The message arrived before dawn.
A vibration on the nightstand, a soft buzz that sliced through the dark.
Amelia blinked, half-asleep, reaching for her phone.
One line. No greeting. No explanation.
Urgent meeting – 9 a.m. Executive floor. Attendance: all senior management.
Her heart sank. Urgent meetings never meant anything good.
By eight-thirty, the company's top floor was alive with tension.
Phones rang in clipped tones. Doors opened and closed too quickly. The PR Director, Linda Graves, stood in the corner whispering into her headset, while legal counsel spread papers across the conference table.
When Amelia stepped out of the lift, she immediately sensed it — that electric hum of contained chaos.
She wasn't meant to be there. HR wasn't usually called to PR briefings. But Margaret was home recovering from her injury, and Alexander's assistant had specifically asked Amelia to take her seat "to ensure confidentiality."
She walked in quietly, clutching her notebook like a shield.
The big screen at the end of the room showed a single image: a blurred photo of Alexander Harrington leaving a New York hotel, head turned slightly, rain falling around him.
And beside him — a woman. Brown hair. Small frame. Face angled away from the camera.
The caption beneath it:
Harrington & Co. CEO Spotted With Mystery Woman During Business Trip
For a moment, Amelia couldn't breathe.
It wasn't a clear picture. It could have been anyone.
But she remembered that night — the rain, the hotel lights, the way he'd laughed softly as he'd held the door for her.
Her stomach turned to ice.
Linda, the PR director, was speaking fast. "The story's spreading. Online outlets are picking it up. So far, it's speculation — no names, no official comment. Our best move is to issue a short statement denying personal involvement with any employee and framing the trip strictly as corporate."
Alexander sat at the head of the table, jaw tight, hands clasped. His voice, when it came, was low but steady.
"No comment. Not denial, not confirmation. Silence will kill the story faster than fuel."
Linda nodded reluctantly. "Understood. But staff are talking already. Someone's going to connect the dots."
Amelia could feel eyes sliding toward her — curious, assessing, faintly cruel.
Alexander noticed. "Miss Clarke's attendance here is procedural," he said sharply. "Nothing more."
The tone was calm but cold — too cold. He was protecting her by making it sound like distance.
Still, it stung.
The meeting moved on: containment strategy, statement drafts, legal review. Amelia took notes she wouldn't be asked for, her mind far away.
Afterwards, she escaped to the restroom, locking herself into a stall before the tears could fall.
It wasn't shame — it was fear.
Fear of the whispers that were already starting in the corridors. Fear of what she'd lose if anyone put the puzzle together.
By the time she returned to her desk, her inbox was a minefield.
Anonymous messages. Subject lines with winks and insinuations.
Someone had left a folded printout of the article by her keyboard, circled in red pen.
She threw it in the bin before anyone could see her hands shaking.
Late afternoon. The building had begun to empty.
She was gathering her things when his voice came from behind her.
"Amelia."
She turned. Alexander stood by the corridor window, coat in hand, eyes unreadable.
"Come upstairs," he said quietly. "Please."
Her instinct said no — that nothing good waited on the executive floor — but something in his voice left no room for refusal.
His office was dim, blinds half-drawn, the city glowing below in streaks of orange light.
He set his coat on the chair and turned toward her, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes.
"I didn't know they'd call you into that meeting," he began. "You shouldn't have been dragged into this."
"It's fine," she said, too quickly. "I understand the optics."
"Optics," he repeated bitterly. "God, what a word."
She forced a small smile. "It's our world, isn't it?"
He exhaled slowly. "You're not safe here tonight. The press have already started calling the switchboard. I've arranged a car to take you home."
She frowned. "You can't keep protecting me like I'm a problem to be solved."
"You're not a problem," he said sharply. "You're the only thing that feels real in all of this."
Her breath caught. "Alexander—"
He crossed the room in two strides, stopping just close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne. "They can print what they like. They can guess, lie, fabricate. But I won't stand by and let them destroy you."
"And how exactly will you stop them?" she asked, voice shaking. "By confirming it's me? By giving them the headline they want?"
His silence was answer enough.
She stepped back, tears threatening again. "This is why it can't work. You think power protects. But power exposes. You'll recover. I'll be the girl who made a mistake."
He looked stricken. "You think this was a mistake?"
"I think…" she whispered, "I've run out of ways to make it anything else."
The words hung between them like glass about to shatter.
He turned away, bracing his hands on the desk. For a moment he looked every bit the man the magazines called untouchable. But when he spoke again, his voice was quiet, almost raw.
"If you need distance, I'll give it. But please — don't resign. Don't let gossip win."
She blinked back tears. "It's not about winning. It's about surviving."
"Then survive," he said, finally turning to face her again. "And when you've survived, come find me."
She shook her head, stepping toward the door. "You say that like it's easy."
"It's not," he said softly. "But nothing worth surviving ever is."
That night, he didn't go home to his grand house outside the city.
He stayed in his apartment, high above the rain-drenched streets, the skyline bleeding silver against the windows.
The building was silent. Only the hum of the city below kept him company.
He poured himself a drink, didn't touch it, then finally sat at the piano — a habit he'd never lost since childhood. His hands hovered above the keys before he began to play something low, hesitant, and unfinished.
Every note sounded like her name.
When his phone buzzed, he didn't expect it to be her.
But it was.
From: Amelia Clarke
I got home safely. Thank you for the car.
Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
Take care of yourself.
He read it twice. Then, without replying, he looked out at the city and whispered into the glass,
"I don't want you to be fine, Amelia. I want you to be mine."