Her phone buzzed. Not Lucas. A message from an old number she hadn’t seen in years.
Hey Mia, it’s Emma. From Oxford. I know it’s been ages, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Can we meet? I really want to talk things out. Please?
Her hands shook as she reread it. Emma. The name alone sent ice through her veins. She deleted the message without replying, but more followed over the next few days—gentle, persistent, pleading.I was wrong. I should have believed you. I miss our friendship.Each one reopened a wound she’d thought was scarred over.
* * *
Back in England two weeks later, with Zandvoort looming, she threw herself into prep: media schedules, social drafts, anything to stay busy. She ignored Emma’s texts, deleting them unread. She ignored Lucas too—his messages (“Home safe? Coffee this week?”),a voicemail she let sit. In the office, she kept interactions minimal, polite but distant. He’d glance at her during meetings, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes, but she looked away.
Dana noticed. They grabbed lunch in the factory cafeteria one afternoon, the physio’s sharp eyes missing nothing.
“You’ve been off since the break,” Dana said, pushing a saladtoward her. “Quiet. Distant. What’s going on?”
Mia poked at her food, throat tight. “Just… tired. Jet lag, I guess.”
Dana raised an eyebrow. “Bull. We’re friends, Mia. Spill.”
Mia opened her mouth, then closed it. The words wouldn’t come.
It wasn’t until two days later, in the physio room after a long media session, that the dam finally cracked.
She’d come in for a quick shoulder rub—nothing major, just tension from hunching over screens. Dana worked in silence at first, strong hands kneading the knots. But when Mia flinched at a deeper press, a small, involuntary sound escaped her—a choked sob she couldn’t swallow.
Dana paused. “Mia?”
Mia’s eyes filled. She tried to blink it away, but the tears spilled over. “I’m fine. Sorry. Just—”
“You’re not fine.” Dana guided her to sit on the treatment table, pulling up a stool so they were eye-level. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere.”
Mia’s breath hitched. The room felt too small, too quiet. She stared at her hands, twisting in her lap.
“It’s… old stuff,” she whispered. “From university. Oxford.”
Dana waited, patient, arms crossed, eyes locked on Mia.
Mia swallowed hard. “There was a party. My best friend Emma’s boyfriend… he put something in my drink. I don’t remember much—just flashes. Waking up in his room, clothes wrong, body wrong. Pain. He told everyone I’d come on to him. Seduced him. Emma believed him. The whole group did. They called me a slut, a homewrecker. I lost everyone overnight.”
Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “I don’t remember the actual… the act. Not clearly. I know it happened—my body knew. But what I remember most is the helplessness. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop it. And then afterward… I had no control at all. He wrote the story. Emma believed it. Everyone believed it. I tried to tell people what I remembered, butit didn’t matter. My word against his. Witnesses. Rumours. I had to watch the narrative spin out of my hands—people whispering in halls, scrawling on my door, avoiding me like I was toxic. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t prove anything. I just… disappeared. Changed my routine, ate alone, stopped speaking in tutorials. Became invisible because that was the only control I had left.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks now, silent and steady. “That’s what broke me. Not just the night itself. The way I had no say. No voice. No way to stop the story from being rewritten around me. I couldn’t even own what happened to me. So I came here—to communications—because if I can’t control my own story, at least I can help someone else keep theirs. Shape it. Protect it. Make sure no one else gets to decide who they are.”
She looked up at Dana, eyes raw. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this to. Properly. I’ve carried it alone for years because… if I said it out loud, it might become real again. But with you… I don’t know. It feels safe. Like maybe the story doesn’t have to stay buried. I thought I was ok. But Emma, she’s been messaging.”
Dana’s eyes were wet, but her grip on Mia’s hand was rock-steady. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush to fix it—just held on.
When Mia finished, the silence stretched, soft and heavy.
Dana exhaled slowly. “Jesus, Mia.” Her voice was thick. “That wasn’t just a bad night. That was fucking violation—on every level. He took your body, then he took your truth. And Emma… she should’ve protected you, not turned on you. The rest of them were cowards. But none of that—none of it—was your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You survived a nightmare most people can’t even imagine, and you still got up every day. You finished your degree. You built this life. That’s not broken. That’s fucking unbreakable.”
Mia’s breath shuddered out. “It doesn’t always feel that way.”
“I know.” Dana squeezed her hand tighter. “But listen to me: you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not on my watch. You told me because some part of you trusts that I won’t rewrite your story. And I won’t. Ever. You’re safe here. With me. With this team. And when—or if—you’re ready to dealwith Emma’s messages, or any of it… you’ve got backup. Real backup. No judgment. Just me in your corner, telling you you’re worth more than that garbage ever made you feel.”
Mia leaned forward, resting her forehead on Dana’s shoulder. Dana wrapped an arm around her, tight and steady, holding her like she could physically keep the pieces from shattering. The sobs came—quiet at first, then wrenching, years of locked-down silence finally breaking open.
When it eased, Dana pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, wiping a tear off Mia’s cheek with her thumb. “You don’t owe Emma a fucking thing. Not a reply, not a meeting, not an explanation. Not now. Maybe not ever. But whatever you decide… you do it on your terms. Your story. Your control.”
Mia nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Okay.”
