Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amelia

As I walk through the door, I kick off my shoes and set my backpack down with a sigh. Moving automatically, I wander into the kitchen, the silence of the apartment settling around me.

Coming home feels heavier today.

Yesterday's piano session at the park and the visit to the shelter to donate felt good, a rare release from the usual weight of my thoughts. On the way home, I even got myself some pizza and breadsticks—comfort food, a tiny celebration on my own.

Now, I'm reheating a couple of slices for dinner, the microwave buzzing softly in the background.

Jamie's voice startles me as it chimes in. "You know, Amelia, many consider reheating pizza in a microwave a culinary crime."

I chuckle, retrieving the now-hot plate. "Maybe, but I'll call it a delicious culinary crime then." The steam rises, carrying the familiar tangy scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese.

Today has been difficult. I've been anxious, my thoughts spinning around the inevitable call I have to make to Mother later tonight. I know if I don't call her, things could escalate—she has a way of making her discontent known, a skill honed over the years with cold precision.

She still has that power over me, even if I'm on another continent.

That's probably why I've been so absentminded the whole day. At lunch, the guys tried to engage me in conversation, anything to lift the mood, but eventually, they let me be, focusing instead on their own discussions—something about Oliver going to Portland for the weekend.

Fuck, I should have paid attention.

I sit down at my table, planning to dive into my augmented reality project—which I haven't touched in days. The laptop sits closed in front of me, and a plate of reheated pizza waits nearby. Now that the beta is over, I really need to get back to it. It's a good thing it's Friday evening, and I can pull an all-nighter.

But before I can even open the laptop, my phone vibrates on the table, the sudden buzzing cutting through the quiet of the apartment and making my stomach sink. I don't even have to look to know who it is.

She's the only one who ever calls me.

And she really has to get something off of her chest if she calls me this late.

It's after midnight in London.

With a resigned sigh, I pick up the phone and hit the speaker button, setting it back down beside me. "Edith," I greet, keeping my voice steady, even though turmoil churns beneath the surface.

As I open the laptop and start to scan through my emails, I cling to the routine, hoping it will help me maintain some sense of control over the conversation.

Her crisp and expectant voice fills the room. "Amelia Charlotte, how many times must I remind you that I am your mother and expect to be addressed as such?" I focus on the screen in front of me, letting her words wash over me. This call, like many before, is about enduring, not engaging. "Good to know you're still alive. I was worried yesterday when you ignored me. But no, why would you pick up your phone on your birthday, the day I spent hours in pain to give you life twenty-five years ago?"

"Twenty-six," I mutter under my breath.

I turned twenty-six.

A fact she either ignored or forgot, neither would surprise me.

"What was that?" Her voice sharpens.

That voice alone can make a shiver run down my spine.

Fuck, why didn't I set up that voice mod ?

"Nothing, I'm sorry, Mother."

"Speaking of your age, time is ticking, Amelia Charlotte. When I was your age, I was already married and had your brother."

And you had me ten years later.

As she lectures, my palms begin to sweat, and my fingers start to twitch.

"I saw the Davidson boy last weekend at a charity event. He is engaged to a beautiful, young blonde woman. I still don't understand how you could let him leave you. He would have made a good husband for you."

I have to suppress a bitter laugh I know she wouldn't appreciate, but I can't help answering, "If you think a husband who ignores me most of the time while he sleeps with other women is a good one, sure."

"Amelia Charlotte, we don't gossip! Where are your manners? He's not going to take you back now anyway." As if I would ever want him back. "But don't worry, I know a lot of suitable bachelors. My friend Miranda… you know Mi randa?" Of course I do. She's a bloody nightmare. "Miranda's son, Daniel…" She launches into a monologue about how wonderful Daniel would be for me, but I'm not really listening.

I'm too caught up in the rapid drumbeat of my own heart, thudding loudly in my chest as if trying to drown her out. She has no idea what Daniel is like or what I'm like. Of course, I know him. He was at every event I was forced to attend.

He's a lawyer and dates models. He wouldn't want me, and I wouldn't want him. But she doesn't care because his last name sounds good, and we would look good together on paper.

Needing a change of scenery, even if it won't silence her, I grab the phone and stand. Walking over to the couch, I sink into it in search of some semblance of comfort, hugging a pillow to me as I pull my feet under me.

"I just know he would make such a good husband." My mother sighs.

I was never one of those women who saw myself as a wife. Hell, I couldn't even picture myself as a girlfriend to anyone right now.

A certain trio comes to mind, but I push the thought aside quickly.

Stop daydreaming, Amelia.

"He can provide for you, and he is so handsome. He would give me some pretty grandchildren."

