Manchester, early autumn.
The kind of morning that begins with a thin mist hovering above the glass roofs of the Northern Quarter, the streets slick with last night's rain. The city hummed with the sound of buses, coffee machines, and the steady rhythm of ambition.
Amelia Clarke adjusted the collar of her cream trench coat as she stepped out of the taxi. Twenty-one years old, freshly graduated from the University of Manchester with a first-class degree in Human Resource Management, she had been one of those students who never missed a deadline, who balanced intellect with quiet grace. Her professors had adored her — not for arrogance or noise — but for her precision, her discipline, her soft way of conquering challenges.
Today, she wasn't a student anymore. Today, she was the newest HR Manager at Harrington & Co., one of the most powerful conglomerates in the United Kingdom — an empire that moved from real estate to renewable energy to cutting-edge tech.
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she entered the main lobby. The building was impossibly tall, a mirror-glass tower that cut through the grey Manchester sky. Inside, everything gleamed — minimalist white marble, golden accents, art installations that looked like they belonged in a museum. A receptionist greeted her by name, handed her a sleek visitor's badge, and smiled knowingly. "Welcome to Harrington & Co., Miss Clarke. The HR Director is expecting you on the twenty-second floor."
Amelia nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her leather bag. Her heart was racing, but her face betrayed nothing. Years of academic presentations and part-time internships had trained her to appear calm, professional. Still, the enormity of it all hit her — this was it. The beginning of her career.
The twenty-second floor opened into a different world — panoramic windows revealing the whole of Manchester, modern furniture in shades of navy and cream, the faint scent of jasmine diffusers.
There stood Margaret Hughes, the Director of Human Resources — elegant, composed, and one of the few women who'd built a formidable reputation in a company dominated by men.
"Amelia Clarke," Margaret said warmly. "We've been expecting you. I must say, your university references were exceptional. I think you'll find this department… quite dynamic."
Amelia smiled, shyly but sincerely. "Thank you, Ms. Hughes. It's an honour to be here."
Margaret placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as they began the tour — introducing her to team members, showing her the open-plan HR office, the glass-walled meeting rooms, the staff lounge overlooking the city. Everywhere she went, eyes followed her — curious glances at the new girl: young, beautiful, perfectly put together in a pale blue blouse tucked into a fitted skirt, her soft brown hair falling just below her shoulders.
She was discreet, never loud, but there was something magnetic about her presence — that effortless elegance some people are simply born with.
Across the building, on the top floor — a floor only few were ever invited to — Alexander Harrington, CEO, age thirty, signed off the morning reports. His office was larger than most apartments, the skyline stretching endlessly behind him. Tailored suit, watch worth more than a car, and the kind of face that had once made him the darling of every magazine in London.
At twenty-six, he had inherited the company after his father's passing and turned it into a powerhouse.
At twenty-seven, he was on the cover of Forbes Europe, titled "The Relentless Mind Behind Britain's Most Dynamic Empire."
At twenty-eight, Vogue UK named him "The Most Desired Bachelor in Britain."
And yet, now, at thirty — there was a different aura around him. The playboy glitter was gone. The parties in Ibiza, the supermodels, the scandalous tabloid covers — all belonged to a version of him that had died quietly somewhere between exhaustion and power.
He was colder now, sharper. The press called him "the Ice King of Manchester."
That morning, while discussing quarterly targets with the finance board, his gaze drifted toward the glass wall that overlooked the HR department below. He wasn't looking for anyone in particular — until he saw her.
Just a brief moment.
A young woman walking beside Margaret Hughes, her expression curious, eyes wide but calm. There was something strikingly out of place about her — not because of beauty alone, though she had plenty of that. It was the way she carried herself, unassuming yet poised, like she didn't yet realise she was part of this world — the kind of innocence that only lasts for a short while in corporate empires like his.
He didn't ask who she was. Didn't comment. Just observed silently, then returned to his conversation as though nothing had caught his attention at all.
But later that day, when he walked past the HR corridor on his way to a meeting, he saw her again — this time closer.
She was standing by a glass wall, holding a file, listening intently to Margaret. Her lips parted slightly as she asked a question, her voice soft but intelligent. She looked like the embodiment of everything pure, everything he'd long forgotten about the world before it became all deals and deadlines.
Alexander didn't stop. Didn't smile. Just passed by, his presence commanding the air around him. For a moment, Amelia felt it — that quiet shift in the atmosphere, that instinct that someone powerful had just walked past. She glanced up, catching a mere glimpse of him — tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly composed — before he disappeared down the hall.
