Chapter 22 Amara
Amara
I’m halfway through packing when I realize I’ve folded the same linen blouse three times.
Get it together.
You’re a litigator.
You’ve survived depositions that lasted seven hours.
You can fold a goddamn shirt.
But my hands won’t stop shaking.
The op-ed is still open on my phone, sitting on the nightstand like a venomous little snake.
THE WOMAN BEHIND SAELINGER’S REDEMPTION TOUR: ENABLER OR ACCOMPLICE?
Every time I look at it, my stomach lurches, like I’m in an elevator that dropped three floors.
I stuff the blouse into my suitcase without bothering to refold it. Who cares. It’s linen. It’s going to wrinkle anyway. That’s what linen does. It wrinkles and reminds you that perfection is a lie.
Enabler or accomplice.
Like those are the only two options.
Like I couldn’t possibly be a competent professional who believed in a project and got caught in the crossfire of someone else’s vendetta.
But that’s not how the court of public opinion works, is it? In the real court system, we have rules of evidence. Burden of proof. Presumption of innocence.
On the internet, you’re guilty until proven entertaining, and even then, they’ll screenshot your worst moments and pass them around like trading cards.
I zip the suitcase closed. Or try to. The zipper catches on the stupid blouse I couldn’t fold properly.
Of course.
I yank at it, feeling my eyes burn with tears I absolutely refuse to shed.
I’m not crying over a zipper. I’m not crying over an op-ed.
I’m not crying over the fact I spent seven weeks and three days building something that felt real, only to watch it crumble in a single morning because some vindictive asshole decided to burn it all down.
Seven weeks and three days.
With Corin.
And now I’m running.
Again.
Even though I said I wouldn’t.
Promised I wouldn’t.
Exhibit A: Amara Khan is a liar.
Exhibit B: Amara Khan is a coward.
Exhibit C: The defense has no rebuttal.
The worst thing of all?
I’m in love with him.
Horrible, frickin’, head-over-heels, in love with him.
And I’m running away.
What’s wrong with you, Amara?
I don’t even know why I’m running anymore. It’s like this autopilot thing for me. This knee-jerk reaction when anything bad happens in my life.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know how to fix me.
There’s a knock at the door.
I freeze, one hand still on the stuck zipper.
Probably housekeeping. Or one of those aggressively cheerful timeshare vultures with their clipboards and their “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for an exclusive opportunity!
” spiels, ready to trap me in a three-hour presentation about fractional ownership in paradise while I slowly lose the will to live.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and cross to the door. I yank it open with more force than necessary, already composing my “not interested” speech in my head, and—
It’s Corin.
He’s barefoot.
Barefoot.
My brain short-circuits a little. I’ve seen him in suits. In soft linen shirts. Seen him naked, for god’s sake.
But I’ve never seen him barefoot.
His shirt is buttoned wrong. One side hangs lower than the other, like he dressed in a hurry, or just didn’t care. And he’s breathing hard, as if he just jogged all the way here from his private villa.
“I canceled my flight,” he says.
I blink. “Your flight?”
“The flight to Manhattan. My team wanted me back for damage control. Interviews, donor meetings, the whole circuit. Remember?” He pauses. “I told them no.”
I process this.
Then I process it again, because surely I misheard.
“That’s a terrible strategic decision,” I say finally.
“I know.” He steps inside without asking. I don’t stop him. The door swings shut behind him, and suddenly the resort villa feels way too small.
“I’ve decided not to run this time,” he continues. “I’m staying here. With the community. With the clinic. With... you.” Something vulnerable flickers across his face. “If you’ll let me.”
My throat tightens.
He’s not running.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m the one with the suitcase.
I’m the one who was halfway out the door before he knocked.
I’m the one who left her sandal outside his study like some kind of symbolic gesture and then, three days later, decided symbolism was overrated and self-preservation was the safer bet.
“Corin.” I take a breath. “Staying here won’t fix the donor problem.”
“No,” he agrees. “But running to Manhattan won’t either.
It’ll just be the same playbook. Lawyers, PR teams, carefully crafted statements.
I’ve done that before. It got me nowhere.
” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“I’m staying not because it’s strategic.
I’m staying because this is where the actual work is.
The clinic. The families. The thing that matters.
” His dark eyes find mine, and I feel that look all the way down to my toes.
“A part me wants to run to Manhattan. Because that parts knows you’ll be there, too.
But I’ll just be following you as you run.
However, if I stay and fight for what we built here.
.. maybe... maybe you’ll choose to stay and fight with me. ”
Oh.
I feel my face flush.
He’s standing here, barefoot and rumpled and completely disarmed, telling me he’s choosing presence over PR, and asking me to stay and fight with him.
I want to, but..
“I told you I don’t want to be the one who brings down the foundation,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “You’re not the problem. You’re the solution.”
Oh Corin.
Why are you so sweet to me?
“But what if they destroy you?” I press.
He actually shrugs, like we’re discussing the weather and not his entire professional legacy. “Then they destroy me. But at least I’ll have done it honestly.”
