The Vanishing Beau—and the Return No One Saw Coming
Emily sat hunched over her desk, buried in reports. Another birthday spent in utter solitude. Not a single colleague so much as glanced her way—unsurprising, really. At the office, she wasn’t Emily anymore, just *the boss*—strict, unapproachable, the subject of hushed jokes muttered behind her back.
“Maybe she needs a bloke,” one of the girls snickered passing by. “Might cheer her up from glaring at us like we’re the enemy.”
“Oh sure, let’s throw some poor sod under the bus—she’s already middle-aged and miserable!”
*Middle-aged?* She was only forty-three. Hardly ancient compared to those lasses spending half their paychecks on Botox. Still, the jab stung—especially today.
Birthdays always left her feeling raw. Usually, she’d take the day off with a book and a glass of wine. Not this time. Instead, she endured snide remarks, then silence, then the inevitable gossip.
Then—a knock. She looked up.
“Happy birthday, Emily Hart!” chirped Thomas, the new bloke from marketing, strolling in with a bouquet and a box of chocolates.
The office froze. No one dared wish Emily happy anything—everyone knew better. But Thomas? Oblivious to office politics. The team exchanged glances—*he’s a goner.*
Except… Emily *smiled.* Even invited him to lunch.
Cue the gasps, the frantic whispering, the office turning into a betting ring. How long would this last? What was his angle? Emily didn’t care. Thomas was easygoing, genuine—treated her like a person, not some terrifying manager. For the first time in years, she felt… seen.
After a few dates, she let herself hope. Dinners out, strolls in the park… Then he started staying over. Soon, she *asked* him to move in. Preposterous—real happiness, for *her?* Yet there she was, planning meals, rushing home to someone who wanted her there.
The office chatter, of course, never stopped. To quiet the noise, she transferred Thomas to another department. Didn’t help.
“He’s angling for a promotion,” they sneered. “Trying to climb the ladder via her good graces.”
But he never asked for favors. Just brought her tea, packed lunches, wrapped her scarf tighter when it was windy. Slowly, she *believed.*
Then—he vanished.
No calls. No shows at work. His old flat stood empty. The police shrugged: “Probably off on a bender, love. Young blokes do that.”
Emily barely slept. The office whispered: *Dumped her. Saw sense.* Her usual armor? Gone. Just… emptiness. Two weeks limped by like a bad play.
Then—a news segment. A car crash up in Yorkshire. Unidentified man, memory gone, lying in hospital.
She drove there in a daze.
“Are you sure you know him?” asked the doctor. “The amnesia could be permanent.”
“I just need to *see* him,” she whispered.
And when she walked in—Thomas blinked up at her.
“I was driving to see my parents… to tell them I wanted to marry you.”
*He remembered.* She burst into tears.
Months of rehab followed. Emily took leave, stayed by his side—fed him, nagged him, tucked blankets around him. He healed. Slowly. But he healed.
And they grew stronger. They’d survived the doubt, the fear, the whispers.
Two years later, they stood in the registry office, holding hands. Knowing—whatever came next, they’d face it together.
