His Secret

Thirty-nine.2 （Bonus）

I'd been staring at my phone for twenty minutes and still hadn't sent a single text.

Typed one. Erased it. Typed another. Erased that too. Nothing I wrote looked right. Nothing sounded like enough.

Are you safe?

I'm sorry.

Will you be back when I leave the office?

They all read like desperation, and maybe that's what they were. I just couldn't bring myself to hit send.

Instead, I swiped into the photo album I shouldn't look at during the day. The one I kept locked away behind a password only I knew.

The first picture nearly winded me-Amira in my lap, her mouth on mine, my hand gripping her waist like I'd never let go. I could still remember that night. We took the picture in some silly photo booth we found on a late night walk.

I swiped.

The photo was blurry-too much motion, too little light-but it didn't matter. I could see everything in it. How comfortable she was with me. We took the pictures on her MacBook after too much wine and we couldn't stop touching each other.

And then the beach.

God, the beach.

Her skin warm from the sun, salt still drying on both of us. My head buried in her shoulder while she tried to shove me off, laughing so loud it carried over the waves.

I stared at it until my chest tightened. That was Mykonos. The start of the unraveling. The last time I could say with certainty that she was still all in.

I locked the phone before I could keep going. The screen went black, and my own reflection stared back: tired eyes, lines in my forehead that hadn't been there last year, a mouth set too tight. No new messages. Still.

The clock on my office wall ticked too loud. Or maybe that was just me noticing everything I didn't want to.

Harrisburg in late spring was supposed to feel alive-college kids spilling onto patios, the Susquehanna bright under the sun-but today it was gray, damp, heavy. My office mirrored it: perfect, polished, suffocating.

The briefing binder in front of me was open to a page on infrastructure funding, but I hadn't processed a single word. I'd been staring at the same bar graph so long the colors blurred together.

I should've been focused. Committee meetings were stacking up, my father was already breathing down my neck about next quarter's numbers, and Jenna had dropped three donor calls on my schedule this morning.

But all I could think about was Amira walking out of our house last night with tears in her eyes.

Not even walking-storming. And I hadn't stopped her.

My phone sat faceup on the desk. No new messages. The last one from her was hours old: Don't wait up.

I'd tried calling. Twice. Straight to voicemail.

"Senator Whitmore?"

I looked up. Jenna stood in the doorway, tablet tucked to her chest. Her expression was professional as always, but her eyes lingered on me a beat too long.

"You've got the Commerce Committee call in ten," she said. "Do you want me to-"

"No." My voice came out too sharp. I softened it. "No. I'll handle it."

She hesitated, nodded once, and left.

The second the door shut, I leaned back in my chair and scrubbed a hand over my face.

God, I hated this-this limbo where I was supposed to act like everything was fine while the one person who made any of this tolerable was slipping away.

I thought about last night. The way she'd stood in our kitchen, arms crossed over her chest like armor, eyes glassy but unyielding. I can't do this anymore. Her voice had been quiet, steady. Mine had been anything but.

I'd said things I didn't mean. Things I couldn't take back.

You don't exactly have the cleanest history.

The words had tasted like bile even as I said them, and the slap she gave me afterward felt deserved. I'd wanted to chase her when she left. To drop the whole damn career I'd built just to run after her. But I didn't. I stood there like a coward, watching the door close.

And now I was here, pretending to be the senator my father molded, while the woman I loved probably thought I'd never fight for her.

I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I wanted to call again, to say I'm sorry, to beg her to come home. But what if she didn't answer? What if she had already decided she was done?

The idea made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe.

The intercom buzzed. "Senator, five minutes to call," Jenna's voice said.

"Push it," I replied, surprising even myself.

"Sir?"

"Push it," I repeated, already standing.

I didn't care about Commerce. I didn't care about my father's donors or the optics of skipping a call. I cared about getting in my car, driving back to Short Hills, and seeing if she was still there.

Because if she wasn't...

I didn't let myself finish that thought.

The knock came just as I was gathering my things. Not a quick tap from Jenna or one of the junior aides-a measured, deliberate knock.

"Come in," I said, already impatient.

