In her captivating debut, author Sarah Vacchiano tells an exciting “coming of adulthood” story about a young woman who takes a bold new path in her early thirties, leaving her old life—and starter marriage—behind.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Soft Launch by Sarah Vacchiano, which releases on February 1st 2026.

When Sam walked herself down the aisle at the age of twenty-two, she never imagined wanting more than the life she had in that moment. Seven years later, with the ink still drying on both her law degree and her divorce papers, she arrives in Manhattan ready to start adulthood over and chase her dreams of becoming an entertainment lawyer, determined to prove to herself that upending her life was worth it.

As Sam navigates the high-pressure world of Big Law—heady and demanding, and full of magnetic and powerful people—she finds an unexpected ally in her charming, supportive officemate, Charlie. But just as he begins to tear down the walls Sam has built around herself, she lands her first big client, a “Poker Princess” facing federal charges for running high-stakes games for Hollywood’s elite, and discovers just how high stakes “fake it till you make it” can be when you’ve given up everything to become someone new.

Emotionally nuanced and delightfully frothy, Soft Launch is a sharp, witty novel that explores the messy reality of starting over and finding yourself.

Chapter One

I’d never been inside a courthouse—not during three years of law school, not until that day. At first, I barely gave it a second thought. With two weeks until the bar exam, I was surviving on turkey sandwiches and Red Bull, studying twelve hours a day. I didn’t bother with makeup or even a second glance in the mirror. This was nothing more than a quick errand.

The clerk finalized everything in under a minute, handing me the papers Ben and I would need to sign. I stepped back into the July heat, my mind already back to studying. And then I saw it: Samantha DeFiore, Plaintiff, v. Benjamin Walker, Defendant.

I got in my car, rolled down the window, and breathed out hot, humid air.

The voice in my head repeated, You can’t send that to him. You can’t send that to him.

I couldn’t read that word again.

Defendant.

I spun the AC to full blast and bent forward, taking shallow breaths. I needed to get my shit together.

I got out of the car and walked unsteadily across the street to Vin Rouge, a wine bar I knew well from late nights at Georgetown Law but somehow never realized was next to the courthouse.

The ambience was different in the afternoon. It was barely three o’clock, and I was the only patron.

I ordered a bottle of rosé on special, maniacally flipping through last week’s issue of The Hollywood Reporter, waiting for the numbness I was chasing to kick in. Wishing the wine weren’t so sweet.

At some point, I noticed the bottle was less than a glass away from empty, and my buzz weakened.

The words I choose you echoed in my head, the inscription on the white gold wedding band I’d custom-ordered from his parents’ jeweler. I had meant every word of it. There was a time when I had chosen Ben.

I felt my face flush as I noticed Matt, the bartender, drying chalice-size glasses behind the bar.

It had been a month since I’d come in for a late-night “study break” and closed down the bar listening to him talk about twentieth-century American poetry and telling him all about the bright future waiting for me in New York.

I’ve finally lost the thread, I thought. Divorcing my husband, drunk at four o’clock when I should be studying for the only exam that could make or break my career.

I didn’t know how other twenty-nine-year-olds handled getting divorced, but this no longer felt graceful.

“Hey there. What’re we drinking?”

I turned the label of the bottle to face him. He squinted. “White zinfandel?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. The new guy upsold me . . . or downsold, I guess. Said it was his favorite rosé. Half price.”

He nodded, feigning approval. “Looks like you’ve been here for a little bit. You got the pre–happy hour, happy hour special.” He winked. “Want me to switch it out? Something French? I’ll do it for the same price. Just for you.”

Just for you.

I let the words float in the air for a moment, then shook my head. I hadn’t earned this kindness.

“No, it’s okay. I chose it. Sometimes a girl has to stick it out.”

I immediately wished I didn’t sound so cynical.

It had been a year since I’d told Ben I didn’t want to spend my life with him anymore. It was the hardest decision I’d ever made, and it took years to make it.

When I finally knew it was the right choice, the internal script I wrote for myself felt airtight: I’d married too young, before I understood how much life waited on the other side of that choice—a life that didn’t match the one Ben wanted. Staying would only end up hurting him more. He’d be happy again. All of this would fade to a slight blemish in his otherwise beautiful life. He’d find someone else, and our starter marriage would be an accessory detail in her love story. I imagined her gushing to her girlfriends, He was married once in his twenties, but it didn’t work out. They wouldn’t believe someone could have left him, the perfect man. And for her, he would be. Just like he had once been for me.

I watched Matt uncork a bottle that was a lighter shade of pink. He poured a sip into a new glass, resting it gingerly in front of me.

“Come on, Sam. No one should be forced to drink wine they don’t like.”

I smiled. “My brewing hangover thanks you.”

“Everything okay? Is this the two-weeks-before-the-bar meltdown? I see it every summer, and I promise you: They all pass. Far as I know, at least. But I guess you never hear from the ones who don’t.”

I patted the top of the bar-prep book and took a sip. “Multitasking. And thanks, this one doesn’t taste like a cupcake.”

He laughed. “You’re not really worried about passing, are you? It’ll be done before you know it. One and done.”

Kind of like my marriage. I flinched at the thought.

He leaned over and picked up the book. “Seriously, though. If it’s a bottle-of-wine-at-three-p.m. kind of day, let it be that kind of day. Don’t force it. Besides, look at how much ground you’ve covered.”

