Chapter 33
33
Amelia
Tim:
Just saw a pic of Gage at an event. Unshaven. Black suit. That wristwatch. MFW I remembered you LET THAT GO.
*sends gif of someone screaming into the void*
Colin:
Are we doing this again? It’s been three months.
Tim:
And??? Jesus was dead three days. Amelia gave up a zaddy with BSE. I am not healed.
Me:
Please seek help.
Tim:
I DID. His name was Gage Black and YOU let him spiral into the sad billionaire multiverse. He’s got BMS, PTSD, and probably three unopened texts from me. He’s giving “owns five sex clubs but sleeps alone” rn. You really watched him whisper, “Princess” and said “nah, I’m good.”
Colin:
Tim.
Tim:
NO.
Tim:
She let a man with obsession rizz walk out of her life. And now she’s out here pretending she’s doing great like I didn’t see her watch that interview clip where he said “no comment” with TEARS IN HER EYES. MFW I remember the collar’s gone *cries*
Colin:
Okay, but jokes aside, sis. How’s therapy going?
Me:
Good. I mean, it’s like digging through a closet where I shoved feelings in shoeboxes labeled “totally fine” and now I have to open them one by one without setting the house on fire.
Tim:
So are you still spiraling every morning like clockwork or are we calling this your calm era?
Me:
I haven’t spiraled into a stress-cleaning episode in two weeks, so we’re calling that regulated, right?
Tim:
Sis. No. You once alphabetized your entire bookshelf by heartbreak level at 2am while crying to a Bon Iver remix. You’re not fooling anyone with this “regulated” talk. You ARE the spiral.
Me:
And yet somehow still the healthiest one in this chat.
Colin:
Low bar.
Colin:
Speaking of the Sinclair emotional health scale, how are you and Mom going?
Tim:
OH YES. You know, after she learned that James was only “clean” because he hid the bodies. Update on him BTW: Still shady. Recently seen with a 26-year-old yoga instructor named Sky who calls him “Jimmy” in public. He wears loafers in public now. It’s bleak.
Me:
Mom’s in her “maybe Gage wasn’t bad” era. Like ma’am. You once told me I couldn’t do better than James. And now you’re sending me articles titled “How To Reconnect With The Love of Your Life.”
Colin:
Wait so she’s now Team Gage?
Me:
Apparently. She sent me a link to a couples retreat and said “you could heal together.” Like I haven’t spent years healing from HER.
Tim:
WAIT.
Me:
What now?
Tim:
Your tone is suspiciously grounded. You’re engaging. There’s no chaotic energy. I know this vibe.
Tim:
You’re talking to him again, aren’t you? IS THIS A SOFT-LAUNCH ZADDY REDEMPTION ARC?? BLINK TWICE FOR YES.
Me:
I literally haven’t said anything to make you think that.
Tim:
EXACTLY. Too calm. Too quiet. This is Amelia, post-reunion hug and probably pre-sexual tension dinner.
Colin:
You have an actual problem.
Tim:
My problem is I believe in love. And also that I stalk Gage’s face like it owes me rent. She’s going back. I feel it in my third eye.
I’ve literally just put my phone down from their texts when Marin texts. We’re not even working together anymore and she. still. texts.
Marin:
Babes. Not to alarm you but I did a three-card pull this morning and got The Tower, The Lovers, and a sad playlist.
Marin:
IS HE OKAY?
Marin:
IS THE COLLAR OKAY?
Marin:
ARE YOU OKAY?
Marin:
Like spiritually? Energetically? Cosmically?
Marin:
His latest vibe is “I unalived my soul for her and now I wear black and speak in poetry.”
Marin:
It’s giving Scorpio rising in silent heartbreak.
Marin:
I know you’re doing healing work and I love that for you. But also? Have you astrally projected yourself into his penthouse to check on his vibe?
Marin:
Babes. Check in. Did he shave? Did he look at you like he’s trying not to beg? Has his Scorpio moon made eye contact with your nervous system lately?
Marin:
Be honest babes. Is there a re-collaring-in-retrograde or do I need to prepare for a plot twist?
Seriously, how I get anything done in my life with these three is beyond me. They form an emotional task force the second I blink weird. I take one deep breath and my brothers are planning the Gage Reunion Tour; Marin’s pulling tarot cards like it’s a live crime scene, going through the cards like she’s dusting for fingerprints, trying to solve the mystery of “is Gage Black in the picture or not”; and everyone’s acting like I’m one silence away from spontaneously re-collaring myself in public.
Which, rude.
Because I’m not.
I’m very private about my self-destruction.
Three months.
That’s how long it’s been since I asked Gage to take off the collar.
Three months of therapy, of digging through emotional rubble with shaking hands. Of sitting in a room with my therapist who asks me how I feel and trying not to answer with jokes or polished sentences. Of figuring out all the ways I was molded by expectations and unlearning that.
I’ve made progress.
I don’t freeze every time I feel fear in my body. I don’t hear James’s voice in my head anymore. I don’t spiral the same way I used to.