The door swung open and Margot stepped in like she owned the room. Dark navy dress, shopping bag looped around her wrist, her smile effortless in that way that made people think she belonged anywhere she walked.

"Brooks," she said smoothly. "Busy day?"

I didn't bother hiding my frown. "Margot. What are you doing here?"

She shut the door behind her, a little too casually. "Shopping in town. Thought I'd stop by, see my favorite senator. Make sure you're still alive."

"I'm breathing," I muttered, returning to my desk. "Now you've seen it."

She laughed softly, like I'd made a joke. "Relax. I'm not here to bother you. Just... you know." Her gaze flicked deliberately toward the frosted glass panels of the door, where silhouettes of staff moved back and forth. "People see me drop by, they feel reassured. It's good for us."

I looked up sharply. "Us?"

Margot crossed to the chair opposite my desk and set her bag down, every movement measured. "You know what I mean. We're in this thing, Brooks. Whether you like it or not."

I stared at her for a beat, pulse pounding. She wasn't wrong-our arrangement had been convenient once. But right now, all I could think of was Amira packing up, her eyes cold when she told me she couldn't do this anymore.

Margot tilted her head, studying me. "You look... tired. Trouble in paradise?"

I didn't answer. My phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced down-wrong name, wrong number. Not her. Of course not her.

Margot's lips curved, sympathetic in a way that felt rehearsed. She leaned forward slightly, resting her fingertips on the edge of my desk. Not inappropriate, but close enough that anyone walking by would see.

"Brooks," she said lightly, "if people already believe we're... together, there's no harm in letting them. It only helps you."

I pushed my chair back, stood fully. "I don't need you to play girlfriend for the staff."

Her smile didn't slip. "Maybe you don't. But for both our reputations we a stable image and what can I say I like being useful."

Before I could reply, a knock sounded again. The door opened and one of my legislative directors stepped in, folder in hand.

"Senator, the infrastructure team is here for the briefing."

I nodded once. "I'll be there in a minute."

The aide's eyes darted to Margot, then quickly away, reading exactly what she wanted him to. He left as quietly as he came.

Margot picked up her bag, still smiling. "That's my cue. Call me if you need me to run interference with the press or anything at all."

She left a hint of perfume in the air when the door clicked shut. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty chair across from me, then down at my phone again. Still nothing from Amira.

Screw this.

I grabbed my jacket, ignored the waiting briefing, and hit Monte's number on speed dial.

"Bring the car around," I said. "I'm leaving."

The rain started halfway to Short Hills. Not a downpour-just that thin, steady kind that makes the world look washed-out. Fitting, I thought, as I sat in the back of the black sedan, phone in my hand like it might bite me.

I'd called her three times on the highway. Each went to voicemail. I didn't leave a message. What could I even say?

I'm sorry I used the ugliest parts of your past as a shield? Sorry I let my father's world chew me up until I started spitting out pieces of you? Sorry I've been too much of a coward to give you the life you deserve?

Monte glanced at me in the rearview. "Everything okay, sir?"

"Just drive," I muttered.

He didn't press. He never did.

I stared out at the blur of the turnpike lights, jaw tight enough to ache.

I'd spent the last two hours pretending to be a senator who had it all under control while my chest felt hollow.

It had always been like this with Amira-she was the one thing that made all this bullshit feel worth it.

Without her, every title, every office, every win felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

When we turned off the interstate and onto the winding road to the house, my pulse picked up. I told myself I'd walk in, she'd be curled on the couch, maybe angry, maybe ready to throw something at me-but there. Still here. Still mine.

Monte slowed to a stop in the circular drive. No extra car out front. No lights on inside except the one over the kitchen sink. I pushed out of the car before he could even kill the engine.

"You don't need to wait for me," I told Monte, though I didn't know why. Maybe because I was afraid of what I'd find. "You can take the rest of the night off."

The drive from Harrisburg had felt endless, every mile heavy with things I didn't want to admit. Now, standing at the door, it all felt too quick.

The lock clicked easily.

"Amira?" My voice carried into the marble foyer, bouncing back too clear.

Silence.

