Chapter 20 Amara
Amara
Ispend the rest of the day at the clinic reviewing predatory land-lease contracts with Corin and trying not to stare at his forearms, as usual.
Yep.
Those forearms of his are becoming a real problem.
“You’re staring,” Corin says without looking up.
“I’m observing,” I correct him. “There’s a legal distinction.”
“Is there?”
“No.” I return to my own stack of islander files. Three families facing displacement, two already behind on payments to shell companies we’re pretty sure connect back to Xavier’s network. “But it sounded good.”
He laughs heartily.
That laugh keeps catching me off guard. He used to never laugh like this. But now? He lets himself be seen.
The Corin I knew five years ago was all controlled precision. You’d never catch him laughing.
This version is different.
Scarred, yes. But softer.
And still calculating, true, but also more honest about the cost.
I watch him annotate a clause about early termination penalties, which seems to be Xavier’s favorite trap, and I think about the memo Corin sent earlier.
Five years ago, I discovered that a client of this firm was engaged in financial misconduct...
I demanded action.
And then I stayed silent when the board overruled me.
The words have been rattling around my head since I read them. Since he named Leena. Since he exposed himself to his entire organization because he decided transparency mattered more than self-preservation.
Who does that?
Who voluntarily tears open their own chest and shows everyone the mess inside?
Apparently Corin Saelinger does.
And I have no idea what that means.
We work until late afternoon.
Keon picks us up in the SUV.
The ride back to private villa is quiet in that comfortable way that used to terrify me. Silence with another person always felt like a trap waiting to spring. Now it just feels like breathing room.
When we reach the villa, I grab my copy of the internal memo and head for the beach.
I need to think.
It will be dark soon, and the no-see-ums will be out in full force. Good thing I’ve slathered on the bug spray.
The sand is still warm from the day. I find a spot near the water’s edge and sit down with the memo spread across my lap.
I’ve read this thing probably eight times now. Memorized entire paragraphs. Circled key phrases with my pen until the margins look like the work of a conspiracy theorist.
But one line keeps pulling me back.
I chose institutional loyalty over individual truth. I will not make that mistake again.
I trace my finger over the words. Over Corin’s signature at the bottom.
This isn’t performative.
I’ve seen enough corporate apology memos to recognize the difference. This one bleeds. You can feel the shame between the sentences. The weight of five years of self-punishment finally finding somewhere to go.
Don’t run this time.
Jess’s voice echoes in my head. That phone call we had, weeks ago. Her gentle accusation that I hold people at arm’s length while they’re perfect and then leave when they’re not.
She wasn’t wrong.
I’ve been doing it my whole life. Building exit strategies into every relationship. Keeping one foot out the door so I’m never surprised when people disappoint me.
And Corin disappointed me. Badly. He made a choice that destroyed someone I loved and then he let me walk away without fighting for me.
Except.
Except he didn’t make the choice I thought he did. He tried to stop it. He documented his objections. He fought internally while I was building walls against a betrayal that wasn’t actually his.
God, I’m a cliché.
A walking case study in attachment issues dressed up in designer linen and a law degree.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon. Reds and pinks are already streaking across the water.
I think about everything that’s happened since New Year’s Eve. The one night stand I tried to walk away from. The workplace I told myself was purely professional. The slow unraveling of every defense I’d constructed against this man.
Somewhere between the storm confession and the desk sex and the internal memo, I stopped cataloging his flaws and started cataloging the ways he’s different from the man I walked away from all those years ago.
And yet.
There’s still this tiny voice in my head whispering that it’s only a matter of time before everything falls apart. Before he reverts to type. Before I discover some new betrayal I didn’t see coming.
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Which is absolutely ridiculous, because at this point we’ve both kicked off our shoes multiple times, in multiple locations, and I’m pretty sure one of them is still lost somewhere in the study.
Stop waiting.
Stop running.
Stop being so goddamn afraid of getting hurt that you miss the chance to be happy.
I fold the memo carefully and stand up.
Brush the sand off my dress.
Time to do something terrifying.
The walk back to the villa feels longer than usual. My heart is hammering. My palms are sweating. I’m pretty sure I’m about to either make the best decision of my life or the worst one.
Fifty-fifty odds.
Could be worse.
I find him in his study. He’s at the desk, laptop open, and when I appear in the doorway he looks up with that expression that used to frustrate me, because it used to be unreadable.
But now I can read it just fine.
Hope.
Uncertainty.
Fear.
All the things I’m feeling reflected back at me.
“Amara.” His voice is careful. “What do you need?”
I take a breath.
Then I reach down and slip off one sandal. Just one. I set it deliberately outside the door frame. On the threshold.
He stares at it. Then at me. Confusion flickers across his features.
“I left something,” I tell him.
He frowns. “Your shoe?”
“The part of me that runs.” I smile, feeling the tears pooling in my eyes.
Understanding dawns on his face, and his eyes go bright. His throat works.
“I’m not saying I forgive everything,” I continue.
Because I need him to understand this isn’t unconditional surrender.
“I’m saying I’m choosing to stay and figure it out.
With you. Even though it scares me. Even though you’re not perfect.
Even though I’ve spent five years convincing myself you were the villain because it was easier than admitting I played a part in us falling apart. ”
He’s out of his chair before I finish speaking.
His hands cup my face reverently. “Amara.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
His lips are soft and sweet. Nothing like the desperate heat of our earlier encounter. This is something else. Something new.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “For not running.”
I close my eyes.
Let myself feel it.
The hope and the terrifying possibility that this might actually work.
Counselor, the defense rests.