Chapter 3

Amelia's POV

"Amelia, get in the car." Channing's voice came from the driveway behind me.

His black SUV crunched to a slow stop beside me on the lightly snow-covered gravel.

Brenda rolled down the passenger window, smiling graciously.

"It's freezing out there, Amelia," she said. "We're headed downtown anyway — we'll drop you wherever you like."

The biting wind cut through my coat. I hesitated a moment, then opened the rear door.

"Where are you off to?" Brenda turned to look at me through the gap between the leather seats. "You've hardly been out these past few days."

"The government district," I said vaguely. "To file some paperwork."

"Oh — something for school?" Brenda asked.

"Something like that."

Channing kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting idly on the center console.

Brenda reached over and laced her fingers through his, chattering about the guest list for their upcoming charity ball.

At a red light, Brenda took a tube of designer lip balm from her bag.

"Darling, the heater in this car is chapping my lips," she pouted, leaning toward him.

Channing took the balm from her hand, twisted off the cap, and with his thumb, gently smoothed it over her lower lip.

His movements were meticulous, tender, patient.

I turned my head toward the tinted window, watching gray snowflakes land on the glass and melt.

Two miles from the government building, Brenda suddenly gasped and grabbed Channing's forearm.

"Oh no! Channing — I left my designer handbag at that café near your estate!"

Channing frowned slightly and glanced at the dashboard clock.

"We have to go back for it," Brenda insisted, tugging his arm. "My passport and credit cards are inside."

Channing flicked on the turn signal and pulled over to the icy shoulder.

He shifted into park, raised his eyes to the rearview mirror, and met my gaze.

"Amelia, get out here and take the bus," he said evenly. "The government district is a mile up this road. Brenda needs to retrieve her bag before the café closes."

The shoulder was a mess of filthy slush; not a single bus stop was visible for blocks.

"Fine," I said.

I pushed open the door and my foot sank into ankle-deep snow. I pulled my coat tighter.

Channing didn't even wait for me to reach the sidewalk.

He slammed the accelerator; the tires skidded on the ice, spraying cold slush across my trouser legs. The SUV swung around and roared back down the road it had come.

I wiped the cold water from my face and walked forward step by step into the blizzard.

It took me forty-five minutes to reach the visa office.

I handed the officer my neatly organized application form, biometric receipt, and flight reservation.

As I walked out of the building clutching my stamped departure slip, an old man in a heavy wool coat called my name.

"Amelia? Amelia Justice?"

I turned and recognized Professor Harrison, an old colleague of my late father from his university days.

"Hello, Professor Harrison." I managed a polite smile.

"I haven't seen you since the spring exhibition," the old man said, eyeing the papers in my hands. "What brings you to the immigration office?"

"I'm moving to London next month," I told him honestly. "To live with my aunt."

Professor Harrison adjusted his glasses, surprised.

"Does Channing know about this?"

"He knows I'm planning for my future." I lied without so much as a flicker.

Professor Harrison sighed and shook his head with an affectionate smile.

"That boy truly gave you his whole heart back then, Amelia. I remember when you were ten — you came down with pneumonia just as he was heading into a massive merger negotiation. He walked away from the closing of his first real acquisition to sit at your hospital bedside, holding your hand until your fever broke. You must remember his goodness, and repay him well."

"I will," I said quietly, an icy numbness spreading through my chest. "I'll pay him back every last cent."

If my guardian considered my love a burden, then the finest repayment was to vanish from his life entirely.

Back home, I went straight into the small back bedroom and opened my laptop.

I pulled up the ledger of every expense Channing had covered for me over thirteen years: every private-school tuition, every lavish allowance, every medical bill, every trip.

The total came to roughly 1.6 million dollars.

Factoring in interest and the value of his personal time, I tripled it.

Five million dollars.

For the past two weeks, I had quietly listed the vacation cabin my father left me in upstate New York for sale.

This morning, the buyer paid in full, after estate tax and the mortgage I had to redeem, only 2.6 million of it was actually mine.

I gathered the diamond earrings, luxury watches, and designer gifts Channing had given me over the years, boxed them all up, and shipped them off to an online luxury resale dealer, netting another half million.

By evening, my bank balance stood at roughly 3.1 million dollars. The rest would have to wait until the first disbursement of my parents' trust was released.

My phone chimed on the table.

An Instagram notification.

Brenda had posted a photo: her hand resting over Channing's, an enormous diamond ring glittering in the restaurant light. The caption read: Forever with my protector.

I liked the photo, placed my phone face-down on the table, and sank into a deep, heavy sleep.