She didn't know it yet, but that was the first time they saw each other.
And sometimes, the smallest, quietest moments are the ones that change everything.
…
The day had passed in a blur of introductions, system passwords, and polite smiles.
By six o'clock, most of the office lights on the twenty-second floor had dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the city reflecting against the glass walls. Amelia gathered her notebook and laptop into her leather tote, thanked Margaret for her guidance, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
Outside, Manchester was wrapped in its usual evening drizzle — that kind of thin rain that never really stops, just changes intensity. She opened her umbrella, crossed the square, and headed toward Deansgate, where the streets were lined with little cafés, concept stores, and small galleries.
Her apartment was nearby — a small one-bedroom flat in a renovated Victorian building. Her parents had rented it for her during university, worried that commuting from the outskirts would wear her down. The place was modest but elegant, with tall windows overlooking a quiet street, hardwood floors, and a small balcony filled with potted plants she was constantly trying (and failing) to keep alive.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of vanilla and fresh laundry.
There was a neatly arranged bookshelf — mostly HR textbooks, a few novels by Sally Rooney and Kazuo Ishiguro — and on her white desk, a vision board pinned with little quotes about discipline, ambition, and kindness.
She slipped off her heels, replaced them with soft grey slippers, and tied her hair into a loose bun. After changing into an oversized cream sweater and soft jeans, she poured herself a glass of water and glanced at her phone.
A message from her best friend flashed on the screen.
Emma: "You survived your first day, Miss Corporate Queen? 🍸 Dinner to celebrate?"
Amelia smiled, typing back quickly.
Amelia: "Barely survived, but I could use food. Come over?"
Half an hour later, Emma arrived — all energy and colour, her laughter filling the quiet apartment. She worked in marketing, had a boyfriend named Daniel, and was the complete opposite of Amelia: spontaneous, flirty, unfiltered. Yet the two balanced each other perfectly.
They cooked pasta together — Amelia chopping vegetables meticulously, Emma pouring wine and talking without pause.
"So?" Emma asked, settling on the couch with her plate. "How was day one at the empire of glass?"
Amelia smiled, curling her legs under her. "Impressive. Everyone's so… efficient. Polished. I think I'll learn a lot. Margaret seems lovely."
"And the famous Alexander Harrington? Did you meet the ice king himself?"
She laughed softly. "No. I just saw him passing by. He looked… well, exactly like you'd imagine someone like him to look."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "Meaning disgustingly handsome and entirely unattainable?"
Amelia shrugged, her cheeks colouring slightly. "Something like that. But he's not exactly someone I'll ever be dealing with. HR has enough on its plate."
Emma smirked. "Sure, sure. That's how every story starts."
Amelia rolled her eyes, changing the subject. "How's Daniel?"
"Still annoying, still perfect. Oh, by the way," Emma leaned closer, "Tom asked about you again. He said he texted you last week and you didn't reply."
Amelia sighed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't know what to say. He's nice, I know that, but… I just don't want anything right now. Not distractions, not expectations. I've worked too hard to get here."
Emma tilted her head. "You're allowed to have both, you know. Career and… fun."
Amelia smiled faintly but didn't answer. She looked down at her hands, tracing the rim of her wine glass.
"Amelia," Emma said gently, her tone shifting, "you don't have to be embarrassed. There's nothing wrong with waiting."
"I know," Amelia whispered. "It's not that I think there's something wrong. I just… get nervous. The thought of being that close to someone— it's like my brain freezes."
Her voice softened, fragile but steady.
"I've never told anyone else, Emma. People assume things. That I'm confident because I dress well, or because I can hold eye contact in interviews. But that's just… the part of me I built. The rest of me still feels like a little girl sometimes."
Emma smiled, eyes warm. "And that's okay. You're allowed to be both. Strong and scared. Brave and careful."
Amelia gave a quiet nod. "Thanks."
They ate in silence for a while, the hum of the city drifting through the window — car horns, laughter, the faint rhythm of rain against glass.
Later, when Emma left and the apartment fell still again, Amelia sat by the window, watching the wet streets shimmer under the streetlights. She thought about her day — the marble floors, the quiet efficiency of the office, the way the CEO's gaze had brushed her without meaning to.
She shook her head, almost laughing at herself.
She didn't come to Manchester for stories like that. She came to build something.
To prove herself.