The train to the countryside left Manchester under a soft curtain of rain.
Amelia watched the city fade through the window — the glass towers dissolving into mist, the skyline shrinking until it was only a memory.
She hadn't planned to leave that weekend.
But by Friday night, the walls of her flat felt too small for her thoughts, and her mother's voice over the phone — warm, familiar, safe — was all it took to undo her resolve.
"Come home, darling," her mother had said. "You sound exhausted. Whatever it is, we'll sort it out."
So she packed a small bag, wrapped herself in her beige coat, and let the train carry her back to where life had once been simple.
The Clarke family home sat on the edge of town, with a garden that always smelled faintly of rosemary and rain.
Her mother, Anne, was already waiting at the door, apron dusted with flour, arms outstretched.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, pulling Amelia into her arms. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," Amelia murmured, the words automatic.
Her mother studied her face, that way mothers do — seeing through every deflection. "Fine," she repeated softly. "You haven't been fine since the moment you stepped out of that car."
Amelia smiled weakly. "You always did have a terrible poker face for lies."
Anne laughed gently and brushed a strand of hair from her daughter's cheek. "Come inside. I made roast chicken. And before you ask — yes, I still overcooked the potatoes."
For a while, they pretended everything was normal.
Dinner was filled with small talk — work, weather, the neighbour's new dog.
But the weight in Amelia's chest didn't lift. It only grew heavier under her mother's warmth.
After dessert, Anne poured tea and sat opposite her, eyes patient and knowing.
"Now," she said, "why don't you tell me what's really going on?"
Amelia hesitated, fingers tightening around the mug.
"There's been… something. At work."
Her mother's brow furrowed. "Something?"
She took a deep breath. "You'll probably see it online eventually."
Anne's expression turned wary. "Go on."
"There was a picture," Amelia whispered. "Of me. With him. My boss."
Silence fell.
Only the faint tick of the kitchen clock filled the air.
Anne blinked once, twice. "Alexander Harrington?"
Amelia nodded, shame colouring her cheeks. "It wasn't what it looked like. But people don't care about the truth when a story sounds better."
"Oh, my love…" Her mother reached across the table, taking her hand. "Did he hurt you?"
"No," Amelia said quickly. "No, he didn't. He's been… kind. Too kind, maybe. That's the problem."
She bit her lip. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to disappoint you and Dad. I wanted to make you proud — to prove that everything you did for me wasn't wasted. And now—"
Her voice broke.
Anne squeezed her hand firmly. "Amelia Clarke, look at me."
She did.
"There is nothing you could do that would make me ashamed of you. Not one thing. You hear me?"
Tears welled up, spilling before she could stop them. "But I've worked so hard, Mum. My whole life has been about doing the right thing. And now people think I'm—"
"They don't know you," Anne said softly. "They don't know the girl who studied until her eyes hurt. Who took the bus home at midnight because she wanted to finish her project perfectly. They only see what they want to see. But I know you."
Amelia leaned forward, resting her forehead against her mother's shoulder, her tears silent now.
For a long time, they stayed like that — the kitchen filled with the sound of rain tapping softly against the window.
Later, when the house had gone quiet and her parents had gone to bed, Amelia sat in her childhood room — the same one with faded posters and shelves lined with old textbooks.
She scrolled through her phone absently, ignoring the unread notifications.
Until one name made her stop.
From: Alexander Harrington
I don't know if you've seen the news cycle today. It's fading, finally. But I hate that you've had to hide because of me.
Would you let me take you away for the weekend? Somewhere quiet. Just us. You don't have to answer right away.
I just… miss you.
Her heart clenched.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing, slowly, carefully:
I'm spending the weekend with my parents. I need some time. Thank you for understanding.
She hesitated, then hit send.
A minute later, the message showed as read.
No reply came.
Across the city, Alexander sat in his car outside his duplex apartment, rain streaking the windshield. He reread her message again and again, each word feeling like a door quietly closing.
He'd thought she might say yes — or at least not no.
He'd imagined driving her out to his house in Cheshire, where the world would disappear: just her laughter in the echo of the old halls, the quiet comfort of being away from the noise.
Instead, he was alone again.
When he finally reached the countryside that night, the house loomed ahead — stone, ivy, the faint glow of lamplight spilling through tall windows. He walked through the halls in silence, the air smelling faintly of cedar and rain.
In the grand library, he poured himself a glass of scotch and stared at the fire.
The flames danced in the reflection of the piano nearby — the same one his grandmother had once played.
He could almost hear her voice again. Protect her from the world, not from yourself.
He set the glass down untouched and leaned back, eyes closing.
For the first time in years, Alexander Harrington felt utterly powerless.
He had everything — wealth, legacy, control — except the one thing he wanted most.
And as the fire crackled softly, he whispered her name into the empty house,
"Amelia."
The silence that followed was almost kind — the sort of silence that only exists when love has nowhere left to go but inward.