Chapter 2

Amelia's POV

The old grandfather clock in the entrance hall was just striking midnight when the lock clicked open.

Channing walked into the foyer, tugging loose his dark silk tie with one hand.

Seeing me sitting alone on the living room sofa in the dim lamplight, he stopped.

His brow furrowed slightly with irritation.

"Why aren't you asleep?" He glanced at the luxury watch on his wrist. "It's past midnight."

"I wanted to wait and see if you needed dinner," I said evenly, my voice flat. "I made beef stew."

"Brenda and I ate at the club," he said, hanging his coat on the rack. "I told you weeks ago, Amelia — you don't need to wait up for me. You're twenty-one now, not a child waiting for a parent to come home."

He turned toward the stairs, and a moment later the study door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the silent house.

Years ago, no matter how late his board meetings ran, he would call home just to make sure I'd eaten.

If he was delayed, he would pick up pastries from my favorite bakery downtown and sit at the kitchen island watching me finish them.

But all of that had ended the day I turned eighteen and stepped over his moral line.

After that night, he withdrew every ounce of tenderness he had ever given me, replacing warmth with cold, rigid formality.

I went into the kitchen, sealed the pot of stone-cold stew with foil, and put it in the refrigerator.

Standing at the sink, I forced down two mouthfuls of cold rice, swallowed the dryness in my throat, and went upstairs.

I knocked on his study door.

"Come in."

Channing sat behind his mahogany desk, scrolling through financial statements on his laptop.

He looked up, guarded, his whole body going taut.

"What is it, Amelia? If you're here about feelings again—"

"I want to move out of the master guest room," I interrupted calmly.

Channing froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

"What?"

"The big guest room at the front is too large for me," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "Brenda comes over often now, and that room gets the best light and has its own private terrace. I'll take the little storage room at the end of the hall."

Channing stared at me for several seconds, searching my face for irony or some calculated ploy.

My face showed nothing.

"If you insist," he said, returning his eyes to the screen. "Brenda did mention the suite gets good light — it would make a fine dressing room when she stays over. Move your things out tomorrow."

"All right," I said.

I stepped back, closed the door, and walked into the master guest room.

Ten years ago, Channing had painted these walls a gentle cream with his own hands, because after the accident, the dim hospital walls gave me nightmares.

He had promised me that as long as I lived under this roof, I would always have the room with the best light.

Now I was nothing but an unwanted guest who had overstayed her welcome.

The next morning, I packed my clothes into two suitcases and dragged them down the long corridor to the little room at the very end.

It held only a narrow single bed, a bare wooden table, and a small window facing the back alley.

By noon, every trace of my existence had been erased from my old bedroom.

I put my passport, my UK student visa approval letter, and the bank transfer receipts into my leather shoulder bag and headed downstairs.

Channing was on the living room sofa, leafing through a paper document.

I passed by him and nodded, polite and distant.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Gray."

Channing went rigid. He set down the document and looked up at me.

His eyes narrowed, visibly stung by the unbearably formal address.

"Where are you going in this cold?" He glanced out the window at the heavy snow falling on the lawn. "The roads are iced over. If you need art supplies, I'll have the driver take you."

"Errands downtown," I said, sliding my hands into my coat pockets. "I'll take a cab."

"Amelia, stop sulking," he said, rising with a frown. "What is this 'Mr. Gray' supposed to mean?"

Before I could answer, the front door swung open.

Brenda swept in wearing a white fur coat, stray snowflakes caught in her long black hair.

Beaming, she glided right past me, looped her arms around Channing's neck, and kissed his jaw.

"Darling, the jeweler called," Brenda said, her voice syrupy and bright. "The diamond necklace from the auction is ready for pickup."

Channing's tense frame relaxed slightly, and he slid an arm around her waist.

"Then let's go get the necklace," he murmured to her.

I stepped aside, pulled open the door, and walked out into the swirling snow without looking back.