twenty four #3
He didn't move aside right away, and for one awful second I thought he might make me say something else to justify being here.
But then he stepped back, gesturing for us to come in.
The foyer was all polished wood and clean white molding, a space designed to look expensive without ever having to say it out loud.
I focused on the small details-the brass umbrella stand, the arrangement of white lilies on a pedestal table-anything to distract myself from the sick, tight feeling in my chest.
Brooks's hand found the small of my back. A steady, quiet reassurance.
"Come on," he murmured.
He led me down a wide hallway into what looked like a study. Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on dark wood shelves lined with leather-bound books. A fire crackled behind the brass screen.
His mother was already sitting on one of the sofas, her posture perfect, hands folded neatly over one knee. She didn't stand when we entered.
She didn't smile, either.
"Brooks," she said, her voice so even it felt like a slap. "Thank you for making time."
"You didn't leave me much choice," he replied, his hand never leaving my back.
Her gaze slid over me, the same cool appraisal she'd given me in his penthouse.
"Please," she said, gesturing to the loveseat across from her. "Sit."
I felt like I was walking onto a stage.
Brooks waited until I sat before taking the spot beside me. Close. Unmoving.
I folded my hands in my lap so they wouldn't shake.
No one spoke right away.
The silence stretched long enough that I started to think it was a test I was already failing.
Finally, his mother exhaled like she was bored.
"I trust you understand why we wanted to speak."
Brooks's voice was quiet but steady. "We could've done this over the phone."
She tilted her head. "I could have. But some conversations deserve to happen face to face."
Her eyes flicked to me again.
His father cleared his throat. "This isn't meant to be an ambush."
"It feels like one," Brooks said.
I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure if I was even allowed to.
His mother reached for the slim blue folder resting on the coffee table. She flipped it open with deliberate care.
My stomach dropped when I saw what was inside.
Photographs.
She picked up the first one, holding it delicately between two fingers.
Me and Brooks, walking across Rittenhouse Square. His hand on my back. My head tilted toward him, smiling like I didn't have anything to be afraid of.
"This was taken a few months ago," she said. "It's already been picked up by a few outlets."
Brooks didn't look away. "So?"
Her brows lifted just a fraction. "So, this is only the beginning."
Underneath that photo was multiple of me going into his building and us leaving together.
She set the photo aside.
The next was worse.
Me at the gala in the red dress, standing on the balcony with him. The kind of picture that looked intimate no matter how much you tried to explain it away.
"And this," she said, her voice almost bored, "was the evening you assured us you'd be attending alone."
"I never said that," Brooks replied, jaw tight.
"No?" She looked up, her expression soft with condescension. "Perhaps you implied it."
She laid that photo down too.
The last one made my chest ache.
Me in the club, bathed in pink light, bracing one hand on the pole. My hair falling around my shoulders.
I didn't look at Brooks. I couldn't.
I already felt stripped bare.
His mother held it between her fingers for just a beat longer, studying it like it was something she could categorize.
Then she set it on top of the others.
"You must understand," she said, her voice soft and poisonous, "how this appears to the outside world."
I swallowed. My throat felt raw.
Brooks's hand tightened against my back.
His father cleared his throat. "Amira, this is not a judgment of your choices. It's simply...a reality we can't ignore."
I pressed my nails into my palm, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I didn't ask for any of this attention."
"No," she said. "But you accepted it. Whether you realized it or not."
Brooks turned to her, his voice low. "Enough."
She ignored him. "We're not questioning your intentions," she went on, looking at me like I was something under glass. "But intentions don't matter as much as perception and perception is already slipping out of your control."
My heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to bruise my ribs.
His father leaned forward, folding his hands. "You've worked too hard to build your reputation," he said gently to Brooks. "To be taken seriously. You know what this looks like."
"I don't care," Brooks said.
"You should," his mother snapped.
The silence that followed felt like it was pressing the air out of the room.
She exhaled slowly, composing herself. "I'm going to be frank. You are free to do as you wish in private, but we've seen how this plays out when it becomes public. You will be a story. A scandal. A punchline."
"You have so many eyes on you," she continued. "I'm sure people's opinions will be negative when Amira's occupation is brought into the conversation."
My vision blurred, because as much as I wanted to deny it, part of me knew she was right.
Brooks's voice was hoarse. "I'm not ending this."
Her gaze sharpened. "Then you'll lose everything you've built."
He didn't flinch.
She turned to me then, her eyes as cold as I'd ever seen them.
"You seem like a decent girl," she said softly. "But you are asking him to gamble everything on the hope that people will understand something they never will."
I swallowed. "I never asked him-"
"It doesn't matter if you asked," she said. "It only matters what it costs him to keep you."
The words landed like a stone in my chest.
And the worst part was how some part of me believed them.
His father's voice was quieter, almost regretful. "We're not here to threaten you, but you both need to be honest with yourselves. When this becomes public-and it will-nothing will be the same."
Brooks didn't look away from me. His hand was still steady on my back. But I couldn't bring myself to look at him.
Because I didn't want him to see the shame in my eyes.
I didn't want him to know how much of me was already wondering if they were right.
If I'd been a fool to think we could be bigger than the program.
His mother sat back, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
"Consider carefully," she said. "Because the clock is ticking. I'd be more discrete going into the penthouse, I'm sure paparazzi will be all over that place in no time."
No one spoke.
I don't remember standing. I don't remember how we walked out of that house.
Only that when the door closed behind us, I felt something inside me splinter.
And for the first time, I wondered if loving him was the bravest thing I'd ever done-or the stupidest.