I've never envisioned myself as a mother, either. The very idea feels alien and claustrophobic. When I think of the future, I imagine myself as successful, immersed in my projects, and making waves in the tech industry with my augmented reality work. In my downtime, I'll be the nerdy aunt to August's girls, spoiling them rotten.

That's enough for me .

Why can't that be enough?

"Don't you want to be a young mother? You know, getting married and having kids in your thirties lacks decorum befitting a woman of your station," she presses on.

The constant battle between the life I want and the life they envision for me is exhausting.

It's a line I've walked all my life.

If I were a man, nobody would bat an eye at me, saying I want to prioritize my career, that I don't have a picket-fence dream, or that the only thing I want to be married to is my achievements.

Of course, I want love.

Of course, I want a partner.

A man could have that without having to commit to the rest.

But I can't.

I'm not a man.

And for them, all I've done, all I've achieved so far, was only to keep myself occupied, to increase my worth until Mr. Right found me and made me produce at least one child.

The thought makes me angry, irrationally so, and stirs something inside me that makes me forget to whom I'm talking for a second, making me bolder than usual. "No, I don't want to be a young mother. I don't want to be a mother at all. That's what the birth control I'm taking is for." The words tumble out before I can stop them.

I haven't had sex since the Davidson boy broke up with me, and I only take the pills because they shorten my period, but she doesn't have to know that. Instead of retreating, I press on, "I want to be good at my job. I want to be successful. I want to make something out of myself. More than just an accessory on someone's arm. I know that's hard for you to imagine. But your dreams aren't mine. "

I'm so upset that I'm panting by the time I finish speaking. But the only response from the other end is silence, and the longer it stretches, the more regret claws its way up my throat.

Fuck. I've never been so blunt with her.

What changed?

Misha

"Did you hear that?" I can't help but laugh, a mix of pride and surprise in my voice. "She told her off."

Amelia really just did that.

I wouldn't have thought she could, given her stricken face when she answered the phone and how her heart was racing on the health monitor.

Oliver, Grey, and I are glued to the real-time window into her life, a privilege we probably abuse more than we should.

We shouldn't watch her at all, but, yeah, well…

Her conversation with her mother leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and from the looks on Oliver and Grey's faces, they feel the same.

Grey nods, his eyes not leaving the screen. "Good for her. She shouldn't have to deal with that kind of crap, not today, not ever. None of us wants kids. Have any of you had to explain this to anyone, defend yourself?"

Oliver and I shake our heads.

No, we didn't.

It's infuriating to hear someone speak to her that way, to demand so much while understanding so little. But Amelia just stood up for herself, her words fierce and filled with a conviction that I envy.

I've always avoided confrontations, preferring to keep the peace, even if it means silencing my own thoughts. But not Amelia.

She's strong in ways I wish I could be.

Oliver adds, "It explains a lot. She's been off all day. Quiet. Probably dreading that call."

"Yeah," I agree, thinking back on the day. Her silence at lunch now makes more sense.

After yesterday's lightness, her sudden withdrawal today had been puzzling. She'd been so alive, so vibrant, as she played the piano in the park. We all saw how the music transformed her, how it seemed to lift her spirits.

We followed her after she left the park, watching as she entered a shelter—though she came out empty-handed, not with new fish as I half-expected—and then got herself some food. Back home, we watched as she looked content, almost happy, munching on that awful egg-topped pizza and settling down to watch a movie.

I wanted so badly to text her or maybe even just drop by. Hang out with her, watch the movie by her side with her feet in my lap. Have some time alone with her, especially after seeing how she opened up with Grey when they were alone, I need it.

And it was her fucking birthday yesterday.

Which she spent alone.

That realization tightened something in my chest when her mother announced it. I guess we all would've wanted to be there with her, and in a way, we were.

But she didn't know that.

Amelia takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She looks like she's bracing herself for an inevitable storm.

This isn't over , it seems.

Her mother's voice cuts through the silence with vicious precision. "So, tell me, Amelia Charlotte, what exactly are your achievements? You work as a minor cog in a company where no one knows your name. I haven't heard of a single thing you've accomplished. But do you know what I did hear about? Your brother was just nominated for a prestigious award in the London law community. He's successful and making us proud, all while managing a beautiful family."

I can see how the words sting Amelia as she bites her lips. Each word is a pointed barb aimed to wound.

Her mother's tone grows even colder, more disdainful. "I dreamed of having a daughter who would shine, Amelia Charlotte, not… this. You're a disappointment. When I think of a daughter, I imagine grace, someone who enhances our family's name, not tarnishes it."

"Fucking bitch," Grey growls out, standing from his chair, his palms on his desk.

