Chapter Text
It was the hottest June on record. Manchester was sold out of fans and air conditioners. While some people escaped to back garden paddling pools and cold beers, Carla Connor was locked in her office barely seeing daylight.
Having taken over sole ownership of the PR and Marketing company since her divorce from Peter Barlow the year before, she had buried herself with work as a distraction. It had paid off handsomely, but now that she was no longer licking her wounds from a broken heart, the relentless workload was exhausting and no longer voluntary.
She liked order. Not the pristine, colour-coded kind she’d never had the patience for, but more like the kind where she knew exactly where everything stood, even if no one else did. The kind where nothing slipped past her. Others would call it micromanagement or control. To her it was survival. A hard-learned lesson from childhood where letting your guard down meant getting hurt.
The firm, recently rebranded to FMN Industries, occupied the upstairs of a luxury lingerie factory right in the middle of Coronation Street. Her brother Aiden had owned the factory for almost a decade. He’d persuaded her to be a silent partner, and she was happy enough at the time - as long as he didn’t expect her to model the underwear or operate a sewing machine. The factory was a well-oiled machine and practically ran itself now, leaving Aiden free to gallivant around the world while Carla concentrated on building FNM.
Carla stood in the doorway of the main open plan office space, coffee cooling in her hand, surveying the scene with tired eyes. Phones already ringing despite being 8.45am. Fiz, her second in command, at her desk, juggling emails and muttering under her breath. A whiteboard full of deadlines creeping uncomfortably close.
There were boxes of posters and flyers that hadn’t been sent out and an ever-growing list of clients to call back.
Summer was always like this. Everyone suddenly remembered they needed campaigns, launches, press coverage yesterday. Carla usually thrived on it. The pressure and momentum fuelling her, but she wasn’t going to get through it with all this chaos.
Hence her latest snap decision. Hiring the temp.
“Remind me,” she said, walking over to lean against Fiz’s desk, “why I agreed to this again?”
Fiz didn’t look up from the huge binder she was now leafing through. “Because you screamed, and I quote, ‘If we can’t get ahead of this stuff and sort our lives out how are we supposed to sort out our clients.’”
Carla huffed. “I don’t scream.”
“You do,” Fiz said mildly. “Usually just internally. Loudly.”
Carla took a sip of coffee and winced. Cold. Figures.
“Anyway, she’s cheap,” Fiz added. “Which you also liked. It’s only for the summer. And with staff wanting time off with their kids and summer holidays, it never hurts to have an extra pair of hands.”
The door opened, and the very one they were talking about slipped in. She moved with that teenage combination of trying to look confident, while hoping no one really noticed her. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, expression careful in that way teenagers perfected when they’d learned not to expect much from a room full of adults.
Betsy.
She was young but had a presence about her. At 16, she was full of attitude and barely contained rage. Dark circles hung under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. Now with GCSEs finished and college not yet started, she was stuck in that awkward limbo between childhood and something harder.
“Morning,” Betsy said, already halfway to her desk, not looking at anyone in particular.
Carla watched her go, something tugging at her chest. The kid moved like she was used to being invisible.
Betsy dropped into her assigned chair, logged in, and immediately frowned at the stack of folders on her desk.
“Why are there so many folders labelled ‘urgent’? Shouldn’t there be just one?” Her voice had an edge to it. Defensive, like she was expecting to be told off for asking.
Carla smiled thinly. “They accumulate quickly. Usually after some of the other staff have done their bits. Plus each one is for a different client.”
Betsy glanced up at her, and for a moment, Carla saw something flash in those eyes. Frustration, or maybe even anger. “This is stupid.”
Carla arched an eyebrow. “Careful.”
“I mean,” Betsy amended, not sounding particularly repentant, “inefficient.”
Carla paused. The kid had guts, she’d give her that. Then, despite herself, she let out a short laugh.
She shouldn’t like the gobby teen. Too unfiltered, always ready for a fight. But Christ, she reminded Carla of herself at that age; defensive, sharp-tongued, and waiting for the world to let her down again.
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Actually” Betsy said, sitting up straighter, “I do. Given that you all deal with social media accounts and the internet, I can’t believe you’re still using paper and doing things manually.” She waved one of the folders to make her point.
