The rain hadn't stopped all week.
Manchester seemed wrapped in an endless grey veil — a rhythm of umbrellas opening and closing, of people rushing between taxis and glass doors. Yet Amelia found a strange comfort in it. The drizzle softened the city's edges, making even the tall corporate towers look less intimidating.
Every morning, she rose at six-thirty sharp.
A shower first — lavender shampoo and jasmine soap — followed by the quiet ritual of getting ready, the part of her day she secretly loved the most.
She sat by her vanity, a soft light spilling through white curtains, and began her routine: a touch of concealer under her eyes, a faint coral blush, mascara applied with surgical precision, and a nude lipstick she'd worn since her university interviews. She styled her brown hair in loose waves, brushing it until it fell neatly over her shoulders.
Clothes were chosen carefully — not flashy, but always immaculate.
That Monday, she wore a cream silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted charcoal skirt, sheer tights, and elegant nude heels. Around her wrist, a delicate gold bracelet — a gift from her mother when she graduated. The kind of detail that said elegant, not loud.
At Harrington & Co., her days quickly took shape — HR was a universe of its own, full of numbers, names, and quiet negotiations.
Her desk sat near the wide windows that overlooked St. Peter's Square. She shared her section with David Turner, a witty thirty-year-old specialist in talent acquisition, and Nora Bennett, a senior HR partner who had worked there for twelve years and knew every policy by heart.
"Morning, Amelia," David greeted, leaning casually against her desk. He was tall, friendly, with a sharp jawline and that effortlessly charming way some people have without even trying. "New girl still surviving corporate chaos?"
Amelia smiled softly. "Barely. I'm still trying to memorise everyone's names."
"You'll get there. Though, fair warning, half of them are called James or Emma."
She laughed quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
David grinned, watching her in that way men do when they notice beauty but try to keep it polite. There was no arrogance in his tone, just curiosity.
"Listen," he said, lowering his voice. "Lunch later? There's a decent café downstairs that doesn't taste like cardboard."
"Sure," she said, surprising herself. "That would be nice."
Her mornings filled quickly — reviewing CVs for an upcoming analyst program, drafting onboarding guidelines, attending a team meeting about employee engagement metrics. Margaret Hughes led the session, poised as ever, her voice calm yet firm.
Amelia took notes meticulously, aware that Margaret occasionally glanced her way with quiet approval. She wanted to prove herself — to be more than the young girl fresh out of university.
When the meeting ended, Margaret approached her.
"Amelia, you did very well with that report last week. I sent it up to the board's administrative team. They were impressed."
"Oh," Amelia blinked, genuinely surprised. "Thank you, Ms. Hughes."
"You've got potential," Margaret said with a rare smile. "Keep this pace, and you'll go far here."
The compliment warmed her chest.
Moments like that — small recognitions — meant more than anything.
At lunch, she met David by the elevators. He had his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, confidence as natural as breathing.
"So," he said as they walked toward the café, "what made you choose HR? You look like someone who could've done anything."
Amelia smiled faintly. "People. I've always liked trying to understand what makes them stay, what makes them happy. I think good management is about more than profit margins."
"Spoken like someone who still believes in humanity," he teased lightly. "Give it six months."
She laughed. "You sound cynical."
"I'm realistic," he said, grinning. "But don't lose that idealism. It's… refreshing."
The afternoon was quiet. She worked on employee files, cross-checked performance evaluations, answered polite emails. By five, her head buzzed with acronyms and policy codes, but she felt good — productive.
Before leaving, she stopped by the window. The city shimmered below — thousands of lights breaking through the mist. Somewhere far above, the CEO's office glowed faintly, untouchable.
She didn't think about him much. He was part of a different orbit, one she didn't belong to. Still, sometimes she wondered what kind of person he was beyond the headlines and the suits.
The week unfolded in rhythm — early mornings, structured workdays, late evenings with tea and books. She began to fit in, quietly but firmly.
David often passed by her desk, always with a joke, sometimes with genuine advice. Nora offered mentorship and occasional gossip. Margaret relied on her more each day.
