The streets were still wet from last night's rain, and the sky looked undecided—grey, heavy, and ready to pour again.
Amelia Carter kept her head down as she walked toward the towering building of Ellison & Crane Enterprises. Her chest was tight, her legs tired, and her mind in a hundred places at once. Just an hour ago, a bright orange eviction notice had been pasted on the bakery door—Final Warning—as if they didn't already know they were drowning. Her mother hadn't said a word, just quietly sat on the couch, feeling defeated. Then there was Isabelle—sweet, fragile Isabelle—whose latest test results confirmed what none of them wanted to admit: she would need yet another heart surgery. The cost of another round of treatment was money they didn't have.
Lost in thought, Amelia barely noticed the zooming of a motorcycle until it screeched past, missing her by inches. She stumbled back onto the curb, breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding. The rider cursed, sped off, and she finally came back to her senses. She was late. Again.
She reached the revolving doors of Ellison & Crane Enterprises and pushed. Her heart pounded as she entered the lobby. She made for the elevator and glanced at her phone.
7:58 a.m.
She let out a sigh of relief as the elevator doors slid open. She was on time—barely.
As she sat down, it crossed her mind to check the mail she had scheduled to be sent at exactly 7:00 a.m. Her stomach dropped immediately after she clicked on Outbox—the attachment—she clicked it open, double-checking like she always did, but this time it wasn't the G5 financial projections.
It was the HR memo.
Her blood ran cold.
"Oh no… oh no… oh no…"
She fumbled with the mouse in her hand. She wanted to delete the email, but the deed had already been done. It had been sent an hour ago. There was nothing more she could do.
Before she could even think of what to do next, the intercom on her desk buzzed sharply, making her jump. She leaned forward and pressed the button.
"Yes, sir?"
His voice came through, cold and commanding.
"Carter. My office. Now."
Her stomach twisted. She stood up, took in a deep breath, and walked slowly toward his office. She walked in slowly.
Liam stood near the tall windows, his back to her, his shoulders stiff beneath his tailored suit. He was pacing slowly, deliberately, like a man trying hard not to explode. His hand raked through his hair once, sharp and impatient, before he turned toward his desk and slapped a folder down with controlled force. His jaw was tight, eyes unreadable but burning with irritation.
He didn't shout. That would've been too easy. Instead, he glanced at her with a cold, measured stare that made her wish she could disappear. The silence stretched, heavy, before he finally spoke—low, sharp, and biting.
"You want to explain this?" he said as he turned his desktop toward her so she could see it. Her mistake stared back at her like a spotlight.
"You sent the investors the hiring freeze memo."
He looked up, and his eyes—a sharp, steel grey—met hers without a hint of warmth.
"I… I had both the files together. I might have clicked on the wrong file. I was trying to finish—"
"Trying isn't doing," he snapped. "This isn't a late lunch order or some small clerical hiccup, Carter. You don't attach internal HR memos to billion-dollar investment prospects."
She swallowed hard, thinking of what to say.
"I can send the correct file now. Draft a statement to clarify—"
"Clarify what? That we're incompetent? That I trust people who can't distinguish between internal and external documents?"
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was sharp. Precise. Like he'd been raised to know how to cut people without yelling.
Amelia's fingers twitched at her side. "Please. I know I messed up. Just give me a chance to fix it."
He narrowed his eyes. "You think that's how this works? That mistakes vanish because you say sorry fast enough?"
She didn't answer. What could she say?
After a long, tense pause, he said, "You can go."
Just like that.
Dismissed.
She flinched but didn't argue. She turned and walked out, pulse pounding in her ears. Every step back to her desk felt like walking a plank. The looks from a few nearby co-workers didn't help. She could feel them trying not to meet her eyes.
Amelia didn't go home that night.
After Liam's cutting words and the sharp meeting that followed, she sat hunched at her desk long after the lights in the other departments had gone out. Her eyes burned from staring at emails, fingers sore from typing. She replayed the mistake over and over in her head—how the wrong attachment sent in an email was going to cost the company a million-dollar investment.
At some point, the janitor passed by and offered her a quiet nod. The coffee in her cup had gone cold hours ago, but she didn't care. She was rewriting the email from scratch and drafting up an apology statement to the investors, triple-checking every clause, every comma, trying to patch what she'd damaged before the next board review.
