Chapter 68

Amelia

They brought her back quietly, but nothing about Elsa ever stayed quiet for long. Word had already begun to circulate before her car pulled up the front drive, whispered in the halls like rumor and prophecy rolled into one. Aides spoke her name as if it might summon her early, and by the time the door to the council wing opened and she stepped out in that cream wool coat, smiling like the world had remembered its proper shape, the entire House was already holding its breath.

She moved like she belonged, like the ground had missed the weight of her steps. Sunglasses shaded her eyes even though the sky was dull and gray, and her two fresh-faced assistants followed behind like obedient shadows. Their notepads remained clutched in their hands but unopened, unused. Her heels clicked down the marble corridor in a rhythm that sounded like punctuation, like the final word had just been spoken.

The press release came less than an hour later. Elsa was back to help with the final push toward election day, her title deliberately vague but dressed up with flattering language: Senior Image Consultant, with a specialty in optics and public reassurance. The phrasing was strategic, meant to deflect scrutiny, but everyone inside the House understood what it really meant.

She made people feel safe.

She made Richard look stable.

She was a balm to a council that had grown weary of tension.

She wasn’t me.

I found out the way most unwanted truths arrive here, by accident. During a morning briefing, a communications aide fumbled over Elsa’s name, then stared at the table like he’d said something forbidden.

Later that same day, a revised calendar appeared in my inbox. There was no explanation. No accompanying message. Just a schedule that no longer included my name on any of the morning briefings or strategic sessions.

The following morning, I walked toward the strategy room at the usual time, not yet ready to believe I was being pushed out. A staffer was stationed at the door. She looked at me with a blend of sympathy and discomfort that told me everything before she spoke.

"They moved it to the south annex," she said, her tone hushed. "The council thought it would be better to work somewhere more contained."

I didn’t ask for clarification. I just nodded, thanked her, and walked away.

From that point on, I began to disappear.

It was gradual at first. My access narrowed. My assignments reassigned. At the beginning, it was just small things, a document rerouted through another aide, a meeting moved without notifying me, a memo where I was no longer copied. But within a week, I was fully replaced. No announcement. No discussion. Just empty spaces where I used to be.

Elsa filled those spaces effortlessly. Not that she had any political talent, but she slid back into the machine like she’d never left. Her lipstick always matched her folders. Her tone was polished, perfectly weighted for each audience. Cameras adored her. And people who had once looked to me now gravitated to her without hesitation.

I watched it happen.

The halls I once navigated with purpose grew colder. Staff who used to seek me out now avoided eye contact. Some looked embarrassed when we passed in the hallway. Others just looked relieved. I ate lunch alone in the archive room, surrounded by rows of records that still bore my handwriting. My badge still unlocked most doors, but fewer of those doors actually opened for me.

Then the summons came.

The council wanted to speak with us.

Separately.

Richard was called first. He emerged from the strategy room without looking at me, walking toward the council chamber with a pace that was too calm to be entirely natural. His coat remained buttoned, his tie straight. I sat and stared at the clock.

Fifty-eight minutes passed.

Then they called me.

The council chamber was as cold as I remembered it, all polished gray stone and low, strategic lighting. The chairs loomed, too tall. The people inside them loomed larger. Their expressions were neutral, but their questions were anything but.

"Do you understand the impact of your presence here?"

"Are you aware of how your proximity has affected the public's perception of the campaign?"

"Do you believe your continued involvement helps or hinders the King’s work?"

I answered each one with calm, deliberate precision. I had rehearsed this. I had rehearsed it for weeks. But then came the final blow.

"We believe the King’s work would be significantly easier if you were not here."

I didn’t flinch.

"Thank you for your candor," I replied, standing before the shake in my knees could betray me. I walked out of the chamber without another word.

That night, I returned to my office, the one no one had asked me to vacate but that had begun to feel like a stranger’s borrowed space. The walls were still lined with notes and maps, the scaffolding of a world I had helped build, still pretending I was part of it.

I sat at my desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper.

My resignation wasn’t long.

I folded it carefully, slid it into an envelope, and carried it to Richard’s office. The hallway was quiet. His door stood ajar. He wasn’t inside. I left the letter on the edge of his desk and walked away.

I didn’t cry.

Instead, I kept walking. My legs carried me down familiar corridors, through echoing stairwells, and out into the garden without conscious direction. The air was damp with frost. The roses clung stubbornly to the last of their color, sagging under the weight of the season.

In the far corner of the west courtyard, past the laundry wing and the forgotten tool shed, I found them: the stray cats.

They had made their nest beneath a stone bench, a little kingdom built from dead leaves, scraps of cloth, and stolen warmth. There were five now. One more than the last time I visited. They stirred as I approached but didn’t run.

I knelt slowly, unfastened my coat, and pulled out the half sandwich I hadn’t touched at dinner. I broke it into pieces, setting them gently on the stones. The smallest cat, a gray-and-white slip of fur, crept toward me and brushed against my ankle. I stroked behind its ears.

"I don’t think I belong here either," I whispered.

I didn’t hear him approach.

Richard came quietly. He stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his face unreadable in the low light.

He didn’t start with an apology.

He didn’t start with anything at all.

Eventually, he said, "I read it."

He moved closer but didn’t sit. The cats shifted, watchful but unafraid. So was I.

"You should let me go," I said, my voice even. "It would make things easier."

"Maybe," he said. "But not better."

The kitten at my feet purred, and I kept my eyes on the gravel path.

"They made a decision," I said.

"And I didn’t stop them," he admitted. "I thought if I pushed again, they’d cut you out entirely."

"They did anyway."

He finally sat beside me, not too close, but not far either.

"I thought I was buying time. That I could find a way back in for you."

"You could have fought."

He didn’t deny it. The silence between us stretched, but it didn’t break.

A breeze stirred the dry leaves. The cats settled again. One lay curled against the sole of my boot.

"I know what I let happen," he said softly. "I know what I didn’t say. But I’m saying this now: I don’t want you to go."

I didn’t tell him I would stay.

But I think we both knew I would.