15. Amara
Chapter fifteen
Amara
I step into the living room, spotting Nicholas sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He looks sharp, as usual, in a suit that hugs him in all the right ways—broad shoulders, slim waist, long legs.
I gulp, my throat suddenly dry. God, he’s ridiculously good-looking. It’s unfair, really.
Three days I’ve been living here, and I’ve never seen him in anything other than a crisp suit. Not that I’d have much opportunity to. I’ve been in my room as often as possible, still too aware of how out of place I feel in this penthouse, like an uninvited guest crashing a world I don’t belong in.
The soft click of my bedroom door closing draws his attention. His head lifts, and his eyes find me immediately, sweeping over my outfit.
I tug at the hem of my blazer, feeling exposed under his gaze. Normally, I stick to my oversized sweaters, long skirts, and sneakers. But this is the first time since the engagement was announced that Nicholas is taking me somewhere—somewhere public. Somewhere where people will be looking at us. At me .
So, I’ve traded my usual clothes for something more polished—a white shirt tucked into some fitted pants, a blazer draped over my shoulders, and pointed-toe heels that click softly on the floor. This outfit feels foreign, stiff… but necessary. I need to look the part, even if I don’t feel it.
Nicholas’s gaze lingers, his sharp eyes taking me in, and for a second, I feel bare, as though he can see straight through the effort. His brows lift slightly, and my face warms as the memory of him seeing me naked resurfaces.
“New look?” His deep voice sends a shiver down my spine. He sets his phone down, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.
God help me. He’s not wearing a tie today. That means his neck—thick, strong, and entirely too distracting—is on display, and it’s almost worse than when he’s all buttoned up.
I clear my throat, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. “Is this okay?” I ask, my breath hitching at his expression. “For where we’re going?”
He takes a slow step closer, his head tilting slightly as his eyes continue their journey across my outfit. “Where are your sweaters?”
His question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Your sweaters,” he repeats, like the word offends him. “You wear those oversized things to work all the time.” His nostrils flare. “Where are they?”
“I…” I stammer, thrown off by the sudden interrogation. “I thought this would be more appropriate.”
His brow arches, a flicker of something sharp crossing his face. “Appropriate?” he repeats.
“For where we’re going,” I clarify. “I figured people might look at us, photograph us, and I just wanted to look like someone who belongs with you.”
Nicholas doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me. His eyes roam slowly over my outfit again, lingering longer than they should, before finally snapping back to mine.
“I know I don’t look like the kind of girl that would be seen with you,” I continue, “but I thought at least—”
“Get changed.”
My brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I blink, my lips parting as I shake my head in disbelief. “But I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” he cuts me off, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “You think this is what I want?” He exhales through his nose. “This isn’t what I want. Not even fucking close.”
I hesitate, glancing down at my outfit. “You don’t think this looks good?”
“What I think,” he cuts me off again, stepping even closer, “is that you look uncomfortable as hell in this.” He tugs lightly at the sleeve of my blazer, his fingers brushing my arm. “And I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or pretend to be someone else. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to them.” His eyes meet mine, dark and intense, stealing my breath right out of my lungs. “Unless you like wearing an outfit that you can’t lift your arms in, go back into your room and put on the sweaters you love so much.”
I gape at him, my brain short-circuiting. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. For a second before he turns on his heel and walks to the bar, pouring himself a glass of water.
“Get dressed, Amara,” he says over his shoulder, his voice gruff.
I turn, retreating to my room, seeing Pumpkin curled in a pumpkin-shaped ball on my bed. Nicholas’s words echo in my mind as I peel off the blazer and pants, feeling immediate relief. He was right. This outfit is uncomfortable as hell, itchy, stiff, and so not me.
I grab my favorite pink sweater from the closet, slipping it on with a sigh of relief. The soft knit hugs me in all the right places, comforting and familiar. I tuck it into my favorite skirt, swap the heels for sneakers, and glance at my reflection.
It’s not glamorous. I don’t look like the fiancée of a billionaire. I just look… like me.
My shoulders slump as I grab my bag and step out of the room. Nicholas looks up immediately, his gaze sharp and assessing. His lips part slightly, and he drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to hide something.
“Much fucking better,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before.
My heart skips.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
I nod, following him out the door, my heart pounding in my chest.
“This is our ride?” I stop in my tracks, staring at the sleek black helicopter parked in front of us. My voice is laced with disbelief as I take in the polished exterior and spinning blades, the sound somehow already making my stomach churn.
Nicholas hardly spares it a glance as he keeps walking, one hand tucked into his pocket, his tailored suit moving as fluidly as he does. “Where we’re going is a little far to drive,” he says simply, like he does this every day, which, knowing him, he probably does.
“So, we’re taking a helicopter ?”
Nicholas glances over his shoulder, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. “Unless you’d prefer to sit in a car for four hours?”
Four hours. My brain stumbles over the number. Where on earth is he taking me? I don’t ask because I’m still stuck on the fact that we’re about to leave the ground in that deathtrap.