"Agreed," Oliver pushes out through clenched teeth.

My nails dig into the palms of my hands as I clench my fists to keep myself from reaching out and grabbing the microphone, telling her mother off.

But her tirade already continues. "It won't be long before you realize how mediocre your efforts are, and when you do, you'll come crawling back. When that day comes, don't be surprised if the only suitors interested in you are old bachelors desperate for an heir. And don't expect me to help you then. I'd rather marry you off to any of them just to soften the disgrace you've become."

We watch, horrified, as Amelia's face contorts in pain. Her hurt, so raw and exposed, feels like a punch to my gut. We'd already suspected she had a tough time with her family, but witnessing it firsthand is unbearable.

"I… I have to go," Amelia manages to choke out before ending the call.

The screens feel invasive now, too intimate a view into her personal agony, and I feel a surge of anger, not just at her mother but at myself.

We shouldn't have witnessed this. But now that we have, we need to be there for her.

"We need to do something," I say, standing abruptly, my mind racing as I head toward the door to go to her apartment.

"No!" Grey snaps. His expression resolved. "How would we explain it? That we know what happened? That she needs someone? We could make this much worse, and we could lose her… and with that, she would lose us."

Goddamn.

I halt, my fists clenched at my sides, frustration and helplessness warring inside me. "I'm just gonna tell her I want to borrow some sugar or shit," I grumble. My gaze shifts back to where Amelia still sits motionless on the couch, staring blankly into space, her normally bright eyes now dull and vacant.

I'm here. I'll come and get you.

"Fuck," she yells, her voice cracking with the force of her pain as she hurls the pillow across the room. It thuds against the window before dropping lifelessly to the floor. My heart clenches as I watch her curl into herself, drawing her knees to her chest like she's trying to make herself as small as possible, as if she could disappear into her own despair. Her hand trembles as it moves to her head, and suddenly, in a frantic, almost panicked motion, she rips off her smartwatch and throws it across the room. The sound of it clattering against the hardwood floor echoes in the stillness.

The sight of her fingers tangling in her hair, yanking at the strands with increasing desperation, is like a punch to the gut. It's a raw, visceral display of her anguish, and I feel utterly powerless to help her .

"What the hell is happening?" I mutter, horror tightening in my chest as I watch her self-destructive actions. "Is she pulling out her hair?"

"Maybe. She could have trichotillomania. It's a stress-related compulsion. She might not stop until she's calmed down," Oliver confirms, his voice trembling.

"Of course, you'd know that," I mutter, though the irritation in my voice is just a mask for the fear gnawing at me. I start for the door again, every instinct screaming at me to go to her, to do something—anything—to make this stop. "That's it, I'm going down to get her."

"Wait," Grey calls out, his voice firm but laced with the same desperation I feel. I pause, my hand gripping the doorknob so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"I swear to God, Grey…" I start, but the words die on my lips as I see him quickly tap on his keyboard. The familiar notes of "One Step Closer" by Frank Dang begin to play through the interface, the soothing melody filling Amelia's room like a balm for her raw nerves.

As the music envelops her, I watch in tense silence, praying it works. Slowly, agonizingly, the frantic pulling at her hair slows, then stops altogether. She takes deep, shaky breaths, each one more measured than the last, her body gradually relaxing as she lets the melody wrap around her.

"Thank fuck," Oliver breathes out, leaning back in his chair, but the relief on his face is marred by the lingering pain in his eyes.

Thank fuck, indeed.

I turn to Grey, meeting his gaze with a nod of gratitude before I walk back to my chair, feeling a hollow ache in my chest as I sit down again. On the screen, Amelia lies down and curls on her side, clutching another pillow to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her together. My heart feels like it's being torn in two watching her .

I wish I could be the comfort she clutches instead of that pillow.

As the song ends, she whispers, "Thank you, Jamie." Her voice is so faint, so broken, that it barely reaches my ears, but it shatters something inside me.

Without hesitation, Grey restarts the track, letting the melody flow through her living room once more.

Oliver looks as distressed as I feel. His hands are clasped tightly around the armrests of his chair. Grey's expression is one of deep concern, his usual confidence replaced by a shadow of helplessness that I've never seen in him before. We're all feeling it—a desperate need to help her, to reach out and let her know she's not alone in this, even if she can't see or feel it right now.

I force myself to lean back in my chair, trying to quell the instinct to rush to her side, to be there in person. It's hard—so damn hard—to stay here and do nothing.

But tomorrow… tomorrow, I'll make sure she knows she's got people who care about her. People who see her worth, even when she can't see it herself.

We won't let her fall through the cracks. Not on our watch.