Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Amelia

The incessant tapping of keys fills the room, and my focus narrows to the rows of figures and text on the screen. I'm compiling a report that Dr. Cockwomble requested—an analysis that, no doubt, he will critique with his usual disdain.

Just as I align another section, Langley's voice booms from the doorway. "Hendricks, are you ready for our meeting?"

I don't even bother looking up. It's their weekly status update in Langley's office, something I've never been privy to. He doesn't deem it necessary to offer me the same courtesy of privacy, choosing instead to address my performance openly, often disparagingly, in front of Hendricks.

In a way, I prefer it. The thought of being alone with him in a room makes my skin crawl. And not just for the obvious reason.

It reminds me of the numerous times I had to visit my father in his office .

The cool darkness of Father's office wraps around me like a shroud as I step inside. His desk, a massive, imposing slab of dark wood, sits between us like a barrier—a barrier that feels more like a judgment seat today. Mother sits quietly in the corner armchair, her presence small and withdrawn, her hands folded neatly in her lap. I search her face for some sign of support, but she offers none, her eyes downcast, her silence heavy.

Father's voice cuts sharply through the tense silence. "Amelia Charlotte, sit down," he commands, pointing to the chair across from his desk. The chair feels like an electric chair as I sink into it, my heart pounding in my chest. He doesn't waste any time, his words slicing through the air like a whip. "This school report is a disgrace," he begins, his tone dripping with disdain as he flicks the piece of paper across the desk toward me. "You are my daughter, Amelia Charlotte Stanley. You carry my name. And yet, you perform like this? Like you have no regard for what I've built for this family?"

I glance down at the paper, the grades printed on it now reading like a list of my failures. Each numbered grade feels like a brand, marking me as less than what he expects.

"How can you be so indifferent to your future? To our legacy?" he continues, his voice rising in anger and disappointment. "Do you want to end up mediocre ? Is that it?"

The words sting, each syllable a lash that flays open old wounds—wounds of never being enough, of always living in the shadow of a sibling who could do no wrong. My throat tightens, and I struggle to hold back tears, knowing that any show of emotion will only fuel his anger.

I try to speak, to defend myself, but the words catch in my throat, strangled by years of similar lectures, by the fear of making it worse. "I-I'm trying my best," I manage to stutter, barely above a whisper.

"Your best?" He scoffs, leaning back in his chair as if my efforts are something foul he needs to distance from. "This is not the best of a daughter of mine. August never brought home grades like these. He understood the value of excellence, of striving beyond mediocrity."

I look to Mother again, silently pleading for her to say something, anything, to defend me or to soften the blow. But she remains silent, her eyes fixed on some distant point, her expression resolute in its fidelity to her husband.

Never to me.

"You need to reconsider your priorities, Amelia Charlotte." My father's voice booms again. "You need to start living up to the family name, or I will have to take serious measures."

His threats hang in the air, heavy and ominous. I nod, unable to speak, my voice lost in the maze of my choked emotions. As I rise from the chair, the feeling of inadequacy clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of my failures and the vast gulf between Father's expectations and my own reality.

Walking out of his office, the door closing behind me feels final, like the sealing of my fate—a fate where I'm always found wanting, always lacking, never enough . As I retreat to my room, the silence of the house envelops me, a silence that speaks louder than any words of comfort could as my hand wanders to the back of my head.

The office door shuts with a decisive thud as they leave, snapping me back from the edge of a memory that was threatening to swallow me whole. I grab my phone in an attempt to anchor myself in the present and keep from overthinking my position, job, and life choices.

Puppy videos.

I queue up a clip featuring Bernese Mountain Dogs—a breed I've been absurdly fantasizing about owning despite my too-small apartment and my non-existent work-life balance.

They're big and somewhat clumsy, always seeming slightly out of sync with their limbs. And they look like the best cuddle buddies.

Just as I'm about to lose myself in the next video, Grey's voice cuts through the tranquility from right beside me. "So, this is what the Smart Home Development Department does when they need a break, or is this research for a new gadget?" His tone teases, and I jerk in surprise, my chair swiveling as his presence invades my space.

"Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me," I exclaim, my heart not just racing from the shock. His closeness is unsettling. The intoxicating scent of coffee and buttered rum emanates from him, his body heat enveloping me. Our cheeks are only inches apart, and I can feel the brush of his stubble against my skin as I take a deep breath.