Honestly.
I think about five years ago. About the man I thought betrayed me and the truth I didn’t know. About all the walls I built to protect myself.
I think about what Jess said: Don’t run this time.
I think about the sandal I left at his door.
And I realize, with a clarity that feels almost painful, that I have a choice.
I can protect myself. Pack my bag, fly back to Manhattan, rebuild my reputation from the safety of distance. Watch from afar as Corin fights this battle alone.
Or I can stay.
Looking at the gorgeous, rumpled, heartfelt man in front of me, the choice becomes obvious.
I wrap my arms around him and kiss him.
Hard.
It’s not gentle. It’s not reverent. It’s the kind of kiss that says I’m terrified and I’m choosing you anyway.
His hands come up to cup my face, and I feel him exhale against my mouth like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak.
“I don’t know why I keep running. It’s like.
.. it’s this autopilot thing. Like my brain goes ‘danger danger’ and suddenly I’m packing bags and booking flights and finding seventy perfectly rational reasons why leaving is actually the responsible choice, and I don’t even—”
“Amara.” His thumb traces my jawline, silencing me. “I know why you run.”
I blink. “You do?”
He nods. “It’s simple. You want me to fight for you.”
The words land like a stone dropping into still water. The ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.
“That’s not—” I start to protest, but he shakes his head.
“Five years ago, you walked away from me. And I let you. I didn’t chase you.
Didn’t fight. Didn’t show up at your door demanding you hear me out.
” His voice is quiet, but there’s steel underneath.
“I told myself I was being respectful. Giving you space. But the truth is, I was scared. Scared of what fighting for you would cost me.”
My throat feels tight. “Corin—”
“Every time you run now, it’s a test,” he continues, his dark eyes holding mine. “You’re asking: Will he let me go again? Will he choose the easy path? Will he prove that I’m not worth the inconvenience of staying?”
Oh.
Oh god.
Is that what I’ve been doing?
I kept my villa reservation even after sleeping in his bed. I never fully unpacked my suitcase. Never fully opened up to him. All those little escape hatches I built into this relationship, telling myself it was self-preservation when really—
I was just waiting for him to fail the test.
“That’s...” I swallow hard. “That’s deeply unfair to you.”
“Maybe.” He smiles slightly. “But I understand it. Because I’ve been doing the same thing, just differently.
Every time I make a donation or launch a transparency program instead of just saying ‘I was wrong and I’m sorry,’ I’m testing whether I can buy redemption without actually having to be vulnerable. ”
Nice.
We’re a matching set of emotionally complicated disasters.
How romantic.
“Also, it helps that you gave me the solution to your test ahead of time,” he adds.
I frown. “Did I?”
“During the tropical storm when we were holed up in that storage room,” he explains. “You asked me point-blank: ‘Why didn’t I fight for us?’ Why didn’t I fight.”
Oh my god.
He’s right.
I literally handed him the answer key and then spent the next few weeks setting up elaborate scenarios to see if he’d studied.
God, what an emotional mess I am.
“So what do we do?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. “How do we stop doing this to each other? How do we stop testing each other?”
His hands frame my face, gentle but certain.
“We stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when every instinct says run.
We stay and we figure it out together. And I know, we’ve said this before.
We’ve said it and started to run anyway.
But this time, there’s no going back. It’s final.
We mean it for real this time. We stay with each other, no matter what comes. ”
I stare at him, speechless for a moment.
For real this time.
“I’m in love with you,” I hear myself say, and immediately want to take it back because that’s not something you just blurt out in the middle of a crisis when you’re both barely holding it together and—
“Good,” Corin says, cutting off my internal spiral. “Because I’m in love with you, too.”
I burst into tears again.
“We’re going to be terrible at this,” I tell him, and laugh through the tears.
“Probably.” He kisses me softly. “But at least we’ll be terrible at it together.”
I laugh again. “That’s the worst romantic declaration I’ve ever heard.”
He smiles. “Then it’s perfect for us.”
And somehow, impossibly, it is.
“Help me unpack my bags,” I tell him. “Or actually, help me finish packing. So I can permanently move to your villa.”
His face is beaming. Much like my own, I imagine.
“I will, but first...” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded document. “Marisol put this together. It’s a contract that has you working directly for the clinic, rather than as a contractor through the foundation.”
I take it, scanning the language with the part of my brain that never turns off.
“This eliminates the conflict-of-interest optics,” I say slowly.
“And the professional boundary issues.” His voice is careful. “If you want that.”
I look up at him. At this man who showed up barefoot and told me he loves me and brought me a solution I didn’t even know I needed.
“Corin Saelinger,” I say, “are you telling me you found a way to make our relationship HR-compliant?”
“I’m telling you I found a way to keep you.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes my heart ache. “The compliance is just a bonus.”
I giggle. It comes out watery and a little broken.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll stay. But only because the contract language is solid.”
“Of course.” His eyes are warm. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Counselor.”
God I love him.