One-way.
London.
Ascari.
A new start.
But one last thing before she left. She needed to move on andshe knew exactly how. She sent a quick message. “I’m back in England next month. How about we catch up for a coffee? Clear the air”.
A quick response “I would love that”.
???
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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 smilethat 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 leanedforward 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?”
