The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of it.
By Friday morning, Manchester had turned sharp and clear again — the kind of brightness that made the city's edges glint like cut glass. Inside the Harrington & Co. tower, the rhythm of the week hummed quietly: printers, meetings, low conversations, the constant whisper of success being maintained.
For Amelia Clarke, the week had been a blur of work and restraint.
Every time she thought she could breathe, another email arrived. The latest came just after nine, short and precise.
From: Margaret Hughes
To: Amelia Clarke
Subject: Trust Index – Follow-up Session
Mr. Harrington would like to review the pilot outline with you and me directly on Monday morning at 9 a.m. in his office. Please have the model summary and data prototype ready.
She read it three times. Her stomach felt like a knot pulled too tight.
His office.
Not the boardroom. Not a presentation through Margaret.
A direct meeting.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and reminded herself that she was a professional — not a child, not a student. Just a person doing her job.
Monday morning.
She woke before dawn, as if her body knew the day would demand everything from her. The mirror reflected nerves she wouldn't allow herself to show.
She chose her outfit with precision — a dove-grey blouse, soft and flowing at the sleeves, tucked into black cigarette trousers that lengthened her frame. A thin black belt, simple pearl earrings, and black pointed heels that made her posture perfect.
Her hair she wore half-up again, this time polished into subtle waves, the rest falling freely down her back. Her makeup was the same muted palette: gentle earth tones, calm, professional, quietly stunning.
When she looked at her reflection, she didn't see confidence, exactly — she saw composure that looked like it.
At 8:55 she stood outside the thirty-second-floor reception, her laptop pressed against her chest like a shield.
Margaret arrived seconds later, as calm as always.
"Ready?" she asked softly.
"As I'll ever be," Amelia managed.
They entered.
Alexander's office was sunlight and silence.
The skyline stretched endlessly behind him — all steel, cloud, and power.
He stood when they came in, the movement smooth but deliberate. Today he wore a dark navy suit, the cut flawless, the absence of a tie making him look slightly less severe, though his presence filled the room all the same.
"Good morning," he said, voice low, calm.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrington," both women replied.
He gestured toward the seating area — a round table by the window rather than the imposing desk. "Let's make this informal."
If Amelia noticed her heart accelerate, she hid it perfectly.
Margaret began with context, summarising the progress so far. Amelia spoke next — hands steady, tone even, explaining the model's logic, the weighted factors, the predictive potential of combining survey data with retention metrics.
Alexander listened. Not passively — intently. The way he leaned slightly forward, pen balanced between his fingers, eyes fixed on her when she spoke, made her hyper-aware of every word.
"And how confident are you in the reliability of the initial coefficients?" he asked.
"Seventy-eight percent at the current sample size," she replied without hesitation. "Once the pilot broadens, I expect to reach at least eighty-eight."
He nodded, faintly impressed. "That's a bold estimate."
"It's a cautious one," she corrected softly.
For the first time, he almost smiled — a fleeting expression, more in his eyes than his mouth.
"Good," he said. "Confidence with evidence. I like that."
Margaret shot her a quick, approving glance, and the discussion continued — structure, ethics, implementation timelines. Amelia's mind never once drifted, but every time his gaze caught hers, she felt the pulse in her wrist quicken.
When the meeting finally ended, Alexander stood and extended his hand first.
"Excellent work, Miss Clarke. You'll oversee the pilot directly with Ms. Hughes. Keep me updated weekly."
She hesitated a fraction before taking his hand — brief contact, light, but electric in the quiet way of something unexpected.
"Thank you, sir," she said, voice composed.
As they left, she didn't look back. But he did.
After they were gone, Alexander stood by the window for a long moment.
The skyline blurred slightly in the distance, though his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't used to noticing details — the way someone held a pen, the tone of their voice, the calm precision of a mind that didn't rush to impress.
He told himself it was curiosity — professional, rational. A CEO interested in talent. Nothing more.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't the whole truth.
Downstairs, Amelia returned to her floor to find Nora waiting with two coffees.
"So?" Nora asked, wide-eyed. "How was it? Did he breathe fire? Did you survive?"
Amelia laughed quietly, setting down her bag. "He was… professional. Focused. Intense."
"That's one way to put it," Nora said. "Was he terrifyingly handsome in person?"
Amelia blinked, caught off guard. "I wasn't looking."
Nora smiled knowingly. "Of course not."
The week moved fast.
Emails, reports, pilot drafts. But the invisible thread had begun — subtle, unspoken, inevitable.
Every now and then, she'd see him passing through the HR floor — a rare occurrence, always purposeful.
Once, as she stepped out of a meeting room, she nearly collided with him in the corridor.
"Excuse me," she murmured quickly, stepping aside.
He gave a faint nod. "Miss Clarke."
Just that — her name, spoken quietly, his voice lower than she remembered.
The sound stayed with her the rest of the day.
That Friday evening, long after most had gone home, the HR floor was still lit.
Amelia sat alone, finalising a progress sheet for Margaret. Outside, the city glowed — Manchester's skyline blurred in the mist.
A soft knock on the open door broke her focus.
She turned, startled.
Alexander stood there, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
"Still working?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, straightening. "I was just finalising the pilot notes."
"You shouldn't be alone this late," he said, glancing around the quiet office. "Security usually locks down after seven."
"I lost track of time," she admitted, a faint blush warming her cheeks.
He stepped closer, only far enough that his voice could stay low. "That's not necessarily a flaw."
She looked up at him, uncertain. "Excuse me?"
He gave a small half-smile — the kind that wasn't charm, but recognition. "Losing track of time means you care about what you're building. That's rare."
For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the city filled the silence.
Then he nodded once. "Send me the summary when it's done. I'll review it personally."
"Yes, sir," she said, her tone steady again.
As he turned to leave, she exhaled, unaware she'd been holding her breath.
In the elevator, Alexander's reflection stared back at him — unreadable as ever.
He told himself it was nothing. A conversation. A moment. A capable employee doing her job.
But the thought followed him into the night nonetheless:
that maybe, for the first time in years, he'd begun to notice the difference between loyalty to work and interest in a person.
And he wasn't sure which one frightened him more.