He flipped through and landed on the divorce papers.

I couldn’t tell if he had seen them, but he quickly shut the book and set it back down.

“Just give yourself a break, ya know?”

By this point I was too buzzed to be embarrassed.

I felt my phone vibrate, and we both looked grateful for the distraction.

“Hey,” I answered sheepishly as a familiar British accent barreled through the phone.

“Where are you? You’re more than twenty minutes late.”

Fuck. I completely blanked on our standing 4:30 p.m. run.

“Em, I’m . . . shit. Sorry.”

“You’re not coming? Did something happen?” She paused. “Did everything go okay at the courthouse?”

I bit my lip. “It was fine . . . I mean, it’s pretty much done.”

I searched for the right way to say what had really happened, how seeing the word defendant next to Ben’s name had triggered an avalanche of guilt.

“I filed the papers and freaked out. I’m at Vin Rouge. I’ve been here for a while.”

I heard Emilie sigh, imagined her looking down at her sports watch, jogging in place, her long brown hair tied tightly in a high ponytail, weighing whether to quickly run the trail or come meet me. Emilie’s baseline was a combination of irritation and exaggerated apathy. Only a few of us knew how hard she worked to cultivate effortless perfection, or how much she actually loved being a dead ringer for Zoe Saldaña. Her dream was to be a Supreme Court justice by forty, and no one doubted she would do it.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

Unsure if that was what I really wanted but too tipsy to decide, I took a dramatic sip of Matt’s charity wine and rubbed my right temple. I could feel dehydration overtaking both sides of my brain. I asked for a glass of water and forced myself to sip it until she arrived. I slipped a pair of sunglasses on my face and tried not to cry.

I met Emilie in law school, just after Ben moved out. I’d told him I was leaving a few weeks before, and the air in our spacious DC townhouse had become so heavy it felt like we were swimming.

I’d started pulling late nights in the library just to have an excuse to be out. One night I looked over and saw Emilie sitting with another guy in our class. Neither of them studying. I envied them. I felt worn down from the weight of robbing someone of a marriage. I remember thinking that Emilie and her “twin”—a Scottish international student I would learn was named Connor—couldn’t possibly coexist in my emotionally fraught sphere. He waved me over, and the three of us became fast friends. Emilie was from London and Connor was from Edinburgh, and both seemed to have a European fascination with the idea of a starter marriage.

Matt reappeared as Emilie slipped wordlessly into the seat next to me.

“Glass of wine?”

She gave him an exasperated look as we sat in silence for a few seconds.

“I’m still not sure what happened. You got upset because you filed? You’ve been totally antiseptic about this entire thing until now.”

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She motioned to the bottle of wine next to the prep book. “And now this? Come on, Sam, you look just a little bit silly wearing those in here.”

I took the sunglasses off in wordless compliance.

She flinched. “Okay, put them back on.” She waved over to Matt. “We’re going to grab that corner table in the back. Can I just carry this stuff over?”

He nodded, purposefully avoiding my eyes.

She took the water glass in one hand and the study book in the other. “I know the library is getting stale, but this really isn’t the time to fall apart.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is there ever a good time?”

We sat down, and she set the water in front of me. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Or should I have just gone for a run?”

I felt tears coming and readjusted the sunglasses.

“I can’t really explain it. I got to the courthouse, and everything was fine. And then they gave me the papers, and then I left . . . and then I saw the papers. And honestly, I don’t think I can live with myself.” My voice broke.

“You ‘saw’ the papers? Aren’t they just standard divorce papers?”

“I mean, I guess . . . This is my first divorce, you know.”

I put my head in my hands. “Not that it’s a huge surprise. Both my parents have been married twice.”

“A lot of parents are divorced. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“But theirs was ugly. A total legal marathon.”

She looked around the empty bar. “You can feel better then. This is as ugly as yours gets.”

I pulled out the papers and pointed to the caption. “I have to send this to Ben.”

I searched her face for validation, but she was unmoved.

“What am I looking for?”

I felt irrationally frustrated. “How can I file a legal document that calls Ben the same fucking thing as someone accused of murder?”

Emilie looked closer, lip-reading the caption. “Oh. Defendant.”

I covered my eyes. “Once was enough.”

She impatiently slid the papers back into the book. “I wasn’t going to repeat it.”

I rested my head on top of my forearm, the wooden table cool against my skin. I could feel her impatience radiating across me.

“You left him. So you’re the plaintiff.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point then? It’s barely five p.m., and you’re drowning in wine. I’m not saying that this isn’t traumatic, but you haven’t even batted an eye until today. I haven’t seen you cry once over this.”

“Right. I don’t think that’s normal. I don’t think I let myself process how bad I feel. I’ve been in denial about ruining someone else’s life.”

She shot me an irritated look. “Listen. It’s not that I don’t think you have a good reason to feel miserable. You’re divorced, you’re pushing thirty, and you’re two weeks away from taking the bar, which might be the worst part if you keep this up. Do I think you could have timed everything better? Yes. I think this whole thing should have taken a back seat to everything else in your life right now. But now you have to be a big girl, send the papers to Ben, and move on. You made the right choice for you. You can unpack these emotions after you pass the bar.”

I nodded, or at least I think I did. The words blurred in my head—divorced, pushing thirty, move on. She wasn’t wrong. But it suddenly felt like I’d been emotionally stripped bare, as if every nerve in my body had been dragged to the surface.