Chapter 27

Amelia

I snuck back in my own suite, but it didn’t feel like I’d left his bed. Not really. The heat of him still lingered on my skin, like the memory had followed me through the door and slipped into my sheets. I hadn’t meant to wake up in his arms—again. I’d told myself I was just going to lie there to help him rest, just long enough for him to stabilize.

But I hadn’t meant to sleep so close. And I definitely hadn’t meant to wake up so aroused.

The ache in my body was immediate, and it wasn’t just emotional. I felt flushed all over, my skin too sensitive, like I was still wrapped in the memory of his hand on my waist. Of how close we’d gotten without quite crossing a line.

I stripped off my sleep shirt and stepped into the bathroom, turning the shower cold enough to sting. For a few minutes, I stood under the icy spray, arms wrapped around myself, forcing my mind to blank.

But I hated being freezing. It wasn’t sustainable. After a while, my fingers went numb, and I caved—twisting the dial just enough to let heat rush in. It only took seconds for the warmth to wrap around me, and with it came the rush of everything I’d tried to push away.

The press of his chest against my back. The slow slide of his hand. The way I’d arched slightly without meaning to. The sound of his breath catching—just barely. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me.

I let myself feel it, and it felt good.

Now I sat at my desk with my hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea, staring at nothing. The early light filtered through the blinds in stripes, making the dust in the air look like it was dancing. It was too quiet.

The summons came mid-morning. A private strategy meeting. Room C-9, tucked behind the council chamber.

I arrived to find Richard already there, dressed but unmistakably tired. His tie was crooked and the top button of his shirt undone, like he’d gotten halfway ready before deciding it wasn’t worth the energy. The dark smudges beneath his eyes hadn’t been there yesterday—not like this. Guilt curled in my chest.

I knew he hadn’t slept well. I could feel it in the way he held himself, slower and heavier than usual. And I hated that I’d left so early, knowing my presence made a difference. But staying any longer... I wouldn’t have just lain there. I couldn't have controlled myself any longer. And then I’d have had to look him in the eye this morning knowing exactly what we’d done.

So I ran. Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have stopped.

He didn’t greet me right away—just gestured toward the screen. "Your remarks shifted sentiment," he said. "The public liked your honesty."

He tapped a few keys and several data charts blinked to life on the holoscreen. Spikes in approval, rising keywords tied to trust and transparency. "They’re calling you a moral compass," he added, glancing at me sideways. "Which is a little ironic."

"Why?"

He gave a tired half-smile. "Because you walked in here willing to lie through your teeth for me."

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn’t lie. I just... reframed."

He huffed a laugh. It was quiet but real. "Regardless, they believe in you. That matters."

I nodded, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Floating somewhere between the weight of his arm around me last night and the echo of his breath on my skin. It was hard to focus when my body still remembered the way he held me.

He was called away not long after. Some last-minute adjustment to the closing remarks. He gathered the files and gave me a long look before he left—one I couldn’t quite decode.

It lingered too long to be casual. There was something behind it, something heavy and unreadable. I wondered if he was thinking about last night too. If he remembered the exact angle of his arm around my waist, the heat of my breath when I stopped pretending to be asleep. If he’d noticed the way I’d tensed—or the way I didn’t move away. I couldn’t be sure. But that look made my skin hum like he had.

I didn’t know what it meant. I wasn’t sure if he did either.

Alone now, I wandered through the remaining folders on the conference table. Some were outdated briefing packets from previous summits—notes and transcripts, a few dog-eared pamphlets. I thumbed through one idly, more out of distraction than curiosity.

Then I saw it.

A photo. Tucked between two pages.

It was an old team photograph from a different summit, taken in a large atrium. Dozens of faces. But one in the back row made my pulse falter.

She had my eyes. My jawline. The shape of her mouth was unmistakable.

My fingers tightened around the page.

"That’s the same look you had when you saw Jason’s lunch choices last week," Emma’s voice chirped from behind me. "You remember? The week-old tuna salad and a hard-boiled egg he peeled with his teeth? I swear the smell alone could’ve cleared the chamber. I thought you were going to faint." She grinned. "You actually clutched your chest like a scandalized Victorian widow. I’m pretty sure I heard someone ask if we needed a healer."

I turned slowly. "Emma. Look."

She took the photo and studied it, her expression shifting from amusement to focus.

"You think that’s your mom?" Emma asked, but her tone had shifted. It wasn’t teasing anymore.

I blinked. I hadn’t said it aloud yet. Not really. I wasn’t even sure I believed it fully myself.

Emma gave me a look that said she saw more than I wanted her to. "You’ve been carrying that locket around like a question mark for years. You don’t stare at someone’s face like that unless some part of you already knows."

I swallowed hard. "I—maybe. I don’t know."

"Yeah, you do." Her voice was softer now. "You’re just scared to say it first.""

"I don’t know. But she looks like the woman in my locket."

Emma’s eyes flicked between me and the photo. "You need to ask the butler. If anyone’s been around long enough to know, it’s him."

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

Later, after my next set of briefings, I found myself standing by the window at the end of the hallway, photo still in hand.

Richard found me there.

"Everything okay?" he asked, voice soft.

I turned the photo toward him. "She might be my mother."

He studied the image, his brow furrowing. He didn’t say anything right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "If you want to keep looking, I’ll make sure no one stops you."

Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten.

That night, I returned to my room and updated the board I'd been quietly building in my closet. Threads of red connecting dates, names, and fragments of files I wasn’t supposed to have. I added a new one—linking the photo to a single word written in capital letters at the top of a sticky note: CLEARWATER.

I stared at it for a long time.

Before bed, I crossed the suite and opened the door to Richard’s room just slightly. His light was off, but I heard the soft rustle of sheets.

"Can’t sleep?" I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But I left the door cracked for the rest of the night. An invitation.

And from across the wall, his steady breathing pulled me into sleep—alone, but not entirely apart.