And Amelia, though still shy, started to find her voice — in meetings, in hallway conversations, in small smiles exchanged over coffee machines.
She was building something. Slowly, carefully.
And though she didn't know it yet, the glass towers around her — cold, impersonal, powerful — were already beginning to shift their focus, inch by inch, toward her presence.
…
Mornings for Alexander began before the city was fully awake.
Five a.m. sharp — run along the quiet streets of Didsbury, then a cold shower, espresso, and silence. He didn't believe in slow starts. The world, in his view, only respected momentum.
By seven, his driver waited outside his townhouse — a restored Georgian property of white stone and black iron fences. Inside, everything was immaculate: shelves of art books, minimalist furniture, the faint scent of cedar and tobacco.
He lived alone. Always had, since his father's death. Relationships had become liabilities — distractions dressed as desire.
The car sliced through the misty streets toward the Harrington & Co. tower, where his reflection appeared and vanished again in the mirrored glass façade. He liked that. The anonymity of success.
Inside his office — all steel, marble, and restrained perfection — he reviewed numbers that defined other people's lives: acquisitions, restructuring plans, projections for expansion into Europe.
His assistant, Charlotte Davies, entered precisely at eight-thirty, holding a tablet.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrington. Your meeting with the finance board is at nine. The minister's office confirmed lunch on Thursday. And Margaret Hughes requested ten minutes later this afternoon — something about the new HR onboarding process."
Alexander didn't look up immediately. He was reading a report, pen tapping lightly against the desk.
"Margaret runs HR flawlessly. If she wants time, give it to her."
"Yes, sir."
Charlotte hesitated before leaving. "You've also been shortlisted again for Forbes Europe's 'Under 35 Titans' feature. They asked for a short interview."
He exhaled through his nose, uninterested. "Decline. No interviews this quarter."
She nodded. "Understood."
His mornings passed in a sequence of precision: strategy calls, digital dashboards, and long silences where his mind never stopped calculating.
To outsiders, he was everything the magazines described — brilliant, intimidating, impossibly composed.
But within, there was only structure. The human side of life — the part filled with chaos and feeling — had been methodically erased.
At lunch, he rarely left the building. He preferred to eat in his office, overlooking the city's skyline.
Sometimes, he watched the floors below through the glass partition walls — people moving like quiet gears in a perfect machine.
He didn't know their names, not most of them. Only Margaret's team drew his attention occasionally, because HR handled people — the one variable he could never fully control.
That afternoon, Margaret came in for her meeting, calm and steady as always.
"Everything's running smoothly with the onboarding," she began. "We've added a new digital process for employee engagement. And the new HR Manager you approved last month — Amelia Clarke — has integrated remarkably fast."
He looked up for the first time.
"The young one from Manchester University?"
"Yes. Top of her class. Intelligent, reserved, very disciplined. I think she'll be a real asset."
He nodded once. "Good. We need people like that. The company's growing faster than our structure can handle."
Margaret smiled faintly. "She reminds me a little of how I was when I started. Focused. Careful. Though she has a kind of quiet confidence that draws people to her."
Alexander said nothing for a moment, eyes drifting toward the window.
He didn't ask more. It wasn't his habit to care about individuals beyond performance metrics. Yet something in Margaret's tone — that subtle warmth — left a trace in his thoughts.
After she left, he found himself glancing down again at the HR floor, without knowing why.
The rest of the day followed its rhythm — meetings, decisions, headlines waiting to be approved.
By seven, the building was almost empty. He stayed behind, as always. The rain had intensified outside, blurring the lights of the city into streaks of gold and grey.
He stood by the glass wall, hands in his pockets, watching Manchester breathe beneath him.
From up there, the world looked quiet — as if the chaos of human lives couldn't touch him. And yet, that night, he couldn't quite escape the faint echo of Margaret's words.
"Intelligent. Reserved. A real asset."
He didn't know why that description lingered.
Maybe it was just the rarity of something genuine in a world built on performance. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something he wasn't ready to name.