13. West
Chapter 13
West
I can’t sleep.
Amelia’s soft breathing beside me should soothe, but my mind races. Her story doesn’t add up. First, she had no family, but now she has an uncle who stole her inheritance. I should believe her, but it seems too convenient, too neat.
There is definitely more to her story. Her parents are dead, and she pretended it was a car accident. She never wanted me to pry, but now she’s telling me they died in a sailing accident. Why?
Does she want me to know more for a reason? Or is everything one big fat lie? And somewhere along the line, she forgot the truth.
I glance at her peaceful face, guilt gnawing at me for not trusting her. And I shouldn’t pry, but I will. I need to know the truth.
Carefully, I slip out of bed. Amelia stirs slightly, and I freeze until she settles back into sleep.
I make my way downstairs and to my home office, closing the door with a soft click. The glow of my computer screen illuminates the room as I power it on. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Am I really going to do this? Invade her privacy?
But I need answers. For her sake. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I type her name into the search bar. “Amelia Ross.” Nothing unusual pops up. Social media accounts, private or inactive. Nothing with her picture, not even a few old articles from her high school newspaper.
I dig deeper, searching for obituaries related to her parents. Nothing. No sailing accidents reported in the last five years involving a Ross family.
My unease grows.
Who is she?
I try a different tack. I search for any legal disputes involving an inheritance and the Ross name.
Again, nothing.
Frustration builds. I’m missing something. Or she’s lying. The thought makes my stomach churn.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. This feels wrong, but I can’t shake the feeling that Amelia is hiding something big.
She’s running from something. Something that could put her– or both of us –in danger.
Something creaks outside the office. My heart jumps into my throat.
I close the lid and creep to the door, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood.
I steal a glance down the corridor but see nothing but shadows. My heart is still racing, and I take a deep breath when I realize it’s just my imagination running wild.
Back at the computer, I hesitate before powering it up again. This feels like a betrayal, but I can’t shake off my need to know.
My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before I type:
Boating accidents in South Carolina.
The search yields several results, but one catches my eye. It’s from a little over three years ago, matching Amelia’s timeline.
I click, and my breath catches in my throat.
There she is. Younger, but unmistakably Amelia.
The caption reads:
Amelia Morelli, 19, comforted by an uncle after a tragic boating accident claims parents’ lives.
Morelli, not Ross.
Enough of change to throw off a casual search.
My eyes are drawn to the girl in the photo. Her face is a mask of grief, eyes red and swollen. She looks small, vulnerable, clutched in the arms of a man I assume is her uncle.
Something about him makes my skin crawl. His grip on Amelia seems possessive rather than comforting. His eyes are hard, focused on the camera instead of his grieving niece.
I lean closer, studying the image. Amelia looks the same but different, beyond just being younger. Her posture, her expression, everything is like looking at a completely different person. The vibrant, determined woman I know is nowhere to be seen in this broken girl.
My heart aches for her.
But what happened to her?
What turned Amelia Morelli into Amelia Ross?
I continue reading.
I dig deeper into the article, my eyes scanning for any details about Amelia’s past.
A quote from a neighbor catches my attention:
“The Morellis moved here about five years ago from California,” says Martha Jennings, who lives two doors down. “They kept to themselves, mostly. Beautiful house on the water, always well-maintained, but we never saw much of them. The daughter–Amelia, I think her name is–went to that fancy private school for girls. St. Catherine’s.”
I process this new information. Five years in South Carolina, but they came from California. It’s not much, but it’s more than I knew before. The fact that they were so private raises more questions.
What were they hiding from—or running from?
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers at the back of my head, thinking.
The article lacks any details about what Amelia’s parents did for a living. How did they afford a beautiful house and private school tuition if they weren’t working? The pieces don’t fit together.
But when I met Amelia, I remember she told me she had worked for her father.
I scroll through more articles, searching for any mention of the Morelli family. Hoping to find out about her family’s background or anything about their life in California.
Nothing.
It’s like they appeared out of thin air five years before the accident.
My mind races with possibilities. Were her family criminals, did they betray the wrong person? And is Amelia now in witness protection? Or maybe they were just intensely private people who valued their solitude.
I glance at the clock. It’s nearly 3 am. I should go back to bed, but I can’t tear myself away from the screen. There’s so much more I need to know about my future fiancée.
Especially as the girl I thought I knew is becoming a stranger with every click. And yet, I can’t help but feel drawn to her even more.
What made her change her name?
Why is she running from her past?
I rub my eyes, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I need sleep, but I know that won’t happen, not when I have questions about the mysterious woman in my bed.
I pick up my phone and call a man I know will find out what I need to know.
I dial the number for Lewis, the private investigator I’ve used in the past. He picks up on the second ring.
“West? You’re calling me at an ungodly hour. What’s going on?”
“I need your help.” Leaning against my desk, I try to keep my voice steady. “I want you to look into a family called Morelli. They lived in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.”
“Morelli?” he repeats, his voice laced with curiosity. “What’s the story?”