Carla ignored the dig, recognising the defensive strike of someone used to having their ideas dismissed. “Go on.”
“Why don’t you let me set up a shared document on the server, where we can track the actions for every client? That way we can all see what’s coming without having to wait for papers to land on our desks?”
Carla eyes roamed across Betsy’s face, seeing a sparkle in her eyes. Underneath all the sparkle was a layer of hunger – the desperate need to prove she was worth something.
God, Carla knew that feeling. It was the reason she was working 18-hour days.
“Alright,” Carla said. “You have until lunch time to get a demo up and running. Show Fiz and I how it works. If we understand it easily enough, we’ll give it a go. Work for you?”
She watched as Betsy’s whole face transformed. The guarded expression cracking, exposing a flicker of genuine excitement. It only lasted a fleeting moment before she then swivelled round in her chair, and started typing furiously on the keyboard.
By late afternoon, Betsy had not only delivered a comprehensive database that was both logical and efficient but had created workflows that meant Carla and Fiz could assign tasks to others. The kid had barely stopped for lunch, wolfing down a sandwich while typing with one hand, like she was afraid she would miss the opportunity to shine.
Carla was impressed. More than that, she was…proud? The feeling caught her off guard. She’d had a steady diet of being told she would make a terrible parent. That she was cold. So, she had always leaned into it and hid behind that assumption.
“Well done, Betsy.” Carla kept her tone professional, but let a hint of warmth creep in. “I’m going to need you to be the point of contact for the staff if they have any questions, including me. So, we’ll hire someone else to do some of the other bits you were doing. This is your priority from now on. We don’t want to get behind while we are trying to get ahead.”
Betsy’s mouth twitched and for a second Carla saw another glimpse of the real teenager under the armour. “Do I get paid more?”
“No.”
“Thought not.” Betsy floated back to her desk. Her body was vibrating with glee. Some of it had been nerves, the possibility of embarrassing herself in front of the boss. But the other part was victory. She felt seen, heard, valued.
When Betsy had started a few weeks before, she’d seemed like any other sullen teenager. But now Carla could recognise something else. The way she held herself. The way she never relaxed, even when laughing at a silly office joke.
Carla watched Betsy from the doorway of her office, noting how her shoulders had finally relaxed slightly. She could see the excitement in her body language, and how she kept glancing at the computer screen like she couldn’t believe what she had accomplished. It was joyous to witness.
Carla felt protective. This kid really did remind her of a younger version of herself. The scrappy Carla Connor who’d had to fight for every ounce of respect and had to learn alone that showing softness meant showing weakness.
She had scoffed at the idea of a teenager for a member of staff, but they had needed someone short notice and Betsy had been quite eager. Now she was thinking she was getting a lot more than she bargained for. In more ways than one.
“Betsy” she called out, trying to sound casual. “You did good today. Really good.”
Betsy looked up, surprised at the public recognition, and for just a moment, her guard dropped completely. The smile that crossed her features was genuine, almost childlike with pleasure.
“Thanks, Ms Connor.”
“Call me Carla,” she corrected, then added gruffly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
But she softened the words with the tiniest smile, and Betsy grinned back quickly before looking away.
Carla retreated to her desk, unsettled by how much she enjoyed the little interaction this afternoon, and how protective she felt over her already. Carla had built walls around herself for good reason, but somehow this gobby teen was already finding the cracks.
I’ve been spending too much time with Roy.
On the other side of town, Detective Sergeant Lisa Swain sat in her car outside Weatherfield Police station, staring out at the unimposing building. She kept both hands on the steering wheel, grip firm, as if letting go might allow something to slip.
She hadn’t wanted this.
Not the move. Not the posting. Not the stillness.
Manchester city centre had suited her. She’d thrived in all the noise, urgency and chaos. Lived with the sense that if you stopped paying attention for even a second, something would go wrong. She’d been good there. More than good. She’d earned her stripes the hard way; learned how to read a suspect, how to follow the breadcrumbs of illicit activity, learned how to face danger head on.
Weatherfield felt…muted by comparison. Smaller, slower and everyone knowing everyone else’s business.
