Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

Amelia

I've got this.

My heart thumps a frantic rhythm against my ribcage. It's like I'm about to step into the headmaster's office, not my colleagues' workspace.

It's just a meeting, Amelia.

You've done this a thousand times.

I'm wearing a light blue business blouse and lightweight pants, which now feel rather ridiculous. Typically, I would have opted for my usual jeans and sweater, but no, I wanted to present a professional image. I dressed up in the hope that they would see me as such.

I am a bloody professional, dammit.

Dithering in front of the door, I'm trying to summon the courage to knock when it swings open.

Misha's there, his grin as wide and disarming as ever. "Why did I know you're lurking out here," he teases, pulling the door wider. "Come on in, Doctor. "

Fuck, this is embarrassing.

Hesitantly, I step inside, and my eyes immediately widen. Their office is a far cry from Hendricks' and mine, with its sprawling size and sleek design. The back wall is entirely glass, offering a panoramic view of the neighboring skyscrapers that bathe the room in natural light. Three large desks with state-of-the-art screens are arranged facing each other on the right. To the left, there's a meeting room, separated from the rest of the office by a glass wall, with a big meeting table and a digital whiteboard for brainstorming inside.

It's clear Elysium isn't just blowing smoke. They really do equip their golden boys with the best. I'm not one to get jealous, but anyone would be in awe of their setup.

Grey and Oliver are already standing in the meeting room behind the table when Misha guides me inside. Oliver is rubbing his neck, eyes on the floor, ears red, while Grey just gives me a curt nod, but it feels like more than professional courtesy as his eyes rake over me.

Misha gestures toward the big table. "Have a seat," he offers, his tone casual but friendly.

I start to pull my laptop from my backpack, but Misha stops me with a gentle hand on my wrist, making goose bumps form on my arm.

Why does he always have to touch me?

"No need for that today. We just want to talk a little."

That sounds ominously informal.

"I've recorded some of Jamie's interactions with the smart home devices to give you a clearer picture of how he handles real-world tasks," I argue because I don't want all the work I did to be for nothing.

"You can load them up to our shared cloud later, but thank you for that." Misha dismisses me, so with a nod, I hand over Jamie's hardware, which he accepts with a smile.

It wasn't easy to uninstall him this morning. Well, it was easy to do but not easy to handle. It felt more like losing a friend—a one-dimensional one, but still a friend .

I can only hope they're going to put him on the market soon.

Settling into the chair, I try to ease the tension in my shoulders. Misha leans against the table while Oliver hovers nearby, occasionally glancing my way but mostly studying his shoes.

If only they would sit, I could relax a little. It's bad enough being in the same room as the three of them, but sitting here while they stand makes for a looming weight over me.

Grey stays in position at the other end of the table with his arms crossed, his permanent scowl etched across his face. I've seen him smile exactly once, and even then, it was more like his face was practicing the concept rather than embracing it.

"So, Amelia…" Misha begins, clasping his hands together, "… tell us about your experience with Jamie. Did everything go smoothly?"

Clearing my throat, I focus on the job-related question, grateful for the familiar territory. "Well, overall, I'm impressed. Jamie is… well, he's quite remarkable. The way he interacts, the features… it's all top-notch. Honestly, the hype is real and well-deserved."

Misha beams at that, and even Oliver allows a small grin to flicker across his face. Grey's expression remains unreadable, but I decide it's probably just his face doing what it does best—scowling.

"But…" I trail off, shifting in my seat and taking a deep breath.

Here we go.

"It did feel a bit one-sided at times. Like talking to a very efficient butler who's only there to respond rather than converse. Maybe giving Jamie a bit more of a… personality could help? Something to make the interaction feel more na tural. Being a companion is his main focus after all, right?"

Misha nods thoughtfully. "That's good feedback, Amelia. Really good. What about the integration with your smart home devices?"

That's it? He doesn't want more details?

I glance at Oliver to find him already staring at me. He looks away promptly when I catch him, though. When I turn to Grey, his brows are furrowed, and his tongue flicks out slightly, running along his bottom lip in what seems like a focused habit. He appears completely absorbed in whatever is running through his mind.

"Amelia?" Misha asks, bringing me back on topic, and it's as if he has inched closer to me.

"The initializing process took a little longer than expected, but integration was smooth for the most part. There were a few hiccups with the kitchen appliances. Like the smart fridge thermostat took longer than expected to adjust. I don't think it was on my side of the integration, though. I have some records on that too. I'll upload them with the rest."