Well, that would have been even worse if it was Dr. Cockwomble coming in unnoticed.

But something tells me he wouldn't have been this stealthy.

"Sorry," Grey says as he straightens up, his apology sounding half-hearted. He offers a not-quite-sorry smirk, his hands casually tucked in his pockets. His stance is relaxed yet still close.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice even, to mask the tremor that his sudden appearance has stirred within me.

"Getting you for lunch," he smoothly replies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course.

"And why are you in here?" I scowl. "Ever heard of knocking? "

Or of having a smidge of manners?

My tone is edgier than either of us probably expected, but Grey just shrugs. "I would have knocked, but…" His voice trails off, suggesting an unspoken understanding that maybe, in this place, formalities like knocking are less important to him.

I let out a huff, half-amused, half-exasperated. "You forgot because there are no closed doors for one of the princes of Elysium, I guess."

Wait, did I really just say that?

Grey's half-smirk lingers, almost challenging, as he leans against my desk, arms crossed over his chest, invading my personal bubble even more and making my heart race. "Perks of being the king of nerds," he teases, his tone light but his gaze intense. I roll my eyes, trying to mask the flutter his proximity causes. "Anyway. Misha fell asleep in his chair, and I came to get you while Oliver tries to wake him enough to go eat. Come on, let's go."

"What? Why? Did he have a long night?"

The concern I feel tells me I care for them more than I thought I did.

"It's always long nights with him." Grey shrugs, but his gaze flickers with a hint of concern.

"Why? Is he a late-night gamer?" I probe as I break eye contact to return to my desk and put my computer in energy-saving mode.

"No," he replies as I turn back to him. "That would be Oliver."

I absorb every detail like a sponge, thirsty to understand these people who have somehow become a significant part of my daily life.

"What about Misha then?" I ask, tilting my head as I stand from my chair. Grey, noticeably taller, looks down to meet my gaze. He subtly shifts his position, closing the distance between us just enough that I can feel the warmth of his minty breath.

"Insomnia," he answers, his voice low, reverberating softly in the quiet space between us. Poor Misha. That explains the constant exhaustion shadowing his features and the deep rings etched under his eyes. I can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him, imagining the many nights he must have spent wrestling with sleeplessness. "You can bombard him with your thousand questions yourself when we meet up," Grey remarks. His tone isn't mean, but it comes off a bit sharp, like a needle pricking at the balloon of my fledgling confidence.

As I sling my backpack over my shoulder, I feel myself shrink from the added weight. We step out of the office and into the brightly lit hallway, a hum of silence between us as we make our way to the elevator.

"Oh, don't go all shy on me again," Grey chides when we enter the elevator. "I'm here because we wanted to make sure you'd actually come to lunch. I don't mind you asking so many questions."

Am I doing that?

Usually, people say I'm too quiet. Besides my parents, of course. "You should be seen and not heard."

"I told you guys I would come since I tested Jamie yesterday," I remind him, irritation threading through my voice.

Why does he think I wouldn't keep my word?

"True, but you seem a little…" Grey trails off, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he searches for the right phrase. He clearly enjoys how I hang onto his lips.

"A little what ?" I press, my defenses rising like hackles.

"A little like a flight risk," he concludes, his smirk broadening into a full-fledged grin .

"What's that supposed to mean?" I scowl, my annoyance spiking at his audacity.

"It means you have to be convinced about everything and that sometimes, you seem ready to bolt at the smallest things," Grey explains, his voice softening a bit, sensing my growing defensiveness. "It's not a bad thing, Amelia. It's smart not to give your trust away too easily. That wouldn't be safe, and I'm glad you're cautious."

"But you're offended that I'm cautious with you," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Of course I am," he admits, and there's a genuine tone in his voice that catches me off guard. "But that's on me to earn your trust, not on you to give it unwarrantedly."

This is more than unexpected, and the icy irritation turns to something warm inside me. Maybe Grey isn't just all smirks and provocation. Maybe there's more depth to him, just as I hope he might see in me.

As we walk toward the cafeteria, I'm acutely aware of him beside me. He has this way of being too close without actually touching, a skill that seems to pull me in despite my better judgment.

The familiar hum of conversation fills the cafeteria, but no whispers this time. Funnily enough, I wasn't even worried about them since I have Mr. Super Scowl with me.

