fifteen
I pushed the door open.
Brooks.
Seated on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands laced together so tight his knuckles had gone white. In the low lamplight, he looked more expensive than usual—navy suit, crisp shirt, expression carved out of something harder than I'd ever seen on him.
For a second, my heart tripped. Then it settled into something cold and flat.
No.
I turned on my heel and walked right back out.
"Amira."
I didn't stop.
"Amira." His voice was lower, steadier.
I kept going. Past the mirrored hallway sconces, past a couple waiting for the elevator, my pulse ticking like a warning under my skin.
"Stop."
I didn't.
He caught up in three strides, his hand wrapping around my wrist—firm but not rough. Just enough to make me feel cornered.
"Let go," I said, my voice even.
"Not out here."
I turned, chin lifted, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I don't have anything to say to you."
A group of drunk girls in glitter dresses slowed to watch us, their laughter fading as they realized what they were seeing. I felt their eyes on me like heat.
He didn't look away. "I'm not doing this in a hallway."
"I'm not doing this at all."
His jaw flexed. "Then come inside and tell me to my face you're done."
I stared at him, willing myself to keep walking. But something in his face—something raw and unguarded—held me there.
"Please," he said, quieter now.
It was the please that did it.
I exhaled and turned back. His hand dropped from my wrist but stayed close, like he was ready to catch me if I bolted again.
Inside, the room felt smaller. The door clicked shut behind us.
I stayed by the door, while he walked near the couch.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
"Say whatever you came to say," I said, folding my arms across my chest.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "I know you're upset—"
"You know?" My voice was calm. Too calm.
"I deserve that," he said evenly. "But I need you to hear me out."
I laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I don't need to do anything."
He took a step forward. I stepped back.
"You sat there," I said, voice low, "looked right at me and acted like you didn't know me."
He swallowed, like he'd been holding that breath all night. "I didn't know how else to handle that."
"Handle," I repeated, tasting the word. "Because I'm something that's supposed to be handled."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" My voice sharpened. "Because it looked a lot like you didn't give a fuck about how that would make me feel."
His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "I was working."
"Working," I echoed, flat. "That's what you call it?"
"You don't understand—"
"No," I said, stepping back another pace, "so explain it."
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me, like he was deciding how much truth he was willing to risk. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor.
"I was working," he said finally, voice clipped. "And I couldn't handle it any other way."
I swallowed. "And that's it? That's your reason?"
His eyes lifted to mine, darker now. "There was more to it. But you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
I almost laughed. "So you decided to pretend you didn't know me."
"I decided," he said, voice steady, "that I wasn't going to let them see any reaction I couldn't control."
A humorless laugh escaped me.
His mouth pressed into a hard line. "You don't get it."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I think I do. You didn't want to risk anyone seeing you with me."
He stepped closer. "You don't get to tell me what my intentions were."
"Then what were they?" I demanded.
He didn't answer.
"Exactly," I murmured.
Silence stretched between us, tight as wire. My pulse was a cold, measured thing.
Brooks didn't look away. He stood there, hands loose at his sides. In the low light, he looked exactly the same—composed, quietly assured. But there was a tightness around his mouth he couldn't quite hide.
"I'm not here to argue," he said first, voice low and steady.
"Then what are you here for?" I asked.
His eyes held mine, measured. "To explain."
I huffed out a laugh, though nothing about it felt funny. "There's more that needs to be explained? I think you got your point across perfectly clear."
He drew a slow breath, his jaw flexing once. "I should have at least acknowledged you. I know that, but it wasn't that simple."
"Sure it was." My voice was soft. Too calm. "You saw me and decided it was easier to act like I wasn't there."
His brow furrowed, a faint crease between his eyes. "That's not what it was."
"No?"
He shook his head. "No."
Brooks took a step closer but stopped himself halfway, like he knew better than to test the line I'd drawn. "It was a work dinner. Everyone at that table reports back to my father one way or another. I couldn't...explain you. Not in that moment."
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Because finance guys are famously judgmental about how you spend your free time?"
I searched his face, looking for any sign he was lying. But if he was, he was too good at it for me to tell.
