for my guitar. I couldn’t stand the thought of it getting thrown around like just another suitcase.

“At least you won’t be travelling alone,” Mum says brightly, smiling at my guitar fondly. “Come on. Once we’re through security, there should be plenty of time to get breakfast before you go.”

After immigration, we slide into the booth of a typical airport café, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and microwaved croissants.

“Don’t you want to know something about the cottage you’ll be staying in?” Mum asks exasperatedly over pancakes.

“I already do,” I say, swirling syrup around my plate. “His name’s Brandon. He was Dad’s friend. He’s letting me stay in the upstairs flat. And it’s by the sea.”

What I don’t say: that I’m trying not to overthink it. I reached out to him on instinct, but now that it’s real with my boarding pass printed and bags checked, I’m not sure if I was brave or naive.

All I know is that he’s there.

Brandon Ward. The reclusive family friend and ex-music manager who Dad had spoken so highly of. The one who still sends Christmas cards every year. It was one such card, found in the drawer of Dad’s abandoned office when I wandered in one afternoon, that prompted me to contact Brandon.

If anyone can help me find my creative spark again, it’s him.

“Nervous?” Mum asks, pushing strawberries around her plate.

“Are you?” I counter, offering her a teasing smile.

“Of course I’m nervous. My baby is going to another country to live with a strange man.”

I press a napkin to my lips. “First of all, I’m twenty-one. Second, I’ve been overseas before—”

“That was to Bali. With your father. England is so far away—”

“And third—strange man? You said Brandon was a ‘good family friend’.”

“That was before I knew you planned to live with him.”

“It’s a self-contained unit. It will be strictly professional. Besides, he sounded nice.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t called him.”

“His texts seemed nice,” I clarify. When she continues to look unimpressed, I hide a smile and add, “He sent me a smiley face.”

“And you think—” She stops talking. Shakes her head with a soft laugh. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re joking. You inherited that from your father.”

“And he got it from Ellenor,” I grin. My older sister, a force to be reckoned with, who always burns the candle at both ends like it’s the only way she’ll get oxygen. She is one hundred percent Dad in both intensity and humour.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mum says quietly. “I know it’s too late to be second-guessing. It’s just hard not to worry.”

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

She searches my face, then nods and tries for a cheerful smile, though she’s never been as good at faking it as Dad and Ellenor. That particular trait of wearing her heart on her sleeve—Mum gets that from me.

I refocus on my pancakes. The truth is, I’m nervous too. To meet Brandon. To live in someone else’s house. To find out if I still have something left to say through music, or if this whole trip is a waste of time and money.

The extra seats alone made the trip expensive. Mum had to pull nursing doubles at the hospital just to help me afford it. If Brandon hadn’t offered the cottage for free, I probably wouldn’t be going at all.

I smother my last pancake with maple syrup, hoping it will douse the nerves knotted in my stomach. It’s a different kind of tension to what Toby used to make me feel.

“Well, maybe this holiday will help you forget your ex,” Mum the Mind Reader says, studying me.

My shoulders tense. I appreciate her solidarity in refusing to use his name, but I’d rather she didn’t bring him up at all. “Please, can we just…not?”

“Of course.” But she chews her painted lips, clearly wanting to talk about it.

I don't blame her. She lost me there for a while. Still worries I'll go back to Toby. But it’s been nearly six weeks since I left him. Six weeks since the tension I hadn’t even noticed coiling through my muscles eased. I’d been miserable for a long time, but it was the day he tried to convince me to sell my guitar that pushed me past my breaking point.

“You’ve been struggling with it for months,” he’d said in front of the entire ensemble.

I remember hugging my guitar closer, as if I could shield it from him. That guitar was my lifeline, a way to escape my grief and feel close to Dad. But as much as I hated to admit it, Toby was right. I was struggling.

And in that moment, I realised it was because of him. Because of how I shrunk in his presence.

Toby had mistaken my silence for surrender. “You should trade it in for a classical guitar. It would sound purer, especially in a concert hall. Real musicians don’t rely on amps.”

I couldn’t believe it.