Grey finally speaks, his voice deep and a bit gruff. "Noted." His light brown eyes bore into me, narrowing. After a moment that feels probably way longer than it was, he finally speaks again. "Would you consider continuing to test Jamie? While we work on integrating more personality traits and fixing the kitchen issues, your ongoing feedback would be valuable."

My breath hitches, catching in my throat.

I could keep him a little longer?

I open my mouth to agree, but before the word can leave my lips, Misha and Oliver send sharp glares in Grey's direction. Oliver, usually so reserved, lets out a gruff whisper, "Grey… "

What did he say?

I look to Misha, confused, and he forces a smile. "Amelia, could you give us just a moment?"

"Sure," I whisper, feeling the anxiety I just managed to shake off creep up again.

They walk out of the room, closing the glass door, and I can see them gather beside their desks. Their voices have a hushed, urgent undertone that doesn't quite mask the tension. I catch snippets of their conversation. Oliver and Misha are clearly arguing with Grey, insisting that they had agreed the beta phase was over.

Seems like no one ever told them that their meeting room isn't soundproof.

" We've dedicated years to this project! " Grey's voice breaks through louder than he likely intended.

"It's not perfect, and yes, she pointed that out. We need to fix it, but we agreed we'd stop now with the beta," Oliver argues, finishing off the longest sentence I've ever heard him speak with a flail of his hands. And the most determined he's ever sounded too.

He hates having me beta his OS that much?

Grey's retort is clipped, frustrated. "This isn't about her . It's about our careers. She's crucial for the feedback we need. Without her, how will we know if we've actually fixed anything personality-wise? Fuck, we thought he was perfect in that regard!"

"Can't we just give it to Langley for another beta?" Oliver asks, making it clear that he really has a problem with me beta testing.

I knew it.

His words sting—a reminder that to them, I'm just a means to an end. But I understand.

I'd do the same if it were my AR project.

You don't invest years of your life into a project only to pull back just to avoid hurting someone's feelings—someone you don't even know.

Grey comes to my defense, leaving me a little speechless. "But then they'll think she didn't do a good job, and she did ."

They talk some more. However, they're whispering now, and I can't hear them. But after a few more moments, it seems they've finally come to a reluctant consensus and return to the room.

Misha looks a bit sheepish as he addresses me, "Amelia, would you be willing to help us out a bit longer to iron out these issues? We understand if you say no. We can't compensate you for any extra hours outside of Elysium, and we can't offer much in terms of credit…"

I have to suppress a laugh. I would never share credit for my AR with someone just because they beta-tested it for me.

Does he think I'm delusional?

I cut him off with a reassuring smile, my tone lightly sarcastic. "Don't worry about it. I get it, and I'm happy to help. Maybe someday you guys can return the favor and beta test for me."

Thinking that they —the future of tech—might beta test for me…

That would be delusional.

At my words, a small smirk curls on Grey's lips—an expression that sends an unexpected flutter through my chest.

God, it's so unfair. How are they all so handsome and brilliant at the same time?

Leave some for the rest of us.

"Thank you, this is very much appreciated," Misha says, exhaling a relieved breath as he hands back Jamie's hardware. I quickly stash it in my backpack, a ripple of joy passing through me at the thought of putting Jamie back where he belongs tonight.

"And how should I get the feedback to you? Should I upload a report to the cloud, or…" I trail off, hoping they'll be happy with this option while I stand and put my backpack on.

Misha chuckles. "Who has time for daily reports or meetings? I bet you've got your own mountain of work, and we're not about to hijack any more of your time. How about lunch?"

"Lunch what?" I blink, not sure if I heard him right.

"You do eat lunch, don't you? We could meet up, have a bite, and discuss your findings. Casual," he suggests with a shrug.

Ah, shit.

"Or I could just send you an email," I counter, hoping to steer clear of more face-to-face time.

"You're funny," Misha grins, and I grimace internally.

I wasn't trying to be funny.

Checking his smartwatch, Misha announces, "Speaking of which, it's about lunchtime. Fancy joining us?" His eyes twinkle with mischief, clearly not ready to let me slip away so easily.

I shake my head, desperate to hide in my own office. "No, thank you."

But Misha, undeterred, places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

He's so touchy-feely, and I'm not quite sure if I like it.

Delusional Amelia strikes again.

