Victoria Matthews has come a long way since she was known as Vicky Matthews, from flat 23 Roundshaw Towers.

The girl who against all the odds managed to claw her way through school and rise above the expectations of her peers.

She is ruthless, unrelenting and driven.She works hard and has no room in her life for anything else.

She has no friends and even her own mother flinches when she visits.

Her staff fear her and she rips them apart as though they are candidates for the Apprentice.

The one focus in her life is making it to the top and today that dream is about to come true.There is only one man standing in her way.

Charlie Monroe.

Born with a silver spoon in his mouth he had his future mapped out for him from an early age.He was born to wealthy parents and lived the life others could only dream of.

He went to Eton and then Oxford and has never had to try for anything because where his brain fails, his looks win.

Loved by everyone and desired by many.Popular with his staff and everyone’s friend.

Victoria hates him.

They are both in the running to take over the company where they work when Mr Rowanson retires.

However, to win the company they must complete a set of challenges.

One for every day of December and on Christmas Day the winner will be chosen.

There is one condition.

They must work together and have no other help.Every morning on the stroke of 8 they must open the Advent Calendar to discover their challenge.These challenges will determine the winner and failure is not an option.

This is no ordinary Advent calendar and they are not children.This time it's war and the winner takes it all.

Prepare for a special kind of Advent where anything can happen……even the unexpected!

Chapter One

Today is going to be a good day. Finally, all of my hard work is about to pay off and everything I’ve ever dreamed about is heading my way.

I check my reflection and smile with satisfaction. The person looking back at me shouts success. She looks the part that I’m about to play and I’m pleased with how things have worked out.

Victoria Matthews has come a long way since she was known as Vicky Matthews from flat 23 Roundshaw Towers.

The girl who, against all the odds, managed to claw her way through school and rise above the expectations of her peers.

As I gaze at myself critically in the mirror, I take a moment to remember the child I once was. The child with a loving single mother, struggling to make ends meet on the council estate everybody feared to visit. The child who made do with hand-me-downs from her older sister and Maria Dawes from number 35. The child who shrank with embarrassment as she joined the line for free school meals and watched with envy the other kids opening their packed lunches made by their perfect mothers, who made sure their children wanted for nothing.

Well, I wanted it all too. Every last felt-tip pen and glittery notebook. I vowed to make something of myself and here I am, on the verge of making my dream come true. Finally, Victoria Matthews is about to have it all, and I can’t wait.

With a small triumphant smile, I grab my designer handbag and keys from the hall table. With one last critical look in the mirror, I head purposefully towards the door. Today is the day I make senior partner in the law firm I have struggled to rise to the top of. The hours of study and sacrifice are about to pay off and there will be no looking back. This is it. My moment of triumph and I can’t get there fast enough.

* * *

I start the familiar walk to the railway station. Fifteen minutes is all it takes, and I set off with a spring in my step. For once, the rain has held off as I march briskly along the dusty pavements. The building site lies ahead, and I prepare myself for the first ritual of the day.

As I near the scaffolding, I brace myself for the inevitable greeting. I see the builders working away and set my mood accordingly. However, today something happens that takes me by surprise. Nothing.

Not a sound or a whisper. Not even a shout or a wolf whistle of appreciation. Just stony cold silence which makes me think they haven’t seen me. That’s strange. I always get a cheery call and a request for a date. Normally, I get a whistle signifying their unbridled lust for me as I sashay past. Usually, I gaze around with irritation as the feminist in me tosses her head and throws a disapproving glance in their direction.

However, it’s the woman in me that craves their attention. The girl that feels the flutter of excitement and revels in the knowledge that she is desirable and attractive.

Not today, though. Today, they carry on with their work and act as if I’m invisible. I frown and look at my watch. It must be my outfit. I always thought my figure-hugging black dress showed off my feminine side while showcasing a successful businesswoman. I’ve even worn my hair down and still nothing.

Maybe it’s my make-up. The red lipstick is a sure-fire winner and usually has the desired effect.

I make it past the site and wonder if I have time to head back and change. Today of all days, I can’t be found lacking in any department. However, I can see that I only have ten minutes before the next ritual and sigh to myself. Bother, this is not turning out to be a good day and I’ve only just started.

Feeling somewhat unsettled, I try to brush it off as just one of those things.

* * *

By the time I reach the station, I have left it behind me. It’s what happens today that counts and nothing can possibly stand in my way.

I join the queue for the usual coffee at ‘grab and go’ and check my appearance again in the window beside me. Nothing looks out of place and I think I look great. I took extra time this morning to get things just right. When I step inside Mr Rowanson’s office at 9 am, I intend on stepping out of it as his new senior partner.

Five minutes before the train arrives, I reach the front of the line. As I stare at the woman waiting to serve me, for the second time today I feel irritated. She’s new. Not my usual server and now I’ll have to explain what I want. She smiles sweetly as I sigh inside. “What can I get you, love?”

Quickly, I say clearly, “Triple, Venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel Macchiato.”

She looks at me blankly. “Sorry hun, can you repeat that I didn’t quite get it?”

I try again and she holds up her hand as she starts to write every instruction on the outside of the cup.

The line starts shifting impatiently behind me as she struggles to understand my basic request.

By the time she hands me my coffee, I feel like downing it in one but have to settle for running at full speed towards platform one where my train is waiting to leave imminently.

I think I make it on the whistle of the guard - at least that’s one whistle I can count on - and the doors close behind me as I stumble breathlessly into the carriage.

The train lurches away and I stumble and watch with dismay as the coffee splashes onto the floor. Bother!

I recover remarkably quickly and look towards my usual seat. Then, for the third time today, something is wrong. There is someone sitting in my seat.

This isn’t right. I always sit on the seat nearest the door in the aisle, facing forward. I’d think I was in the wrong carriage, but my usual companions are seated firmly in their places. Yes, there’s raincoat man clutching his briefcase on his lap and looking down at the Daily Telegraph. Next to him is student Sam, wired to his music with his eyes shut and just the steady tap of his toe to the beat of the music to signify he is still alive. Then there’s Kim Kardashian. Not the real one of course, but the one who always looks as if she’s trowelled on her make-up and slept with her hair under an iron. Throughout the journey, she flicks through the latest Cosmo and texts her friends continuously.

Then there is my seat. The last one available before the train reaches Raynes Park and is always empty waiting for me to take my rightful place. Not today, though. Today there is a person squatting in my space. Daring to look like they have a right to be there and looking at their iPad with an air of boredom.

I catch the eye of raincoat man and almost see a flash of sympathy in his eyes before he looks down again. Five years I have sat in that seat with these very people. Everybody knows where to sit and at what time. They are only excused on sick and leave days, of which I never have any. This man is in my seat and doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed about it.

The train gathers speed along with my heart rate and if I could haul him up by the scruff of his neck and toss him from the train like Superwoman, I would. In fact, in my mind, I do just that.

As I cling onto the pole like an exotic dancer on her first day, I seethe inside. This is not how my perfect day is meant to start. This is a bad omen and I try not to think about what this could mean for my future.

Then I reason with myself. After all, it’s what I do. I can argue a case against the best of them and win. Yes, this is all merely an inconvenience, and when I step foot inside the pristine office block in Canary Wharf, my world will right itself.