By 11 p.m., she looked nothing like the polished assistant who'd walked in that morning—and felt even worse. But she kept going.
Because she couldn't afford to lose this job. Not now.
By the time she got home, it was already midnight. The scent of vanilla and baked sugar hit her like a memory she couldn't afford. Her mom's bakery took up the bottom floor of their building. Upstairs was where they lived. Barely.
Her mother was still in her apron, wiping down the counter, eyes puffy with fatigue. Isabelle, her thirteen-year-old sister, was curled up on the couch under a faded purple blanket. A nebulizer whirred gently beside her.
"I was worried about you. Why are you so late?" her mom asked gently.
She dropped her bag by the couch and forced a smile. "I had a lot to do."
Her mom didn't push.
"Have you had dinner?" her mom asked, with worry written all over her face.
"I'm not hungry."
She waited until Isabelle was asleep before holding out a letter. Her hands trembled slightly.
Amelia took it. Her stomach turned as she read.
"Two hundred thousand dollars?" she whispered.
Her mom nodded, voice barely audible. "It's from a man your father owes. Said if we don't pay soon…"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Amelia sank onto the couch. She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard, trying to block out the tears, the fear, the rising sense of being trapped.
They never talked about him. Not anymore. Not since the night he vanished.
Two years ago, their father had walked out, left nothing but a trail of IOUs, broken promises, and the kind of debt that didn't just go away. He'd gambled away everything they had. The bakery had almost gone under. Their home, too. Then came the letters. The calls. The warnings from men with soft voices and hard eyes.
What could she say?
She might not even have a job by tomorrow. And that job was the only thing keeping them off the street, keeping Isabelle's prescriptions filled, keeping the bakery oven warm.
Meanwhile, across the city...
Liam Kingsley stood in his penthouse, jacket off, sleeves rolled. The city pulsed beneath him, full of light and noise and nothing he wanted to be part of.
His phone buzzed on the counter. Rose's name lit up. His fiancée.
He let it ring.
He didn't want to talk about venue choices or coordinated outfits or any of the thousand things that came with marrying someone handpicked by his father for political convenience. She was elegant. Beautiful, even. Perfect on paper. Just like the deal his father had orchestrated.
But he couldn't stand the idea of marrying her.
Not because she wasn't good enough—but because she was everything he should want, and he didn't.
Rose didn't love him. She loved what he represented. And part of him suspected she had her agenda—one that served his father more than him.
He stared out into the dark city when a text message flashed on his phone. It was from Amelia.
"I've sent the corrections to the investors. I won't repeat such a clumsy mistake next time."
Of course, she'd fixed it. She always did.
He dropped his glass and thought, briefly, of Amelia.
Not for the first time.
He'd known her for three years now. Always on time. Always composed. Quiet, almost forgettable — at least to the kind of people who only noticed noise. But Liam wasn't that kind of man. He noticed the ones who endured.
Amelia Carter was sharp, capable, and invisible by design — the kind of assistant who made the impossible happen without ever needing credit. She kept her head down and worked like her life depended on it.
He'd seen assistants come and go. Some brilliant, some useless, most eager to be noticed. Amelia never asked for more than what was given. Never pushed. Never played office politics.
And yet, in the quiet moments, he'd caught her watching. Not out of ambition, but calculation. A woman with burdens. He'd seen it in her eyes more than once.
And now that he thought about it, if he had to choose someone… anyone… to pull off the impossible with him?
It wouldn't be Rose.
Rose was what his father wanted: groomed, proper, politically advantageous. But every time she smiled, Liam felt like he was being bought, not loved. She was polished, curated. Her affection came with hidden clauses.
But Amelia?
She had no reason to pretend. She wasn't here for power or prestige. She was here because she had to be.
And that made her dangerously perfect.
He stared out into the dark city.
Maybe this was the answer.
She wanted to keep her job.
He wanted out of his engagement.
She wouldn't want love or promises. Just a paycheck and protection.
He didn't want emotion either. Just control.
And still…
If it ever came down to a choice between Amelia and Rose—
He'd pick Amelia every time.
His jaw clenched.
That kind of desperation... he could use it.
He wasn't sure how yet.
But a solution was forming. One that might give him
a way out.
"Sometimes, the wrong file ends up being the right mistake," he thought to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he finally took a sip of his drink.