"Oh, come on. It's the least we can do to treat you to lunch," he cajoles, his grin infectious.

I let out a small laugh, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly. " Elysium pays for our lunch."

From the other side of the room, Grey mutters, "And who do you think brings in the money that pays for those lunches?"

His arrogance is maddening, like a cat who not only got the cream but convinced you to open the bottle for him.

Rolling my eyes, I concede, "Fine, lunch it is."

Putting in any more resolve at this point would just be childish. But seeing Oliver's surprised face, I guess they didn't really believe I would join them in the first place.

Fuck, did they count on me saying no?

Were these only niceties, and I didn't read them right? Wouldn't be the first time.

We leave the office, and as we walk toward the cafeteria, Misha leads the way with a spring in his step. I trudge alongside him, half-listening to his little monologue about the most outrageous lunches he's engineered using only the cafeteria's offerings while I try to slow my racing heartbeat.

"You wouldn't believe the things you can do with a panini press and some creativity," Misha boasts, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "Last week, I convinced the staff to let me try a panini deconstructed sushi . It was… innovative."

"Innovative? Sounds more like a culinary crime scene," I retort, unable to suppress a smirk. The idea of sushi squashed in a panini press is both horrifying and slightly intriguing.

I could try it with some Avocado Maki.

Grey, trailing a few steps behind with Oliver, chimes in, "Misha's kitchen experiments are why we can't have nice things."

I turn my head to look at him, surprised that the Grey Donovan has a sense of humor.

Oliver, who's been quietly ambling along, lets out a soft chuckle but doesn't add his own jab. His smile seems genuine. It's oddly endearing, his shyness. But it makes me feel a twinge of something .

Curiosity? Perhaps a bit of kinship.

We arrive at their usual spot in the center of the cafeteria—a round table exposed on all sides like a stage. My stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of being so visible. I usually tuck myself away at a table near the edge, where the only view is of the wall or a potted plant on a good day.

As Oliver and Grey head off to grab their food, Misha gestures for me to sit. "What'll you have?" he asks, ready to queue up with the others, who are already debating over meal choices by the menu board.

"Just a vegetarian option, please," I reply, putting my backpack down next to me before settling into the chair and folding my arms across the table, "I can grab it myself, though."

"Vegetarian, huh? Fancy. And here I was hoping to introduce you to the legendary Elysium mystery meat ."

Why did my head just go to a whole different kind of meat?

Probably because I thought about it thoroughly last night.

Fuck.

I feel myself blushing, and Misha chuckles as he walks off. "Got it, one veggie special coming right up!"

What a plonker.

Left alone at the table, I mull over the meeting—how effortlessly I'd spoken with them about Jamie, how strangely validating it felt to be listened to by them, even if they only see me as part of a project.

Talking to them, or mostly Misha, was almost fun. And watching him now, laughing and joking even with the cafeteria staff, I realize he's just this easygoing with everyone.

Must be nice to be so effortlessly friendly.

I'm painfully aware of the hum of everyday life around me—the buzz of conversations, the clink of trays, the occasional bursts of laughter from nearby tables. It's all so ordinary, yet I feel the weight of curious glances on me. Maybe they saw me walk in with OMG and wonder what they're doing with me .

I can't blame them. I'm questioning it myself.

I never should have said yes to this. The truth is, I'm starved for something resembling friendship or even just a simple conversation with someone that doesn't make my anxiety spike. So much so I could fall into this way too easily.

Having lunch with them every day?

Yeah, I know I'm setting myself up for trouble—I've always tended to get attached too quickly. I know this should be purely business-related, but I can't help growing attached to anyone who shows me even the slightest kindness.

Just ask my nanny or my mother's housekeeper.

Or my ex-boyfriend.

I clung to every moment he spared me every few weeks, showering him with all the affection I could muster, just thankful he'd spend some time with me.

When this cooperation ends, when they return to their lives and I to my solitude, I know I'll berate myself for my naivety.

They aren't my friends.

They don't care about me.

They don't want to eat with me because they think I'm such a nice person.

I know this.

It's ridiculous, really. I'm getting sentimental over lunch with colleagues I haven't spoken more than a few sentences to. But I can't seem to help it.

Growing up without affection left its mark. I drink it greedily from any hand that offers a gentle touch, from every mouth that talks kindly to me.

Ah, fuck it.

I can think about how to handle the fall when it comes.

Misha is back at the table and sets down our trays with a flourish that lifts the heavy thoughts swirling in my head.