I stepped inside. Shoes against the tile sounded too loud, too alone. "Amira, I'm home." Softer this time, like I could coax her out of hiding if I was gentle enough.

Still nothing.

The air had her in it-cleaner, lotion, shampoo-but faint, like residue. Like absence. The house didn't breathe the way it did when she was here.

I dropped my bag near the stairs and started moving. Kitchen first. Countertops gleamed, appliances sat untouched. The fruit bowl sat in its usual spot, oranges stacked neatly. My jacket still hung on the back of a chair. Everything looked... normal.

But it didn't feel normal.

"Amira?" I called again, sharper this time.

No answer.

I moved faster, crossing into the living room. Couch pillows arranged the way the cleaning staff left them. No blanket tossed across the back, no coffee mug abandoned on the table. It was too neat.

Dining room, the same. Chairs pushed in, untouched.

Upstairs, then. I climbed two at a time, heart hammering. The bedroom door stood ajar. I pushed it open and froze.

At first, it looked fine. The bedspread was pulled up, smoothed flat. But then my eyes went to the closet.

Half-empty. Hangers clinking where her dresses had been. Space yawning like missing teeth.

My chest went tight. I forced myself to step inside.

Her lotion bottle-gone. The nightstand drawer she'd tucked notebooks into-open, empty. Even the vanity she never really used was cleared of her clutter, the little chaos that always reminded me she lived here.

I stumbled back a step, brain scrambling for excuses. Maybe she'd taken things to get cleaned. Maybe she was reorganizing. Maybe she was-

My eyes caught on the dresser. The jewelry dish was empty. Even the locket she never took off had vanished.

And then it hit me-downstairs. Something had been off in the kitchen. I bolted back down, shoes slamming against the steps, chest burning.

There it was.

On the counter, next to the untouched fruit bowl, lay the key. Not hers. Mine. The one I'd pressed into her palm months ago when I told her this place was hers too.

Now it sat there, heavy and final.

My knees felt weak. I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself, staring at the key like maybe if I blinked enough it would disappear.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, too loud in the stillness. Relief shot through me. I yanked it out, nearly dropping it when I saw the screen.

Unknown number.

I answered anyway. "Amira?" My voice cracked.

"Senator Whitmore?" a man's voice replied.

My stomach dropped.

"Who is this?"

"Staffer from Commerce. Just checking to see if you're joining the call-"

I hung up and let the phone fall to the counter beside the key.

My chest caved. My house felt foreign. My world had just shifted.

"Goddamn it," I whispered, but it barely made a sound.

She wasn't stormed-out-for-an-hour gone. Not taking-a-drive gone. She was gone.

For real.

I climbed the stairs again because I didn't know what else to do.

Stood in the doorway of our bedroom, staring at the empty closet like the answer might be hiding inside it.

My knees gave out and I sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

The carpet fibers still showed where her duffel had been dragged out.

I pulled out my phone. The last text Id sent was still there on delivered.

I told myself she just needed space. That she'd cool off, come home, we'd talk like we always did. But standing here, seeing the quiet absence she'd left behind, I knew better.

I hit call. Straight to voicemail.

"Amira." My voice came out hoarse. "Please call me back."

I hung up. Waited. Called again. Voicemail.

"I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But don't... don't shut me out like this. Not completely. Not without a word."

I ended the call, set the phone down on the nightstand. Stared at it like I could will it to light up. It didn't.

I tried to sit still, but my chest wouldn't let me. I moved through the house again-downstairs, upstairs, pacing like a caged animal. Everywhere I turned I saw proof she was gone.

I picked up my phone again and dialed.

Voicemail.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice low, breaking. "For last night. For Mykonos. For every time I made you feel like you didn't matter when you were the only thing that did. I don't know how to do this without you."

I hung up, chest tight, throat raw.

Still nothing.

For the first time in years, I didn't feel like a senator, or a Whitmore, or a man with a plan. I just felt like a fool sitting in a house too big for one person, realizing I'd managed to win everything but the only thing that mattered.

I sank back onto the bed, phone in hand, staring at the blank screen. I waited for it to light up, prayed for it to light up.

It never did.