Before I can find the words, Nicholas opens the door and steps inside like he’s done this a million times.
“Where’s the pilot?” I ask, looking around to see if there’s anyone else coming that will fly that thing.
He pauses, one hand on the edge of the seat as he looks at me like I’ve just asked if the sky is blue. “You’re looking at him.”
I blink. “ You’re flying this?”
Nicholas raises a brow. “Something wrong with that?”
Yes. A lot of things, actually. “Are you even qualified?”
His lips twitch, but not enough to call it a smile. He shrugs, stepping fully inside. “I’ve been flying since I was sixteen, Amara. You’ll be fine.”
Fine. Sure . Because who doesn’t casually pilot helicopters in their spare time?
“Get in.”
I hesitate, staring at the open door like it’s about to swallow me whole, and climb in, muttering a quiet prayer under my breath.
The interior is even more intimidating than the outside. The seats are sleek black leather, the dashboard packed with an overwhelming number of buttons, switches, and levers.
I climb into the seat, carefully smoothing down my skirt, and fumble with the seatbelt, my nerves making my fingers clumsy.
“Relax, Amara,” Nicholas murmurs, his voice soft and low as he reaches for the seatbelt.
“I can do it,” I say quickly, fumbling with the buckle. My hands are shaking, and of course, it won’t click into place.
“Clearly.”
Before I can respond, he leans over me, one hand brushing against my stomach as he pulls the belt into place.
His hand lingers just a second too long, his knuckles grazing my side as he buckles the strap. The space between us feels suffocatingly small, his cologne—clean, sharp, and expensive—filling my lungs.
“There.” His voice is low, almost rough, as his eyes flick to mine. “You’re secure now.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My pulse is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
Nicholas pulls back, settling into his seat like he didn’t just steal all the oxygen from the cabin. “You ready?” he asks, putting on his headset and flicking a series of switches.
No. Not even a little. But I nod anyway, gripping the edge of my seat like it might save me from falling out of the sky.
Nicholas wraps his hands around the dual controls, moving with precision as the helicopter lifts off, the ground dropping away faster than I’m prepared for. My stomach drops as we rise higher, the city shrinking below us. My eyes squeeze shut, my knuckles turning white as I cling to the seat.
“Amara,” Nicholas’s voice cuts through the noise after a moment, his voice clear through the headset. “Open your eyes.”
I shake my head tightly, keeping them squeezed shut.
“Are you—” He pauses, and I hear the sharp exhale of breath through the line. “Amara. Are you afraid of heights?”
“Not… afraid,” I manage to say, though my voice betrays me with a shaky tremor.
“Don’t lie to me.” I risk opening one eye, catching the faintest flicker of irritation in his profile as he glances at me. His jaw is tense, his hands relaxed on the controls as the helicopter levels out. “Are you scared?”
I force myself to nod, heat creeping up my neck. “A little,” I admit.
“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters.” His tone is clipped, but the words feel heavier than they should. “Of course it fucking matters. I wouldn’t have brought you up here if I’d known.” He curses, shaking his head. “I just thought you were doubtful whether I was qualified or not. I didn’t think you had a fear.”
I hesitate, my gaze flicking to him. He looks completely at ease, like he was born to do this. “It’s fine,” I say quietly.
Nicholas’s grip tightens slightly. He shoots me a look. “Don’t you dare say it’s fine. I would never put you in this position if I knew.”
I don’t respond, my hands still clutching the seat as we fly higher, forcing myself to loosen my grip on the seat.
“I didn’t know you flew helicopters,” I say, trying to distract myself.
“I told you, Amara. There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replies.
I glance at him, his profile stark in the soft cabin light. He’s right. I don’t know him. Not really. Not beyond the obvious details, like how he takes his coffee—black, no sugar—or how every suit he wears looks like it was made to fit him and only him.
I shift my focus outside, and this time, the view doesn’t twist my stomach as much. “It’s beautiful up here,” I admit.
“It is,” he agrees, his voice softer now. I turn to look at him as he leans back just slightly, his grip on the controls steady, like this is the most natural thing in the world for him. “Flying is one of my favorite things.”
His shoulders, usually held with the tension of someone always ready for the next move, are looser now, and there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before.
“Up here, it’s quiet,” he continues. “No deadlines. No meetings. No bullshit. Just me and the sky.” His words catch me off guard. “The color of the sky at night is my favorite sight in the world,” he adds. “And the city lights glowing beneath it? Closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen.”
I don’t reply, too caught in the way his voice dips as he speaks, like he’s letting me in on something private.
“You okay now?” he asks after a few minutes, glancing at me briefly, his brows drawn together in concern.
I nod, realizing that, somehow, I am. “Yeah. I guess it’s not so bad up here.” I shift in my seat, settling in. “Besides, I trust you.”
His eyes flick to mine, and something shifts in his expression. He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his voice is low and firm. “Good. Because I’d never let anything happen to you, Amara.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach flip, and it has nothing to do with the height.