I’ve lost so much, and now here I am without a strand of peace left.
The room spins and I yank harder, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. The mirror reflects a distorted image of a girl caught between two worlds, the one she was forced into and the one she didn’t want to need to escape from.
I can’t cry, can’t even muster the tears as I focus on the sharp sting of hair being ripped from my scalp. The relentless vibration of my smartwatch on my right wrist finally jolts me from my spiraling thoughts, cutting through the haze of despair, snapping me back to reality.
Why am I still wearing this damn thing?
I glance at it, the irritation bubbling to the surface. I want to tear it off, to rip it apart, but all I do is scream. The sound echoes off the walls, sharp and raw. It’s both a release and a cry for help, and it startles me into stillness. Panting heavily, I look down at the strands of hair now scattered across the vanity.
A knock at the door jolts me from my trance. I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice as I call out. “Yes?”
James, our butler, responds from the other side, each word measured and calm. “Miss Stanley, is there anything you might need?”
The formality in his tone makes my heart clench, reminding me of Jamie.
I glance back at my reflection in the mirror. Even if I look like the Amelia from two years ago, there’s a defiant glint in my eyes now, a defiance that wasn’t there before Seattle. I’m back in this gilded cage, butI’m notthe same person. I’ve lived two years of freedom, embraced two years of growth. I will not let them mold me back into the meek, compliant mouse I once was.
I straighten, grasping for some semblance of composure. “Yes, James, thank you,” I reply. “Would you mind getting me some things from the city? A laptop, and maybe a few other items. I need to… start working on something.”
Like the idea that just came to me, to program my watch to escalate its vibration when it senses thatIam escalating my self-destruction.
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, and then James’ voice comes back, filled with a touch of surprise but alsoa hint of… relief? “Certainly, Miss Stanley. I’ll see to it right away.”
As I turn back to the mirror, the face looking back at me is one that has endured, one that has evolved.
It’s the face of someone who will not surrender so easily.
FIVE
My eyes are immediately drawnto the imposing mansion before us when I step out of the taxi.
Regret washes over me as I realize how woefully unprepared we are. Our clothes, wrinkled from the ten-hour flight, suddenly seem laughably inadequate. I glance down at my rumpled shirt, inwardly cursing myself for insisting we come straight here instead of freshening up at a hotel first.
What was I even thinking?
I needed to see her. That’s what.
It’s late morning in London, and the journey here felt like an eternity. When the tracker pinned her here, I wanted to sprint to the airport, but Oliver, bless him, kept his cool, handling the logistics of our impromptu trip with his usual efficiency.
We needed to tell our bosses that we’d be working on Jamie remotely for a while. And we needed time to gather everything to keep trying to find even a hint of who hurt and stole from Amelia.
This trip, though a bit of a splurge of the money we’d set aside for our future company, was a necessary expense. We’re more than willing to spend it if it meant increasing our chances of getting Amelia back.
I’m grateful for Oliver’s level-headedness, even as I’m kicking myself for my impulsiveness.
Four days.
She’s been back in her mother’s clutches for four days. Just because we fucked up.
Like I tried to tell Grandpa and Morgan, I’m not sorry for watching her, only for how she found out, which is a point we’re still unsure about. And for how I let her literally slip from my arms. None of that matters now because we’re going to fix it.
The taxi speeds away, leaving us stranded on the pebble-stone driveway. We must look absolutely ridiculous, like disheveled tourists who’ve stumbled into the wrong neighborhood.
Misha clutches a sad-looking bouquet of flowers purchased from the airport kiosk. He has dark circles under his eyes and his usually bouncy curls are flattened on one side from sleeping against the plane window. Poor guy looks like he’s been through the wringer.
And Oliver looks like he might be sick right here on the sidewalk as he asks, “This is her house?” His expression is tinged with disbelief and a hint of awe.
“Looks like it,” I reply, trying to mask my own discomfort and growing anxiety. I’m beginning to wonder if coming here was a colossal mistake.
