The weekend arrived wrapped in hush. Amelia woke up early, sunlight pouring across the room like spilled gold. Daniel's side of the bed was already empty; she could hear the muted clinking of glasses in the kitchen below.
A small knot began to form in her stomach.
She slipped on a sweater and descended the stairs. Daniel stood at the counter, scrolling through his phone, jaw tight. When he looked up, his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Morning," she said softly.
He nodded. "You've been busy."
"I had to stay late last night. The project—"
"I know." His tone was calm, too calm. "I heard about your little promotion."
She froze. "Julian told you?"
"No," he said, setting the phone down. "People talk. You'd be surprised how many still remember who you're married to."
The emphasis landed like a slap. "It's just work, Daniel."
He chuckled under his breath. "Just work. Right."
He poured coffee into a mug and slid it across the counter toward her. "You should've told me."
"I was going to," she lied.
He leaned forward, his voice husky. "You've been odd lately. Distracted. You go in early, come home late. Don't tell me that's all reports and spreadsheets."
Amelia gazed up at him. "That's what it is."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Daniel smiled once more—slow, measured, rehearsed. "You've got everyone fooled, don't you? Even him."
"Daniel—"
He stood tall. "You think I don't see? The way you talk of him. The way you grin when his name is spoken." His palm slammed on the counter. "Beware, Amelia. Folks get the wrong idea."
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her tone even. "The only wrong idea is that my work belongs to you."
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, maybe, or pride breaking apart under its own weight. He slammed the door shut behind him. "Don't wait up," he snarled, and it closed behind him.
The day spun on after that.
Amelia tidied, read to the children, tried to drive the heaviness out of the rooms. But Daniel's words clung like smoke.
By late afternoon, she was leaning against the small park across the street, notebook on her lap, watching kids play. Cut grass and rain scented the air. She had started making lists for Monday—numbers, deadlines—when a shadow fell across the page.
"Working on a weekend?" Julian's voice was even, playful.
She looked up, shocked. He was dressed informally for the very first time ever—dark jeans, gray t-shirt, no tie. He stood holding a coffee mug in one hand and his phone in the other.
"Sorry," she said with a fraction of a smile.
"Habit, I suppose."
"Don't be sorry." He looked at the notebook. "Taking on the rebuilding of the company yourself?"
They talked for a couple of minutes—about the project, about his trip to Geneva next week. He asked her opinion on a strategy report, and gave it willingly. The talk had been normal, easy, until Julian's voice altered.
"Are you all right?" he asked bluntly.
She blinked. "Yes, of course."
He glanced at her, unwinking. "You've done a great job. But you look.tired."
Amelia laughed loudly. "I have two children. I'm always tired."
Julian smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. "Fair enough. Still—don't forget to breathe once in a while."
"I'll try."
As he stood to leave, he paused. "Amelia—whatever happens with this project, remember that your success is yours. No one else's."
The words settled deep in her chest, warm and sharp all at once.
When he walked away, she realized her hands were trembling—not from fear, but from something dangerously close to hope.
Daniel was late. The children were asleep; the house felt smaller, the air heavier. Amelia sat facing the table, laptop open, still working.
He slipped in quietly and draped his jacket over a chair. She could smell the cologne on him—strong, fresh.
"Long day?" she asked.
He did not answer. Instead, he edged closer, his eyes on the screen. "Still working? You never know when to stop."
"I'm finishing a report."
He circled behind her, reading over her shoulder. "DeMara numbers, huh? Heard Royce is taking that one personally."
"He trusts me to handle it," she said, unable to hide the pride in her voice.
Daniel's laugh was short and cruel. "Of course he does."
She looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Come on, Amelia. Don't be dense. Men like him don't 'trust' women like you due to numbers on a sheet of paper."
Her heart speeded up. "You're out of line."
"Am I?" He bristled, then gentler, "You once remembered your station."
The insult cut deeper than he expected—it hit home, and for a moment his face gave way, remorse flickering under the anger. But Amelia did not move back. She closed the laptop and rose.
"Indeed I do know my place," she replied quietly. "It's just not where you left it."
Daniel scowled at her, incredulous. Then he turned on his heel and strode away, muttering something she couldn't quite hear. A door slammed upstairs.
She remained there in the stillness once again, the echo fading.
Her hands shook, but she did not tumble over this time. She sat back down, opening up the laptop and clacking away. The numbers spilled now, clean and certain. The work calmed her.
Rain began outside—soft, insistent.
In here, Amelia typed on, each keystroke a quiet defiance, a beat of freedom.