But life as a city copper had consequences. Hell, life living in the city had consequences.
Lisa had learned that the night Becky died.
It hadn’t been on duty. That was the cruellest part. No dramatic call-out, no badge-of-honour ending. Becky had finished late, same as Lisa often did, and decided to walk part of the way home. Clear her head and switch gears from copper to mother and wife.
She’d been crossing the road when the car hit her. A getaway driver helping jewellery store robbers. They hadn’t even slowed down.
Lisa closed her eyes, just for a moment, and breathed deeply. Remembering the night she became a widow. The intervening years doing nothing to mute the memories.
After that night, nothing in their house had stayed where it was supposed to be. Grief rearranged things. Turned certainties inside out. Betsy had stopped sleeping properly, stopped sleeping in her own bed. Jumped every time Lisa’s phone rang. Asked questions she didn’t have answers to.
And then came the pleading.
Do you have to go in today?
Can’t you just… stay?
What if something happens to you too?
Lisa had held out longer than she probably should have. Told herself that the routine helped. That the job mattered. That Becky would have wanted her to keep going.
But Betsy had cried whenever she was late. Full-body sobs that left her shaking, clinging and terrified. So, Lisa had stopped running toward danger and chose safety.
Desk duty hadn’t felt like defeat at first. It had felt like control. Predictable hours. Fewer risks. A way to make promises she could actually keep. A way to stay safe while her mind processed the enormity of what happened.
The city hadn’t agreed.
She had argued it, pushed back, but none of it mattered in the end. There were too many cases. Too much demand. A Detective Sergeant sitting behind a desk indefinitely wasn’t practical. The conversations had been polite, but firm.
Weatherfield had been the compromise.
Smaller patch. Quieter streets. Less serious crime. A place where Lisa could still work, still be useful, without Betsy having to watch the clock like it was a countdown.
Lisa opened the car door and finally stepped out, allowing the blazing sun to warm her face.
Inside the station, everything felt scaled down. Fewer desks. Familiar faces who weren’t familiar yet. Introductions were made and hopefully trust, and loyalty would follow.
She could feel the assessment happening, along with the whispers. City copper. Widowed. Lesbian.
Her first few days were a blur of paperwork, handovers and trying to learn who everyone was.
She kept her head down and learned the rhythm of the place. The cases were different. Slower. Still important, she never forgot that, but not as much of an adrenaline spike. Not as much of a tight rope walk. That should have been a relief. Instead, it left too much time to think.
By the time she got home, the summer sun was already fading. Betsy was on the sofa, legs curled up beneath her, pretending not to be listening for the door. A pizza box open on the table.
“You’re back,” Betsy said.
Lisa dropped her keys into the bowl. “I said I would be.”
Betsy shrugged, eyes fixed on her phone. “Still. It’s a bit later than you said you would be home”
Lisa watched her for a second — the tension held tight beneath the casual posture. Sixteen and already braced for loss.
“How was work?” Lisa asked.
“Fine.”
A lie, or at least a deflection. Lisa let it pass today. She was too tired to be arguing. Her heart ached at the loss of their bond. Whilst she was never the favourite parent, she and Betsy would cuddle up on the sofa in the evenings while Betsy caught her up on the playground drama, and Lisa would invent little mysteries for Inspector Betsy to solve during breakfast or bath time. Now, due to grief and self-protection, conversations always ended up in shouting matches or silence treatment.
Later, lying alone in bed, Lisa stared at the ceiling and tried not to catalogue all the ways she felt like she was failing at once. She often felt like she had given in by changing location. It wasn’t like the grief stayed behind at the old address. The move hadn’t helped with Betsy either. She was still sullen and withdrawn. Lisa had hoped the new job that Betsy got a few weeks earlier, would have given them something easy and safe to talk about. But Betsy may as well have worked for the CIA for all the information she shared about it.
Becky would have told Lisa she’d done the right thing. Would have teased her for overthinking it. Would have known how to reach Betsy without pushing too hard.
Lisa turned onto her side, the space beside her cold and unmoving.
She felt like a failed mother and a failed copper. She had chosen safety. Chosen Betsy. She just hadn’t realised how lonely that choice would be.