" Voilà, vegetarian delicacy, as requested," he declares, grinning as he slides the tray in front of me.

I inspect the meal—a chickpea and spinach curry—and muster a genuine smile. "Thanks for buying, Misha."

Grey snorts from across the table, and I notice he has the same lunch as I have in front of him.

Is he a vegetarian too?

"You're very welcome," Misha retorts, winking at me before turning back to his meal.

We eat, and I'm surprised by the rich flavors of the curry, the warmth of the spices seeping through me. Grey starts ribbing Misha about forgetting to collect the laundry again, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in their banter. I almost feel like part of their group, even though I'm just listening, much like Oliver. But they seem fine to just let me be and eat.

Being part of such a close-knit friend group would be incredible.

As I continue eating, a strange sensation starts to build in the back of my throat. Initially, I dismiss it as a scratch—perhaps from the spices—but with each bite, the sensation worsens.

Is this anxiety?

I thought I was finally relaxing a bit.

But then my throat feels tighter, my breaths become shorter, and it hits me—this isn't mere discomfort.

It's an allergic reaction .

My pulse skyrockets, a frantic rhythm of dread as I realize there must be peanuts in the curry.

No, not now.

"Amelia, you okay?" Oliver's concern-laced voice cuts through my rising panic.

I try to speak, but my voice is barely a whisper, strained and hoarse. My fork clatters to the floor as my hands clutch at my throat, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. When I stand to reach for my backpack, my vision begins to blur alarmingly at the edges.

Misha notices my distress. His usual playfulness is instantly replaced by alarm. "Amelia, what's wrong?" he asks, rising swiftly from his seat.

Oliver is by my side in a flash, his chair scraping against the floor as he moves. I reach out for him, feeling my legs buckle, and he catches my arms, gently lowering me to the floor.

"Amelia," he whispers urgently, bending over me, his eyes wide with fear searching mine.

The scent of strawberries fills my senses.

Why does he smell like Twizzlers Twists?

God, I'm going to die.

As my throat tightens further, I can't seem to talk anymore. I can't find my voice to explain or direct them to the EpiPen I always carry. In a desperate attempt to communicate, I extend my left arm toward Oliver, my hand trembling. The silver, delicate medical alert bracelet on my wrist catches the light, the charm engraved with the words Peanut Allergy .

Oliver catches sight of the charm, and his eyes widen with realization. He takes my wrist and turns the charm, reading what is engraved on the back.

Carries EpiPen in purse.

"She's allergic to peanuts. She has an EpiPen in her bag!" he shouts to Misha, who starts frantically searching through my backpack within seconds.

Misha's hands tremble as he finally locates the auto-injector, but he hesitates.

Grey steps in, his movements steady and sure, not a smidge of panic to be found. He takes the EpiPen from Misha's grasp, flips off the safety cap, and says in a calm, assertive voice, "Hold on, Amelia."

He doesn't hesitate to slam the injector against my thigh, ready to inject straight through my trousers. The click of the mechanism sounds impossibly loud in my ears. He holds it there for a few crucial seconds while the epinephrine is delivered. The sharp sting of the needle is a minor discomfort compared to the tight grip of anaphylaxis around my throat.

As I wait for the medication to take effect, my vision narrows, the edges growing dark.

No, this can't be it.

The fish.

I only rescued four of them.

The tense silence stretches, the guys hovering motionlessly.

After an agonizing few moments, the drug starts to work, and I lean my head back, gasping for air. My breathing is still labored, but gradually, the terrifying tightness begins to lessen. Grey holds eye contact with me and firmly grasps my shoulder, grounding me.

My hero with the scowling face.

I look up to find Oliver and Misha hovering close, their faces etched with worry, while Misha dials for an ambulance.

"Breathe, Amelia. Help is on the way," Grey reassures, his usually detached demeanor now showing genuine concern .

I must look like shit if I've managed to crack Grey Donovan's cold exterior.

"I'm sorry," I manage to gasp out, the room spinning.

"Don't talk, just breathe." His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of urgency.

Oliver's hand squeezes mine gently, and I glance over to find him beside me again. His eyes are brimming with tears as I finally manage to take deeper breaths.

I traumatized the poor guy.

Misha's stern tone draws my attention away from Oliver. "Give her room to breathe!"

I see the blurry figures of people who have gathered to watch the spectacle of my near-death experience.

They will never want to have lunch with me again.