Chapter 89

Elsa’s press conference was streamed live on every major platform, each broadcast framed with pulsing headlines and dramatic voiceovers, like the world had just uncovered a royal scandal instead of a personal vendetta. I watched the first thirty seconds on mute from the couch in my apartment, laptop balanced on my knees, trying not to let my fingers shake around the trackpad. The hum of the refrigerator and the clink of Emma stirring tea in the kitchen buzzed louder than any of the voices on screen, though I could still feel the weight of every word.

She stood tall at the podium, eyes rimmed in red, jaw trembling with the effort of what she wanted to pass off as righteous bravery. It was a performance, that much was clear. She claimed to be “breaking her silence for the good of the kingdom,” but the way she weaponized her voice told a different story. Richard was painted as a tyrant, and I was cast as the foolish orphan girl too naive to see how I was being used. She said nothing outright. She didn’t need to.

“Abuse of power.” “Inappropriate dynamics.” “A young woman in over her head.”

The implication was thick in every syllable.

A few reporters leaned forward, solemn, while others exchanged glances that suggested they smelled the stunt for what it was. I saw one woman in the back whisper to her neighbor, something that made both of them smirk. It didn’t matter. The damage was already done. The headlines had written themselves.

By lunch, my keycard had been deactivated. Nathan walked it over himself, a new badge already programmed for limited access. He looked frustrated, apologetic, and tired.

“It’s optics,” he said. “Temporary.”

I nodded without saying anything and made my way to the pack house and down two flights of stairs to a windowless room that used to store extra campaign signage. There were six desks jammed into the space now, each one loaded with donation spreadsheets and voter surveys. My new title was “auxiliary data clerk.” I tried not to take it personally.

The hours blurred. I logged names and numbers until my eyes stung, until my body forgot what daylight felt like. I barely looked up from my screen, afraid that if I acknowledged how far I had fallen, I’d start crying and never stop. The worst part wasn’t the isolation. It was the silence. No Emma footsteps, no buzz of policy talk through the walls, no press prep chaos. Just me and the radiator, wheezing behind my chair like it was trying to die quietly.

Richard’s approval rating tanked within the hour. Pundits debated whether we were watching a political unraveling or a personal one. Protesters gathered at the HQ gates, holding signs I didn’t dare read. People who used to smile at me in the hall avoided my eyes. Everyone was waiting to see how bad it would get.

But the base held. His true loyalists never flinched.

That night, Emma didn’t knock. She walked in like she had every right to be there, clutching two greasy paper bags and looking like a woman on a mission.

“You’re eating this,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “Then we’re going to rot our brains with movies until you forget your name and your shame.”

“I don’t think I—”

She raised a brow and shoved the bag into my hands. “Nope. No thoughts. Only carbs. Sit.”

We curled up under a blanket, legs tangled and shoulders bumping as a string of rom-coms looped on the TV. She let me ignore reality through one movie. Then another. It wasn’t until halfway through the third that her hand brushed against mine, and her voice got quiet.

“So,” she said, not looking at me. “They said the photo was fabricated, that it was spliced together from manipulated footage and assets. But you thought it was real, didn’t you?”

I froze, staring at the screen. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “Because we’ve been having sex. You already know, don’t you?”

Emma nodded once, eyes still on the TV. “I figured. Just didn’t want to be the first one to say it.”

I hesitated, my heart thudding.

“You really want to talk about this now?”

She gave a half-shrug, picking at her fry carton. “Only if you do.”

I paused the movie and took a deep breath.

“I’ve never told anyone everything,” I said. “But I need to say it. I need someone to know.”

Emma turned toward me, her expression softening.

“Then tell me.”

I started with the mate ball. With how it felt to wake up in his bed and feel like the world tilted, even then. I told her how I’d wanted the internship, how it felt like fate when I got it, how he always hovered at the edge of everything, both too close and too far away. I told her about the almosts and the not-quites, the way our bond never fully clicked but still tangled us together in ways I didn’t understand. I told her about the first kiss, the hallway tension, the nights pressed against his desk, his bed, the way he made me feel like I belonged to him even when he barely acknowledged me in daylight.

I showed her my journal, the way I catalogued every interaction, every glance, every word, because it was the only place I had to say any of it out loud. I couldn’t tell him, and I couldn’t tell anyone else, so the journal became the only place I could admit what he meant to me. I wrote down everything, not just what happened but how it felt, what I wished he’d said, what I wished I’d said back. I told her how I kept hoping he’d say something, do something, make it real. And how every time he didn’t, it hurt more, because I had all those hopes spelled out in ink, proof that I wanted more even when I couldn’t ask for it.

Emma didn’t interrupt. She let me pour it all out, eyes never leaving mine.

“I thought I could handle being the secret,” I whispered. “I thought I could take the scraps. But I’m drowning in them now. And I still can’t stop wanting him.”

Emma’s voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “I always suspected there was something. But I didn’t know it went that deep.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted. “But pretending I don’t care doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

She took my hand. “It never does.”

We didn’t finish the movie. I think we both needed the silence more.

Sometime past midnight, I woke to my phone buzzing. My fingers fumbled for it in the dark.

New memo: Potential document leak. Source unknown. Investigation ongoing.

Emma stirred beside me. “Another disaster?”

“Looks like it.”

Later, Richard texted: Secure wing. 11 PM. Come alone.

I didn’t answer, but I went.

The estate was dim, quiet, unnervingly still. I moved through it like a ghost, like someone retracing her own footsteps. When I reached the secure wing, he was waiting, standing like a shadow against the glass.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped forward and took my hand, brushing a kiss across it like I was something sacred. For a second, I thought he might tell me he missed me, or that he was sorry. His eyes searched mine like he was trying to find the right words, and maybe he did, but none of them made it to his lips.

“What am I doing here, Richard?” I asked quietly.

He exhaled, his grip on my hand tightening. “I wanted to see you. To explain, maybe.”

“Then explain.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then, haltingly, “I didn’t know about the leak. Not at first. Nathan said the image was fabricated, built from spliced footage, but I—I didn’t know if it was real. I couldn’t tell. That’s how messed up this has all become. I couldn’t even recognize the truth.”

We were too close. I was still angry, but part of me ached for him, for us. I leaned in before I could stop myself, kissed him hard, desperate, needing something from him I couldn’t name.

He responded instantly, pulling me close, but something in me recoiled. The moment cracked open mid-kiss, and I pulled back suddenly, breathless and furious. “I can’t do this,” I said, stepping away. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m still mad at you. And you don’t get to kiss me like that without fixing any of it.”

His face fell. “Amelia—”

I shook my head. “No. Not tonight.”

Then I turned and left him standing there, hand still half-raised, as the door clicked shut behind me.

The apartment was cold when I returned. Not physically, but something in the air felt… wrong. I noticed it before I even unlocked the door. It was slightly ajar, like someone had meant to close it but didn’t.

I froze.

Inside, nothing looked broken or stolen. Everything was where I had left it. But something told me it wasn’t untouched. I backed away slowly, heart hammering.

I called Emma before I even took my coat off.

“Someone was here,” I whispered. “I don’t know who. But someone was in my apartment.”

This time, the fear wasn’t just for my job or my heart. It was for something real, something sharp and present.

And I wasn’t going to face it alone.