Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Oliver

Left, left, turn around and up.

I'm sitting in our office at home, manipulating the Rubik's cube in my hands, each twist and turn a poor distraction from the whirlwind of emotions inside me. Jamie's interface is open and ready on the screen while I wait for Amelia to come back into her living room and onto the screen.

Pride swells within me as I remember that I had the nerve to tell her she's beautiful today.

Her face was worth the fact that my anxiety about it almost made me puke.

I replay the moment again in my mind—her surprised blush, the flustered smile that tugged at her lips.

It felt like a victory—a small one, but significant all the same .

And then I even managed to tell her that we wanted her with us. The words came easier than I expected, though they weren't quite the full truth. What I wanted to say was that I longed for her presence, for her laughter and her thoughtful glances. But declarations like that require timing and courage, both of which I'm still mustering.

It's about small steps, isn't it?

But accompanying the pride is this gnawing guilt—the kind that tugs at my conscience all the time with uncomfortable persistence. We told Amelia she could keep Jamie, even going so far as to give her ownership rights of her version of him because we honestly wanted her to have him, to keep him.

We even voted on it.

Which was unanimous.

Yet, we maintained our access—a backdoor into the AI that promises us continued glimpses into her life. I rationalize it as a concern, just making sure she's all right, but deep down, I recognize the unsettling truth of my unhealthy obsession.

Misha was right, after all. I am obsessed with her.

He and Grey are next to me in their chairs, their gazes fixed on the screens that feed us live updates from Amelia's apartment too. They can't seem to stop watching her, either.

I noticed that Grey has been a little odd since they cooked together, and the footage of how close they got that evening still gnaws at me with a jealousy that is hard to stomach. I wanted to be the one to share those laughs with her, to be by her side, to touch her like that.

But it was Grey who was there, and seeing them together, so at ease, was a bitter pill to swallow.

Yet, as much as it stings, I'm glad she was happy.

That's what matters.

Or at least, that's what I try to tell myself as I look down at the cube, the colors aligned, a small semblance of order restored.

I'm glad she was having a good time. I just hate that it wasn't with me .

But whose fault is that?

On the screen, Amelia emerges from her bedroom. She's changed into blue jeans, a white long-sleeved top and is pulling on a light brown cardigan. Her hair still falls in soft waves.

She looks beautiful. And like she's going out.

But where?

"Your mother is calling again, Amelia," Jamie's voice cuts through the silence of her apartment. "I know you told me to put her on silent, but it's the third call in a row and already the twelfth today."

"Just ignore it," she responds without a hint of hesitation.

I frown, my fingers pausing their dance over the cube I'm already mixing up again.

What's going on with her family?

Her vitals on the screen show an elevated heart rate.

"Did they have a fight or something?" Misha murmurs beside me, reminding me that he and Grey are as invested in this as I am.

"Haven't noticed anything, but maybe it happened when she was at work?" I suggest, glancing at Grey.

Grey's shrug is noncommittal, his attention partly on his own screen. "Maybe, but I'm more curious where she's heading."

I watch, somewhat anxious, as Amelia reaches for her purse hanging on the coat rack. She begins transferring essentials from her backpack—phone, wallet, and her EpiPen.

"She's definitely going out," I state the obvious.

Taking the initiative, Grey leans toward the microphone. "Are you going out, Amelia?"

She pauses, her hand on the purse, and a smirk plays across her lips. "Yes," she answers, her voice light, almost teasing. "I have a date tonight."

The room tightens around me.

A date?

My heart stutters, a jolt of something cold washing through me.

"What the…" Misha echoes my shock, his voice a mixture of surprise and indignation. "With whom?"

Grey's jaw clenches, his fingers drumming on the desk. "The fuck I know," he mutters before speaking into the mic. "A date with whom?" Grey's voice is sharper than he probably intended.

"Oh, is this a new feature? Are we curious now?" Amelia smirks. "His name is Ivor," she continues, still smiling. "I see him every few weeks."

I'm already sifting through her emails and contacts on another screen.

Ivor?

Who is Ivor?

There's no mention of him in any of her recent communications.

A sinking feeling starts to settle in.

"What a shitty name," Grey mutters under his breath, earning a chuckle from Misha. Pushing the speaker button again, he asks, "And what are your plans? How long will you be out?"

She laughs, a sound that's both amused and slightly exasperated. "Wow, Jamie, you're really channeling Grey tonight. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll be back in two hours or so."

With that, she slings her purse over her shoulder and heads out, leaving us staring at the now-empty apartment displayed on the screen.

I sit back, the Rubik's cube forgotten in my hands, the colors as mixed and muddled as my feelings. "Should we…" I start, unsure of what I'm even suggesting.

