CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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Mia
The weeks after signing blurred into quiet routine.
Mia landed in London in late-September to grey skies and the faint smell of rain on warm concrete.
She found a small flat in Islington—nothing fancy, just enough space for a desk, a kettle, and the notebook she still wrote in most nights.
She spent August and September settling: new Oyster card, familiar Tube routes, the slow work of turning a rented room into something that felt like hers again.
She walked Hampstead Heath on Sundays, let the city noise fill the silence, and waited for the Ascari start date in October.
The job hadn’t begun yet, but the possibility of it had already begun to reshape her days.
A cafe on Mount Street, a corner table by the window. Early October light filtered through the glass in pale, watery shafts, catching on the marble tabletop and the polished brass fixtures.
Mia arrived first. She ordered a black coffee—strong, no frills—and sat with her back to the wall, trench coat draped over the chair beside her. The steam rose in slow curls. She watched the door.
When Emma walked in, she did so like she owned the pavement outside: chin up, heels clicking with purpose, a tailored camel coat over silk trousers that probably cost more than Mia's last month's rent.
Her auburn hair was blown out, flawless.
She spotted Mia immediately, offered a tight, bright smile that didn't reach her eyes, and strode over.
“Mia. You made it.” Emma slid into the seat opposite without waiting for an invitation, shrugging off her coat like she was shedding a minor inconvenience. “God, this place is always mobbed on Saturdays. It’s a miracle you scored a table.”
Mia took a measured sip. “I got here early.”
Emma flagged the waiter with a flick of her wrist. Flat white, oat milk, extra hot. Then she turned back, folding her hands on the table as if this were a board meeting. “So. You're back in F1 I hear. Ascari. Impressive. I saw the press release—very clean, very you. Eddie Hale must be thrilled.”
Mia let the comment slide. “It's a good fit. I'm starting for real next week.”
“Next week?” Emma raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping.
“Cutting it fine. But that's you—always landing on your feet when the rest of us are still figuring out which way is up.” She paused, smile fading into something more practiced.
“Look, I know why we're here. You messaged.
I jumped at it. So let's just… do this.”
Mia set her cup down carefully. “Do what, exactly?”
Emma exhaled through her nose, a little impatient.
“The big sorry scene. I owe you one. I was awful. Completely awful. Henry was a monster, I see that now—everyone does. And I chose the wrong side. I believed him over you, and I let the whole bloody college turn on you like it was some kind of sport. It was unforgivable.”
Her tone stayed crisp, almost businesslike. No tremor. No tears. Just the calm delivery of someone used to having difficult conversations end with a cheque or a favour.
Mia watched her. “You sound like you're reading from a script.”
Emma's mouth twitched. “Maybe I am. I've rehearsed it enough.
Therapy, friends, even my mother—God, she was horrified when I finally told her the full story.
Said I should have done better by you. She's right. I should have.” She leaned forward slightly.
“But let's be honest, Mia. We were twenty. I was in love—or thought I was. He had this way of making everything sound reasonable. I was young, stupid, privileged. Take your pick.”
“Privileged,” Mia echoed quietly.
Emma shrugged, unapologetic. “Yes. I grew up thinking the world bent a certain way.
Bad things didn't happen to people like us—or if they did, they got fixed quietly.
I didn't know how to handle something that ugly.
So I pretended it wasn't there. And I hurt you because it was easier than admitting I was wrong.”
The waiter arrived with Emma's coffee. She thanked him with automatic charm, then turned back. “The other girl—the first-year who pressed charges—she changed everything. GHB in her system, clear evidence. Henry's in prison. Twelve years. It's over. For him, at least.”
Mia stared into her black coffee. “And for me?”
Emma sighed, a touch exasperated. “It proves you were telling the truth. Doesn't that count for something? I mean, I know it doesn't undo the damage. I know I contributed to it. But… it's proof. I was blind. I was wrong. And I'm sorry.”
The words landed flat. No pleading. No desperation. Just acknowledgment, delivered with the same brisk efficiency Emma used to plan Oxford balls or negotiate trust-fund allowances.
Mia let the silence sit. Then: “Sorry for what, exactly?”
Emma blinked. “For not believing you. For siding with him. For letting everyone ostracise you until you had to leave. For being the kind of friend who disappears when things get hard.”
Mia nodded slowly. “That's a start.”
Emma's jaw tightened—just a fraction. “I'm trying here, Mia. This isn't easy for me either. Admitting I was that person… it's humiliating. I don't do humiliation well.”
“I know,” Mia said. “You never have.”
Emma looked away for a second, toward the window where leaves stuck to the wet glass. “So what now? You forgive me and we pretend the last few years didn't happen? Or do I just walk out and we never speak again?”
Mia traced the rim of her cup. “I forgive you.”
Emma's head snapped back. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Mia said. “Because holding onto it doesn't serve me anymore. I've spent too long carrying what happened—in Oxford, and ever since. I've learned to put things down when they're too heavy. Forgiveness isn't absolution. It's me choosing not to let it define the rest of my life.”
Emma studied her, something like surprise flickering behind the composure. “You're different.”
“I had to be.”
A beat. Emma picked up her spoon, stirred unnecessarily. “I don't expect us to be best friends again. That ship sailed. But… I'd like to know you're okay. That you're not still paying for my mistakes.”
Mia met her eyes. “I'm okay. Not perfect. But okay. The distance helped. Time helped. And knowing it wasn't my fault—really knowing it—helped most.”
Emma nodded once, sharp. “Good. Then I've done at least one thing right today.”
Mia stood, slipping her coat on. “I need to go. Prep starts Monday. Early mornings.”
Emma rose too, slower. “Of course. The empire awaits.” A small, wry smile. “Take care of yourself, Mia. And if you ever want coffee again—text me.”
Mia paused at the table. “Maybe I will. Someday.”
She left cash for her coffee—exact change—and walked out. The door chimed behind her, soft as an afterthought.
Outside, the autumn air was sharp, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant bonfires. Mia turned up her collar, started toward the tube. London stretched ahead—Ascari waiting, engines waiting, a life waiting that she had chosen, piece by hard piece.
The shadow of Oxford lingered, thinner now. Emma's apology—abrasive, incomplete, self-serving in places—hadn't erased it. But it had let a little more light in.
And that was enough.
She kept walking.