And maybe that was the worst part—that he could look straight at me and still choose not to say the truth.
"That's convenient," I murmured.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't fire back. He just watched me, waiting for me to let him in.
I didn't.
After a beat, he spoke again. "And—" He exhaled, slow, like the words tasted bitter. "I didn't know if you wanted me to say anything to you."
That caught me off guard. "What?"
He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely. "You were there with someone, and I thought—"
"You thought what?" My voice sharpened.
His gaze stayed steady, though the set of his mouth pulled tight. "I thought you were with him."
It took me a second to process that.
"You thought I was on a date," I said flatly.
He didn't answer right away and that was as good as yes.
A quiet scoff slipped out. "So because you decided something, you didn't even owe me the decency of acting like we'd ever met?"
"I didn't say it was the right call," he said evenly. "I'm telling you what happened."
I let my arms fall to my sides, some of the heat giving way to something colder. "I'm not sure if that's supposed to make me feel better."
"I'm not trying to make you feel better," he said, voice controlled. "I'm trying to be honest with you."
I let that settle, my heartbeat a dull thud in my chest. "Since when?"
His eyes narrowed, just slightly. "Since now."
I swallowed, feeling the burn behind my ribs. "You still could have said something after."
"I know."
"You could have called me."
"I know," he repeated, quieter this time.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything either of us had said.
When he spoke again, it was low, almost tired. "I didn't come here to justify it. I know how it looked. And you have every right to be pissed at me."
"Good," I said.
His gaze didn't waver. "But you also deserve to hear the truth. Even if it doesn't change anything."
I lifted my chin. "So that's your truth? That it was just work, and you thought I was with someone else?"
Brooks nodded once, deliberate. "Yes."
I searched his face, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part he was still trying to protect.
But it didn't come.
And in that moment, I realized he still thought he could keep it separate. That he could keep me in the dark.
I drew a slow, measured breath. "You know, I gave you a chance to be honest. Just now. In the hall. I gave you the space to say what this really is."
His brow knit. "What do you mean?"
My voice went quieter. "You're still pretending."
He didn't answer.
So I gave him one last chance. "Brooks," I said carefully. "Is that all?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
And that was it.
I nodded once. "Alright."
His mouth tightened, like he didn't understand. "Alright?"
"Yeah." My throat felt scraped raw. "Then I don't think there's anything left to talk about."
He shifted forward, just barely. "Amira—"
But I didn't let him finish. My hand went to the door.
"Finance for law firms," I said, the words like a blade. "Isn't that what you told me?"
He stilled completely.
I watched it register. Watched the moment he realized he'd run out of road.
"That's what you said," I went on, my voice soft but unshaking. "That your family does finance for law firms."
He didn't deny it.
I waited. Let the silence stretch until it was so taut I thought it might snap.
Then I said it.
"That's funny because the man on the news standing next to the president and calling him dad didn't look like he was too concerned with accounts and billable hours."
His expression didn't change at first, like he thought if he stayed perfectly still, I'd take it back.
But then—just a flicker—his jaw tightened. His eyes dropped to the floor.
And that was all the answer I needed.
I nodded once. "That's what I thought."
He looked up, something unguarded flickering in his gaze. "How did you—"
"The news," I said.
He swallowed, like the truth tasted bad. "And you've known this whole time?"
"No," I corrected. "I found out earlier this week."
Silence settled over us, thick as wet concrete.
"You could have told me," I whispered.
His throat worked. "I was going to."
"When?" My voice didn't shake. "After you decided whether I was worth telling?"
"No." A thread of something desperate wound through his tone. "It wasn't that. I was trying to figure out...how to keep you separate from all of it."
"You can't," I said simply.
"I know."
Another beat of quiet.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, softer. "For all of it. For not telling you. For making you feel like you didn't matter."
The thing was—he sounded like he meant it.
But it didn't fix anything.
I looked away, pressing a hand to my chest, trying to steady the ache there.
When I spoke, it was almost a whisper. "You have no idea what it's like. To have someone decide, without even asking, that you're better off kept in the dark."