"Do what you want. I'm going after her," Grey says, standing and heading out of the room.

I glance at Misha, who's already looking at me when we both jump up. We shuffle out of the apartment and pile into the elevator, the descent seeming to take much longer than usual. Grey's determination fills the small space, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the doors as they slowly open to the street level.

Once outside, we spot Amelia a short distance away, her pace steady but unhurried.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I mutter, but my feet follow her path regardless, driven by a mixture of concern and curiosity.

If I see her kiss a guy tonight, I might just die of a broken heart.

"We're just making sure she's safe," Grey insists, his voice low as we trail behind her, keeping a careful distance.

After maybe twenty minutes, the city sounds fade, and we approach Denny Park. It's quieter here, the rustling leaves and distant traffic blending into a calming soundtrack

We watch as Amelia approaches an old, weathered green piano placed under a canopy of trees. Her movements are graceful, almost reverential, as she sets her purse down on the ground between her feet and flexes her fingers above the ivory. Her respect for the instrument is palpable, even from a distance.

We find cover behind some thick foliage to the right of the piano. From here, we can see her clearly but are well hidden among the shadows.

Misha nudges me gently, a mischievous chuckle escaping him. "Look," he whispers, nodding toward the piano .

"What?" Grey and I ask simultaneously, peering closer.

Misha points to the faded lettering above the keyboard, barely legible on the weathered green paint. "Mr. Ivor E. Key. The melody of Denny Park."

A moment of stunned silence follows before I let out a quiet laugh, quickly covering my mouth with my hand.

Ivor is a fucking piano.

The revelation feels both ridiculous and like a weight has been lifted.

"For fuck's sake, Amelia," Grey exhales, his tension melting away as relief floods his features.

Misha looks between us, his eyebrows raised. "I didn't know she played piano, did you?"

I shake my head, though, in hindsight, her taste in music should've given us a clue.

Amelia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to play. Her fingers settle into the rhythm of the melody, and the notes of "River Flows in You" by Yiruma fill the air.

With its soft and flowing melody, the song seems almost to mirror the golden hues of the setting sun that filter through the trees, casting dappled shadows around us.

I watch, captivated. It's as if the piece was written for this very moment, for her , beneath this canopy.

Knowing her fondness for Twilight , I recognize the connection—the song was once unofficially considered "Bella's Lullaby " by fans before the film's actual soundtrack was released.

I may have logged into one or two fan forums since I know she's into the series.

Amelia's posture is impeccable, and each note she plays is deliberate, infused with emotion, her body swaying with the rhythm of the music. The scene is almost otherworldly.

It's a side of her I've never seen, and I feel privileged to witness it .

I can't help but feel that this is a rare glimpse into Amelia's soul.

Grey is almost fidgeting next to me, his attention fixed intently on Amelia. "She's amazing. To play like that on such a fucked-up piano? It's incredible."

She truly is.

Misha murmurs, almost to himself, "I might start appreciating piano music more."

His gaze is fixed on her, filled with a mix of admiration and something deeper, something that makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. The way he and Grey watch her is far from just friendly or professional curiosity.

They are captivated, completely taken by her presence.

Fuck.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. They really are as drawn to her as I am. This complicates things—my feelings, our friendship, and whatever future we might have hoped to build.

"This is insane," Grey mutters under his breath as he shakes his head. "She's out here, all alone, eyes closed, completely vulnerable to any threats."

"What threats?" Misha whispers back, his voice tinged with amusement despite the tension. "We're probably the only stalkers she has."

Grey doesn't find the humor in the situation. "It's not about us. It's about who else could be here and take advantage of her."

"We just stay and watch out for her then." Misha shrugs, and I nod in agreement.

I watch Amelia, lost in her music, her expression one of deep concentration mixed with a touch of sadness. It's clear this is more than just playing. It's a release.

Playing the piano is a part of her, and anybody with eyes can see it .

The music swells, drawing a small crowd of late parkgoers who keep a respectful distance, entranced by the impromptu concert. Among the faces, there's no sign of anyone suspicious, just ordinary people enjoying a moment of unexpected beauty.

As the last notes linger in the air, Amelia's shoulders relax. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes, seemingly unaware of the small applause from her audience. She smiles briefly, a genuine one that reaches her eyes before she closes them once more and starts up again with "Clair de Lune" by Claude Debussy.

Did her love for Twilight inspire her interest in piano music, or was it her affinity for the piano that drew her to the story? God, there is so much I want to know. So many questions I want to ask.

But I force myself to simply be present, to watch the woman who unknowingly holds my heart captivate her audience with the beauty of her music. And as I stand here, hidden yet wholly exposed, I hope that someday, somehow, I might be fortunate enough to hold a place in her heart as well.