I glance at the ceiling, where Amelia sleeps soundly. “My…my girlfriend has some history there. Parents died in a boating accident three years ago. But something doesn’t add up. I need to know what they were doing before that.”
“Got it,” he says, typing something in the background. “Do you have any more details? Dates? Addresses?”
I rattle off everything I know. I’m piecing together bits from the articles and her stories that I’m unsure are the truth.
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Lewis replies, his tone shifting from casual to business-like. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Just—” I hesitate.
What do I want? The truth? The whole truth? Or just enough to keep Amelia safe?
“If you can also find out what you can about their lives before they moved to Hilton Head. They’re Italian and came to America ten years ago.”
“I’ll get on with it first thing,” he promises.
We hang up, and I toss my phone onto the desk, rubbing my eyes as fatigue washes over me. It’s late—too late—and all this digging is only adding layers of confusion and worry.
I stroll back to the bedroom, slipping under the covers beside Amelia.
Her hair spills across the pillow like dark silk, and for a moment, I lose myself in watching her chest rise and fall.
She looks peaceful; her face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
One question claws at my mind again. Who is my fiancée?
I’m no better. This engagement might be a fake, but there’s an intimacy developing beneath this facade, and that scares me. Each laugh we share feels genuine; every stolen glance ignites how real this feels.
But what if it’s all a lie for her?
As she stirs in her sleep, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more beneath that surface. If there’s a darkness lurking behind those bright eyes that she hasn’t revealed yet.
Did she agree to my arrangement, not for the money, but for the haven I've given her?
And will her past catch up with us?
The smell of something sweet wafts through the air, pulling me from the depths of sleep. I blink against the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
Squinting, I glance at the clock. It’s early, too early for my usual routine.
I drag my weary body out of bed, following the smell to the kitchen downstairs.
Amelia stands with her back to me. Her hair pulled into a messy bun, my shirt on her gorgeous body. The sight of which stirs something in me—something primal.
“Morning,” she chirps, turning to flash a smile that makes my heart skip.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice still thick with sleep.
She spins back to the stove and stirs whatever is simmering in a pot. The rich aroma fills the room, and my stomach grumbles in response.
“It’s a family recipe,” she says over her shoulder. “My mom used to make it for me when I was little. Her and my dad loved the savory version, but I loved it with berries, and it was always Mom’s treat at Christmas and birthdays.”
With my curiosity piqued, I cross to the kitchen. She turns and offers me the spoon and the moment I taste what she serves; I groan. “This is incredible.”
She beams at my praise. “It’s just a creamy polenta mixed with berries.”
“You should show the cook how to make this. You don’t have to do all this for me.”
Her smile falters like a candle flame caught in a gust of wind. “Right.” Her voice drops as she turns back to the stove, stirring absently now.
The atmosphere has changed as quickly as thick fog rolling in after a sunny day.
I step closer and wrap my arms around her waist from behind, hoping to ease whatever tension has filled the room.
But as I lean down to kiss her neck, she pulls away, just enough that it feels like an ocean opening between us.
Her shoulders slump as she glances over her shoulder at me, eyes reflecting hurt. “I don’t mind cooking it until I leave you?”
“Leave me?”
Her tension seeps into my skin, and I can’t stand it.
“Amelia,” I murmur, turning her to face me, and lifting her chin gently with my finger. “Look at me.”
The warmth in her gaze flickers for a moment. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I mean, at the end of our agreement.”
“I might never let you go.”
She smiles, but she’s not convinced.
“You can do anything you want, including cook for me,” I whisper, leaning in so my lips hover just above hers. “And I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. I’m not used to it.”
She swallows hard as she studies my face for sincerity.
“I enjoy having you around,” I continue, my voice low and steady. “When you’re here, it feels…alive. I feel alive.”
The corner of her mouth twitches upward. “Me too.”
“Let me show you how much I appreciate this,” I say softly as my hand slides to the small of her back. I pull her against me, erasing any space left between us. “How much I appreciate you.”
“West…” Her voice is hesitant, but the way she leans into me tells another story.
I lower my lips to hers in a gentle kiss as I stroke my thumb of my free hand over her neck. Her breath hitches at first, then she melts against me.
“Let go for a minute,” I murmur against her mouth.
Her pulse quickens under my fingertips. “West—”
“Let me look after you.” I trail kisses along her jawline and down to the sensitive spot just beneath her ear.
She moans.
“I want to look after you. I want you to surrender to me. To give me everything. Trust me in everything.” I grasp her waist, exploring higher along her back, feeling the curve of her body as it presses against mine.
“I’m not used to trusting anyone,” she murmurs. And I suspect Amelia is finally telling me the truth.
“What do you say we eat your breakfast together?” My voice drops an octave as mischief dances behind my words. “And maybe I can eat my special dessert again afterward.”
She looks through her lashes at me as curiosity mingles with something more primal.
A smile tugs at my lips as I lean back to see if she’ll bite at my invitation when my phone rings.
I check the caller and sigh,
“Hold breakfast. I need to take this call.”