The notes lay spread across the table like scattered pieces of my life — fragments of the company I thought I'd been running, fragments of the trap my parents had laid for me. For so long I'd felt small beneath their shadow, a placeholder with a title, nothing more.
But not anymore.
I pushed back from the table and stood, forcing myself to meet my own reflection in the darkened window. The woman staring back at me looked pale, tired, but not broken.
Not yet.
You've carried their lies long enough,
I told myself.
They made you their shield, their scapegoat. But you are not weak. You know the truth, and the truth is your weapon.
For days I'd hidden here, afraid of every knock at the door, every rumour Brandon told me about.
But fear hadn't kept the investigators away. Fear hadn't stopped my parents. And fear certainly wasn't going to clear my name.
I straightened my shoulders, breathing deep. I had faced boardrooms full of men twice my age and convinced them to listen. I had taken a company I thought was mine and steered it through storms I hadn't created.
That strength was still inside me — I just had to reach for it.
The press would be waiting, of course. Cameras, headlines, speculation about the "fallen heiress." They would circle me like vultures, and I could not — would not — drag Brandon into that glare.
He had given me shelter, kindness, and more faith than I deserved. But I wouldn't see his name sullied alongside mine.
When the day came to walk into that interview room, I would go alone. Head high. Shoulders square. Not as their puppet, not as their victim — as Amelia, telling the truth.
*****
The car slowed as it rounded the corner, and I knew they were there before I saw them.
The flash of cameras lit up the pavement like lightning. Reporters jostled against each other, their breath fogging in the chill morning air, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
My stomach twisted, but I pressed my palms flat against my knees and forced them to still.
Head high, Amelia. You can't erase what they've said, but you can control how you walk through it.
The door opened. A wave of noise crashed into me — shouted questions, my name hurled like an accusation.
"Amelia, did you know about the fraud?"
"Were you complicit in your parents' scheme?"
"Do you regret taking the position of CEO?"
"Are you here to cut a deal?"
Each word stung, but I kept my chin lifted, eyes fixed on the building ahead. The solicitor walked a step ahead of me, part shield, part guide, but I refused to hide behind him. I would face this.
The crowd pressed closer, camera shutters rattling like gunfire. My hair whipped across my face in the wind, but I didn't raise a hand to fix it. Every movement mattered here. Every photograph would be dissected by tomorrow's papers.
Inside, my heart thudded painfully against my ribs. Outside, I kept walking — slow, deliberate steps across the pavement, ignoring the chaos that snapped at my heels.
Brandon wasn't here. I'd made sure of that. The last thing I wanted was his face plastered across headlines, speculation about the man "protecting" me. This was my battle. My name, my fight.
By the time I reached the glass doors of the building, my pulse was hammering, but I hadn't broken. I caught my reflection just before stepping inside — a woman pale from lack of sleep, but upright, unflinching.
For the first time in weeks, I felt like myself again.
*****
The solicitor walked me out a side door, away from the main crush of reporters. A couple of cameras still waited at the far end of the street, but no shouting, no flashing lights — just the dull echo of my own heels on the pavement.
I kept my head high until the car door shut behind me. Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding since the questioning began.
It was over — at least this round. Hours of questions designed to trip me up, circle back, twist my words until I doubted them myself. But I hadn't cracked. I had told the truth, every detail I could recall, every transaction I'd been forced to front. My throat ached from the effort of staying calm, my hands still trembled faintly in my lap, but I had made it through.
When I finally reached Brandon's flat and slipped inside, the quiet hit me harder than the noise ever had.
He was waiting in the living room, pacing like a caged animal. The moment the door clicked shut, he turned — and before either of us spoke, I was in his arms.
The tension I'd carried all day bled out in that single embrace. No cameras, no investigators, no solicitor — just him, holding me as though he'd never let go.
"They pushed you hard, didn't they?" he murmured against my hair.
I nodded, unable to stop the quiver in my voice.
"They wanted me to look guilty. Every question was a trap. But I didn't give them what they wanted."
He leaned back just enough to see my face, his gaze steady. "Good. That's all you had to do. Tell the truth."
I searched his expression, half-expecting doubt, but found none. Only that quiet faith he'd shown me from the start.
"I kept thinking," I whispered, "if I let them see me break, then my parents win. They set me up for this. I won't let them take me down."
Brandon's hand tightened around mine.
"You won't. We'll fight it together. But right now —" he brushed his thumb across my knuckles, gentler, "right now, you don't have to fight at all. Just… breathe."
The weight of the day still hung heavy in the room, but in his flat — away from the glare of the world — I finally felt like I could.
*****
Our coffees had gone cold, but I barely noticed. My eyes kept drifting to Brandon — how he carried himself, calm and unshakable, as if no storm could touch him. I'd leaned on that steadiness without question, but tonight, curiosity gnawed at me.
"You never lose your balance," I said quietly. "No matter what's happening. Where does that come from?"
He didn't answer at first. His gaze dropped, fingers tightening around his mug. When he spoke, his voice was even, but low.
"My dad… wasn't the kind of man you wanted to come home to. He was cruel. He shouted. Beat us. My mum never stood up to him. She… folded in on herself, like if she pretended not to see, then it wasn't happening."
My chest tightened, but I stayed quiet, letting him go on.
"I had my sister, though. Julie. She is four years older, and she did what Mum didn't. She'd take the blows meant for me, stand between me and Dad when I was too small to fight back. When things got bad, she'd sit with me in the dark, tell me stories until the shouting stopped."
He gave a humourless laugh, shaking his head. "She taught me how to stay still, how not to let him see fear. That was survival. Later, when I was older, it became something else. A kind of… anchor, I suppose. If I lost my head, it felt like I'd be letting her down. Letting myself down."
Finally, he looked at me, eyes steady despite the shadows in them.
"That's where it comes from, Amelia. Not because I'm stronger than anyone else. Just because I learned young that someone has to hold the line."
I swallowed hard, blinking back a sting of tears. He wasn't unshakable because life had been kind to him. He was unshakable because life had forced him to be. And now, he was offering me the same shield his sister had given him.
Without thinking, I reached for his hand.
"Then let me hold the line with you."
For a moment, something flickered across his face —surprise, maybe even vulnerability — but then his fingers closed around mine, warm and firm.
"Alright," he said softly. "We'll hold it together."