Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The incessant tapping of keys fills the room, and my focus narrows to the rows of figures and text on the screen. I’m compiling a report that Dr. Cockwomble requested—an analysis that, no doubt, he will critique with his usual disdain.
Just as I align another section, Langley’s voice booms from the doorway. “Hendricks, are you ready for our meeting?”
I don’t even bother looking up. It’s their weekly status update in Langley’s office, something I’ve never been privy to. He doesn’t deem it necessary to offer me the same courtesy of privacy, choosing instead to address my performance openly, often disparagingly, in front of Hendricks.
In a way, I prefer it. The thought of being alone with him in a room makes my skin crawl. And not just for the obvious reason.
It reminds me of the numerous times I had to visit my father in his office.
The cool darkness of Father’s office wraps around me like a shroud as I step inside.
His desk, a massive, imposing slab of dark wood, sits between us like a barrier—a barrier that feels more like a judgment seat today.
Mother sits quietly in the corner armchair, her presence small and withdrawn, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
I search her face for some sign of support, but she offers none, her eyes downcast, her silence heavy.
Father’s voice cuts sharply through the tense silence.
“Amelia Charlotte, sit down,” he commands, pointing to the chair across from his desk.
The chair feels like an electric chair as I sink into it, my heart pounding in my chest. He doesn’t waste any time, his words slicing through the air like a whip.
“This school report is a disgrace,” he begins, his tone dripping with disdain as he flicks the piece of paper across the desk toward me.
“You are my daughter, Amelia Charlotte Stanley. You carry my name. And yet, you perform like this? Like you have no regard for what I’ve built for this family? ”
I glance down at the paper, the grades printed on it now reading like a list of my failures. Each numbered grade feels like a brand, marking me as less than what he expects.
“How can you be so indifferent to your future? To our legacy?” he continues, his voice rising in anger and disappointment. “Do you want to end up mediocre? Is that it?”
The words sting, each syllable a lash that flays open old wounds—wounds of never being enough, of always living in the shadow of a sibling who could do no wrong. My throat tightens, and I struggle to hold back tears, knowing that any show of emotion will only fuel his anger.
I try to speak, to defend myself, but the words catch in my throat, strangled by years of similar lectures, by the fear of making it worse. “I-I’m trying my best,” I manage to stutter, barely above a whisper.
“Your best?” He scoffs, leaning back in his chair as if my efforts are something foul he needs to distance from. “This is not the best of a daughter of mine. August never brought home grades like these. He understood the value of excellence, of striving beyond mediocrity.”
I look to Mother again, silently pleading for her to say something, anything, to defend me or to soften the blow. But she remains silent, her eyes fixed on some distant point, her expression resolute in its fidelity to her husband.
Never to me.
“You need to reconsider your priorities, Amelia Charlotte.” My father’s voice booms again. “You need to start living up to the family name, or I will have to take serious measures.”
His threats hang in the air, heavy and ominous.
I nod, unable to speak, my voice lost in the maze of my choked emotions.
As I rise from the chair, the feeling of inadequacy clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of my failures and the vast gulf between Father’s expectations and my own reality.
Walking out of his office, the door closing behind me feels final, like the sealing of my fate—a fate where I’m always found wanting, always lacking, never enough.
As I retreat to my room, the silence of the house envelops me, a silence that speaks louder than any words of comfort could as my hand wanders to the back of my head.
The office door shuts with a decisive thud as they leave, snapping me back from the edge of a memory that was threatening to swallow me whole. I grab my phone in an attempt to anchor myself in the present and keep from overthinking my position, job, and life choices.
Puppy videos.
I queue up a clip featuring Bernese Mountain Dogs—a breed I’ve been absurdly fantasizing about owning despite my too-small apartment and my non-existent work-life balance.
They’re big and somewhat clumsy, always seeming slightly out of sync with their limbs. And they look like the best cuddle buddies.
Just as I’m about to lose myself in the next video, Grey’s voice cuts through the tranquility from right beside me.
“So, this is what the Smart Home Development Department does when they need a break, or is this research for a new gadget?” His tone teases, and I jerk in surprise, my chair swiveling as his presence invades my space.
“Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me,” I exclaim, my heart not just racing from the shock.
His closeness is unsettling. The intoxicating scent of coffee and buttered rum emanates from him, his body heat enveloping me.
Our cheeks are only inches apart, and I can feel the brush of his stubble against my skin as I take a deep breath.
Well, that would have been even worse if it was Dr. Cockwomble coming in unnoticed.
But something tells me he wouldn’t have been this stealthy.
“Sorry,” Grey says as he straightens up, his apology sounding half-hearted. He offers a not-quite-sorry smirk, his hands casually tucked in his pockets. His stance is relaxed yet still close.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice even, to mask the tremor that his sudden appearance has stirred within me.
“Getting you for lunch,” he smoothly replies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course.
“And why are you in here?” I scowl. “Ever heard of knocking?”
Or of having a smidge of manners?
My tone is edgier than either of us probably expected, but Grey just shrugs. “I would have knocked, but…” His voice trails off, suggesting an unspoken understanding that maybe, in this place, formalities like knocking are less important to him.
I let out a huff, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You forgot because there are no closed doors for one of the princes of Elysium, I guess.”
Wait, did I really just say that?
Grey’s half-smirk lingers, almost challenging, as he leans against my desk, arms crossed over his chest, invading my personal bubble even more and making my heart race.
“Perks of being the king of nerds,” he teases, his tone light but his gaze intense.
I roll my eyes, trying to mask the flutter his proximity causes.
“Anyway. Misha fell asleep in his chair, and I came to get you while Oliver tries to wake him enough to go eat. Come on, let’s go. ”
“What? Why? Did he have a long night?”
The concern I feel tells me I care for them more than I thought I did.
“It’s always long nights with him.” Grey shrugs, but his gaze flickers with a hint of concern.
“Why? Is he a late-night gamer?” I probe as I break eye contact to return to my desk and put my computer in energy-saving mode.
“No,” he replies as I turn back to him. “That would be Oliver.”
I absorb every detail like a sponge, thirsty to understand these people who have somehow become a significant part of my daily life.
“What about Misha then?” I ask, tilting my head as I stand from my chair. Grey, noticeably taller, looks down to meet my gaze. He subtly shifts his position, closing the distance between us just enough that I can feel the warmth of his minty breath.
“Insomnia,” he answers, his voice low, reverberating softly in the quiet space between us.
Poor Misha. That explains the constant exhaustion shadowing his features and the deep rings etched under his eyes.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him, imagining the many nights he must have spent wrestling with sleeplessness.
“You can bombard him with your thousand questions yourself when we meet up,” Grey remarks.
His tone isn’t mean, but it comes off a bit sharp, like a needle pricking at the balloon of my fledgling confidence.
As I sling my backpack over my shoulder, I feel myself shrink from the added weight. We step out of the office and into the brightly lit hallway, a hum of silence between us as we make our way to the elevator.
“Oh, don’t go all shy on me again,” Grey chides when we enter the elevator. “I’m here because we wanted to make sure you’d actually come to lunch. I don’t mind you asking so many questions.”
Am I doing that?
Usually, people say I’m too quiet. Besides my parents, of course. “You should be seen and not heard.”
“I told you guys I would come since I tested Jamie yesterday,” I remind him, irritation threading through my voice.
Why does he think I wouldn’t keep my word?
“True, but you seem a little…” Grey trails off, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he searches for the right phrase. He clearly enjoys how I hang onto his lips.
“A little what?” I press, my defenses rising like hackles.
“A little like a flight risk,” he concludes, his smirk broadening into a full-fledged grin.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I scowl, my annoyance spiking at his audacity.
“It means you have to be convinced about everything and that sometimes, you seem ready to bolt at the smallest things,” Grey explains, his voice softening a bit, sensing my growing defensiveness.
“It’s not a bad thing, Amelia. It’s smart not to give your trust away too easily.
That wouldn’t be safe, and I’m glad you’re cautious. ”
“But you’re offended that I’m cautious with you,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.