He heads straight to the vegetarian section, and I follow, reaching for a plate of stuffed bell peppers, but before I can even glance at the ingredients list, Grey nudges me aside and leans in to read it himself.

"Could you not?" I mutter, my tone sharper than intended.

Maybe he's just audacity made flesh, after all.

"Could you not choose something that could kill you?" he retorts seriously, grabbing the plate from my hands to put it back .

"You didn't even give me a chance to check it!" I protest.

"You should check before you even take the plate," he accuses, his tone firm. He scans the offerings, then picks up two plates of pasta primavera after ensuring no peanuts are in them. I grab two bottles of water, and my emotions are now a confusing mix of annoyance and warmth.

Talking to Grey is like a fucking roller-coaster ride.

He makes me feel cared for yet simultaneously gets under my skin with his overbearing nature.

We sit down at their usual table, and he places my plate in front of me. "Here, no nuts, no death." I just huff, then put some pasta on my fork and take a bite. I feel his eyes on me but keep my eyes on my plate as I chew and swallow. "So, do you like it?" Grey's voice is almost inviting.

"Yeah, it's actually pretty good," I admit reluctantly, and his smile in response lights up his features in a way that makes my stomach do strange flips.

Oh shit.

Misha slides into the seat across from me with a wrap on his tray while Oliver carefully sets down his plate of vegetarian sushi before sitting next to me. Oliver's gaze lingers on me a moment longer than usual, making my heart flip.

What's going on with me today?

Or is it them?

Misha looks like he could use another ten hours of sleep as he rubs his eyes before turning to me with a tired grin. "Hey, Amelia, how are you today?"

"How are you ?" I reply, trying to muster a grin of my own.

"Tired," he says with a yawn, making Grey smirk down on his plate.

"Tell us something new."

"Amelia," Oliver chimes in, and when I turn to look at him, his smile is as soft as his tone. "Did the updates help with Jamie? Anything weird or glitchy?"

I nod, playing with the fork in my hand. "It's already much better. Though, he seems to have taken on a lot of your traits. One moment, he's funny, then kind, and then he's suddenly bossy."

Misha chuckles, but Grey shoots a pointed look at Oliver, who quickly averts his eyes, his ears tinged with a hint of red. The silent exchange makes me bite back a laugh.

"That's fine, though," I continue. "It was much better. The personality shifts make him feel more… real, somehow."

"Real enough to boss you around?" Grey teases, raising an eyebrow in mock seriousness.

"Only when he's channeling you, I guess," I retort, and even Oliver cracks a smile at that.

It's strange, this feeling of belonging, like I'm slowly becoming a part of their world—or maybe they're becoming a part of mine.

Both options are wishful thinking, Amelia.

"Have you tried the kitchen appliances again?" Misha asks, catching me off guard but reminding me at the same time that this is pure business.

"No, sorry, I forgot yesterday until you brought me food," I admit, feeling embarrassed.

I fucked up there.

But testing the new Jamie was so much fun.

"I could never forget to eat," Misha mumbles with his mouth full.

I let out a half-hearted laugh. "I can't really cook, and sometimes when I'm swamped with work, I just forget," I explain, hoping they'd drop the topic.

"You forget to eat?" Grey echoes, his voice laced with incredulity. His disbelief makes me feel like I've confessed to something far worse.

"It's not a big deal," I insist, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "I do eat as soon as I remember."

I hate that this is becoming a thing.

Seeing their unconvinced looks, I quickly add, "I will try tonight, promise."

"Why doesn't Grey come over, and you guys do it together?" Misha's words hang in the air like a challenge. I glance at Grey, whose scowl deepens instantly, his eyes darting briefly to Misha before settling on me. His expression is a mix of annoyance and something unreadable, clearly not thrilled with the idea. "What?" Misha defends, shrugging as if he's just proposed a casual cup of coffee and not a potentially intimate evening.

This is still work for them, after all.

It's not like they want to spend their free time with me.

"Grey is an amazing cook, and I bet it's easier to test out everything with somebody who knows what they're doing in the kitchen , " Oliver reassures me when he sees the worry that's probably written all over my face.

Grey can cook?

"Just making sure she doesn't burn the building down." Misha grins at Grey.

Gee, thanks.

"Sure, whatever." Grey's scowl doesn't waver, and I can almost feel the weight of his glare.

Tonight could either be enlightening or a complete disaster.