He knew Dad bought me the Cole Clark for my birthday.

He knew what it meant to me.

And he still tried to take it away.

For the first time, the haze had lifted. I saw what he was doing for what it was: control, dressed up as advice. And I was livid, my hands shaking with white-hot fury, as I stared at the man I’d dated for nearly three years, but no longer recognised.

Somehow, I kept my voice level as I told him we were over. No tears. No second chances. It was just a quiet ending he never saw coming. For once, I didn’t let him twist it.

I was relieved to be free of him. But the damage lingered, my music so tangled with pain that I couldn’t play at all.

Mum needn’t worry I’ll take him back. I’m desperate to move on. I just don’t know how.

And while I doubt waking up in another country will magically help me feel more like myself, I hope that with Brandon’s help, I’ll at least find my way back to music. Back to the part of me that had felt alive.

A soft cough and the clatter of cutlery snaps me back to the café. I glance at Mum, who’s eyeing me. “You don’t have to do anything big straight away,” she says quietly. “Just eat. Sleep. Breathe in that salty sea air. That’s more than enough to start with.”

I nod. I don’t agree, but I nod. I’m not expecting a magical, snap-your-fingers solution. But I intend to work hard. As soon as Brandon can help me fix this part of me that’s broken, the sooner I can come home.

After breakfast, Mum hugs me tightly, then fusses—checking my backpack is zipped, reminding me where I put my phone charger, and making sure I still have my passport, along with a dozen other things.

As she chatters, my chest tightens. I picture her returning home, alone in our weatherboard house near Manly beach.

Dad’s gone, though his presence still lingers in the smell of his aftershave and the shelf he built for Mum’s recipe books.

Ellenor, my older sister, moved out years ago to be closer to her job in the city.

And now I’m leaving, too. Just for a few weeks, I tell myself. But the truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Brandon vaguely said I could stay as long as I like.

In the meantime, Mum will be by herself, playing the radio to fill the empty house. She hates the silence, and I can’t help but feel like I’m letting her down.

The tears are back, threatening to fall. Her eyes glisten too, and her smile wobbles.

“I hope this trip will be everything you hoped for,” she murmurs, smoothing my hair the same way Dad used to. “You’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course. Every day.”

She snorts. “Not every day! I want you to make the most of your trip.”

“Every second day, then. And I’ll send photos to the group chat.”

It’ll be a nice change from Ellenor’s drama dumps about family law and courtroom battles. I don’t know how she does it—trying to fix other people’s lives. It’s the one thing she got from Mum.

Me? I think I inherited the fragile bits.

Mum does up a button on my cardigan. “Remember, your visa is for six months—but you can come home anytime, okay?” She pulls me in for one last hug. “And text me when you land.”

“I will.”

I wave as she heads towards the terminal exit. And then she’s gone.

More sample chapters coming soon :)

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📚 Book Metadata for Madly, Deeply, Always

• Title: Madly, Deeply, Always

• Author: Jules Starbrook

• Genre: Contemporary Romance

• Subgenre Tags: Slow burn romance, grief and healing, music-themed romance, Jane Austen-inspired, emotionally rich fiction, coastal romance

• Tropes: Grumpy/sunshine, found family, wounded MMC, emotionally closed-off heroine, quiet pining, close proximity, creative healing, forbidden feelings

• Tone: Tender, introspective, atmospheric, quietly hopeful

• Setting: English seaside village; shared cottage; Willoughby’s Café

• Inspiration: Sense and Sensibility, BBC period dramas, coffeehouse aesthetic, Harry Potter nostalgia

• Main Themes: Grief, healing, starting over, emotional intimacy, rediscovering passion through music

• Point of View: Dual POV (female and male lead)

• Age Rating: Adult (soft-spoken but mature themes)

• Length: ~95,000 words

• Publishing Status: Currently querying agents - Indie publication under consideration

• Comparative Titles: Beach Read by Emily Henry, Evvie Drake Starts Over by Linda Holmes, The Flatshare by Beth O’Leary, Sense and Sensibility (modern retelling tone)