The interview should have been simple. A mid-sized events company, nothing flashy, nothing connected to the Sterns. Just a quiet, steady job where I could prove myself.
I'd prepared carefully, my CV stripped bare of anything that might scream privilege. No family connections, no inflated titles. Just the work I'd done, the skills I could claim honestly.
But halfway through, the man across the desk leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
"You're that Amelia Stern, aren't you?"
My stomach dropped.
"I… I'd prefer to be judged on my application," I managed.
He smiled, polite but sharp. "Of course. But forgive me, it's hard to separate the name from the headlines. One wonders if there might be… complications, hiring someone with that kind of baggage."
The rest of the interview blurred. Questions I barely answered, my face burning, throat tightening with every polite smile. By the time I walked out, the air outside felt like knives against my skin.
I hadn't even realised I'd called Brandon until I heard his voice through the phone. "Amelia? What's wrong?"
And then it all tumbled out. The dismissal. The name. The reminder that no matter how clean the investigation left me, the stain of my parents would follow me everywhere.
There was a beat of silence on the line. Then, his voice — low, steady. "Where are you?"
By the time Brandon found me, I was sitting on a bench near the river, in my hands a paper cup of coffee. I'd managed to swallow down most of my tears, fixing my face into something neutral. Something that didn't look like failure.
He approached quietly, but there was tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes scanned my face.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than I expected.
I forced a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just didn't go as well as I hoped, that's all. First interview nerves."
He didn't answer right away. He just stood there, watching me, seeing through me the way he always did. It made my stomach twist.
"Amelia." His tone was firmer this time. Not sharp, not angry — just steady. "Don't do that with me. Don't tell me you're fine when you're not."
I looked away, staring at the grey water moving sluggishly past. "What's the point? It's not the end of the world. I'll just… try somewhere else."
"You called me because you were upset," he said.
The truth of it pierced me. I hadn't even realised what I was doing when I dialled his number, but he was right. Somewhere deep down, I'd wanted him here.
"I can't escape it," I whispered. "Even now, when I'm cleared, when it's over, the moment they see my name, they don't see me. They see my parents. The fraud. The scandal."
I threw the paper cup into the nearby bin. "How am I supposed to build a life out of that?"
Brandon lowered himself onto the bench beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. He didn't speak at first, just let the silence settle around us.
Then took my hand and quietly, almost like a vow, he said, "By being stubborn enough to keep showing them who you really are. And by not being in it alone this time."
My throat closed. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to lean into that strength. But part of me was still afraid — that needing him meant I'd never stand on my own.
So I sat there, torn, the river sliding past, his steady presence at my side making it harder and harder to keep pretending I was fine.
*****
The next couple of weeks blurred into a cycle of interviews and rejection. Each time, I walked in with my shoulders squared, answers rehearsed and at the ready. Each time, I walked out with the same hollow ache in my chest.
Sometimes it was polite excuses. Sometimes it was the look — the flicker of recognition when they placed the name, followed by that guarded distance. Once, it was open hostility.
Brandon never said I told you so. Never once offered to pull strings or step in, though I could feel the unspoken urge in him like a taut wire between us. Instead, he asked about each interview when I came home, listening with that steady patience of his.
"Any progress?" he'd ask.
"Not yet," I'd answer, forcing a smile that never reached my eyes.
He'd nod, sometimes lay a hand briefly on my shoulder, and then let it go. But the quiet way he held and supported me said more than words — frustration that I was being treated this way, a fierce kind of faith that I'd get through it.
I could feel his persistence building, like the tide pushing against the shore. He wouldn't push me, not outright. But his presence, his patience, his steady belief in me — it pressed in closer every day.
And me? I was determined. I had to prove I could rebuild without anyone's help. Even if that meant walking into walls again and again until something gave.
But sometimes, late at night, when the silence stretched between us, I wondered if I was rebuilding a future… or just building walls that would shut him out too.
*****
Brandon's POV
It was hell, watching her fight like this.
Every morning she left with her chin high, her shoulders set in that way that made her look untouchable. And every evening she came back with her smile worn thin, her eyes duller than when she'd left. She tried to hide it, but I saw. I always saw.
I wanted to fix it. God, did I want to fix it. I had contacts I could call, people who knew people . One phone call and she could have walked into a job where they wouldn't even mention her last name.
But that wasn't what she wanted.
And so I kept my mouth shut, letting the words rot on my tongue, and instead I asked how the interview had gone. I listened. I nodded. I made her tea. I told myself that was enough.
Except it wasn't.
Every polite rejection, every thinly veiled insult she endured — it ignited something in me. Anger. Frustration. The urge to protect her, to tear the world apart for her. But I knew if I tried, she'd see it as betrayal.
Julie's voice echoed in my head more than once: Sometimes loving someone means letting them walk their own road, even if you hate watching them stumble.
That was what I was trying to do. Let her stumble. Trust her to get back up.
But lying awake at night, I wondered how much longer she could keep this up before the weight crushed her. And how much longer I could stand by, watching her break herself against walls others built up.