James no longer finds his way in under my skin. In fact, I rarely see him. Even when we’re collecting or dropping Sarah off to each other, we have a system in place where I don’t have to see him. My idea. And one I’ve stuck to my guns on. Let’s just say that his takedown did wonders for my peace of mind. And I’m pretty sure I have Gage to thank for that.
God, Gage .
Missing him isn’t sharp anymore. It’s heavy. Constant and woven into my bones. It’s like carrying a song in your chest that never finishes playing. Never resolves. Just lingers. Painful in an intimate, quiet, unbearable way.
I still see him. At drop-offs. Pick-ups. Our daughters weaving through chaos with their matching backpacks while I stand on one side of the crowd and he stands on the other.
Sometimes, our eyes meet.
And it takes everything in me not to walk across and throw my arms around him like the last three months were just a very bad dream.
But I don’t.
Because I said I needed to heal.
Because he deserves the version of me that won’t run when everything gets too loud in my head and my body.
The noise in my mind that spins worst-case scenarios until I can’t hear reason.
And the noise in my body that mistakes safety for danger and tells me to run, even when I’m being loved.
I’m learning to live with that noise.
That’s why I needed space. To understand that the danger isn’t always external. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s me .
And Gage? He gave me that space.
Not the kind that people talk about giving while secretly waiting for you to break first.
Real space.
The kind that holds you from a distance without pulling.
The kind that trusts you to come back when you’re ready.
Gage didn’t just give me space. He held it.
Without pressure. Without punishment. Without making it about him.
He didn’t chase or demand or try to fix the silence.
He just stood there steady, present, waiting.
And I don’t think I’ve ever been loved like that before.
Not with that kind of patience.
Not with that kind of faith.
And tonight, my brothers and Marin might just get what they’ve been hounding me for.
Tonight, I’m going to show Gage Black he was never waiting in vain.
“Oh my god, Amelia,” Kristen says when she spots me walking into the backstage area of the gala she’s hosting. “You came! You actually came.”
I smile and accept her arms that she throws around me. Kristen’s not generally a big hugger, but I’m picking up on her panic that I wouldn’t show tonight. Which, fair. I went from a friend who refused point blank to get up on her stage months ago, and then last week, begged for the chance to get up there.
Her eyes light up as she pulls out of our embrace. “I swear I haven’t told Gage you’re coming tonight. Just like you asked.” She bites her lip. “But I may have told Bradford, who may have accidentally let it slip to Hayden. And Maddie may have stolen my phone and saw our texts, and she may have told Liv.”
I laugh. “So basically, the entire Black family knows I’m here.”
“Except for Gage.” The look on her face screams see I am a good girl .
“Okay,” she says, switching into gala planner mode. “We need you over here.” She gestures to where she wants me. “Bron is going to get you prepped.”
I cast a glance in the direction she motioned and smile at Bron. Then, I turn back to Kristen. “Thank you for letting me do this.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Honestly, on a scale of one to ten, where are you at with those ‘my soul will exit the building and I wanna vomit’ vibes right now?”
“If ten is the highest, I’m there.” I smile, remembering the reason I’m willing to see if I dissolve into particles on the stage tonight. “But I’m exactly where I should be.”
“Good talk. Don’t die. It’ll cause me a headache of epic proportions if I have to deal with a death tonight.”
With that, she’s off and taking care of other things, and I’m heading over to see Bron.
Once Bron tells me everything I need to know, I wait.
And try not to pass out.
Because I’m nervous. Not the panic kind. The holy-shit-I’m-about-to-propose kind.
My hands are steady, but my heart is chaos. A little fear. A lot of hope. The wild, fizzy energy that comes with knowing exactly what you want and being brave enough to say it out loud.
This isn’t performance adrenalin. It’s not stage fright.
It’s the feeling you get when you’re about to hand your whole heart back to the man who never dropped it.
The night unfolds around me in a glittery blur. Dresses and speeches and applause. I stay behind the scenes, tucked away in a quiet corner near the stage entrance, listening. Waiting.
Every time Kristen walks past me, she squeezes my hand. And when we reach the end of the night and it’s my turn to close the gala, she takes the mic to introduce me. All I can hope is that Gage didn’t grow bored and leave early. But something tells me, his entire family have made sure he hasn’t left.
Kristen’s voice carries clear and bright, like she’s been waiting all night to say these words. “We have one last surprise to end the evening. A performance by someone very dear to me. She’s brilliant. She’s brave. And she’s here for something very special. Please welcome, Amelia Sinclair.”
The room goes quiet. Then chatter ripples through the crowd as I step into the light.
I don’t look at anyone at first.
Only at the piano.
But as I reach it—fingers grazing the wood, breath slow and steady—I let myself glance up.
And I see him.
He’s standing at the back of the ballroom.
Frozen.
Like he’s watching the moment he never dared hope for.
I lower myself onto the bench. And I speak into the mic, soft but clear.
“This piece is personal. It’s for someone who once gave me silence and made it feel like love. I wrote it when I realized I didn’t have to be fixed to choose forever.”
Then I place my fingers on the keys.
And I play.