His Secret

twenty three

Brooks keyed us in, and I followed him through the lobby on aching feet. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been awake this long, but somehow, I didn't feel tired.

Just...light.

When we stepped into the penthouse, I kicked off my shoes with a little groan.

"My legs hate you," I told him, rubbing my calf.

His mouth curved. "I offered to call Monte."

"And I said no," I reminded him. "Because I'm stubborn."

"That, you are," he said, sounding more fond than exasperated.

He set his keys on the console and turned to face me. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just stood there in the hush-me in my wrinkled jeans and tank top, him in the same white shirt rolled to his elbows.

I felt a little shy all of a sudden. Like we were kids who'd stayed out too late and were sneaking in before anyone noticed.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

His smile was soft. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"For the first time in a while, I don't have anywhere to be." He stepped closer, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "Thought maybe I'd go get breakfast."

"You mean you're actually going to drive yourself?" I teased.

"Don't sound so surprised," he said dryly. "I do remember how."

"I don't know," I murmured, biting back a grin. "Seems fake."

His hand curled lightly around my jaw. "Keep mocking me. See what happens."

I lifted my brows. "What happens?"

He didn't answer-just leaned in and kissed me, slow and unhurried, like we had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, I was a little breathless.

"I'll be back in twenty," he promised.

"Okay."

I watched him grab his keys again, that quiet purpose in every movement.

"We're going to watch the new episode of Love Island when you're back," I called after him.

He paused at the door, glancing back with a huff of amusement. "I'll take my sweet time then."

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood there for a second, smiling to myself.

Then I peeled off my clothes-still warm from the walk-and stepped into the bathroom. The shower felt like heaven after three hours on my feet, hot water sluicing over my skin, rinsing away the night.

When I finally stepped out, I wrapped a towel around myself and cracked the door open to let the steam escape.

I was rubbing a hand over the fogged mirror when I heard the front door open.

"Back already?" I called, voice echoing in the tile. "You forget how to reverse out-"

I froze.

Because the voice that answered wasn't Brooks's.

"Hello."

It was a woman. Cool. Clipped.

I went still all over, hand tightening on the towel.

Slowly, I stepped into the hallway. My heart was tripping over itself in my chest.

There, standing near the kitchen island in a pale silk blouse and tailored trousers, was a woman I'd only seen once in person.

Her hair was pulled into a sleek bun. No makeup except for a little mascara and a lipstick that made her look polished without trying. She didn't look tired. She didn't look surprised.

She just looked at me.

Like she'd already decided everything she needed to know.

"Hi," I said, my voice coming out a little too bright. "I-I'm sorry, I thought you were Brooks."

Her mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. "Clearly."

I swallowed. My skin felt too hot under the towel.

"I'm Amira," I tried again sticking my hand out. "It's...nice to meet you."

Her gaze drifted over me-head to toe-and back again. "I'm sure it is."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then she turned, glancing around the space like she was appraising a property. "Is Brooks here?"

"He-he went out to get breakfast," I said.

She nodded once, like she'd already suspected. "Hm."

I stood there, feeling ridiculous-barefoot and in a towel, while she looked like she'd never been caught off guard in her life.

I didn't know what to do with my hands. Or my face. Or any part of myself.

So I just stood there.

Silent.

Waiting to be dismissed.

And even before she spoke again, I knew she would.

She let her gaze drift around the kitchen-slow, surveying. Like she was cataloging the details for later.

I swallowed. "I-"

The front door swung open before I could decide what to say.

Brooks's voice carried in, warm and unsuspecting. "I forgot to ask if you wanted-"

He stopped dead in the doorway. The bag in his hand tilted precariously before he righted it.

"Mom," he said, slower now.

She turned just enough to look over her shoulder at him, one brow lifting. "Brooks."

He set the bag on the counter with more care than necessary. "I didn't know you were coming."

"No, I was in the area and figured I would stop by," she agreed lightly. Her eyes cut back to me. "We were just getting acquainted."

Brooks's jaw flexed. He stepped forward, placing himself a fraction closer to me without making it obvious. "Amira, this is my mom."

"I gathered," I managed, my voice so quiet I hated it.

The First Lady studied me like I was something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

For a second, nobody said anything. The silence stretched, brittle as glass.

Then she turned to Brooks, her smile all surface. "May I speak with you privately?"

Brooks didn't look away from me. "It's okay you can say whatever in front of Amira."

Her mouth barely curved, but her eyes were flat. "Is that what you really want?"

His hand drifted to the small of my back, the warmth of it almost comforting. "Yes."

She exhaled, like he'd disappointed her somehow. Then she turned fully to me.

"I imagine this is...unusual for you," she said, her tone crisp. "All this." She gestured vaguely around the penthouse. "Attention. Access."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

She tilted her head, studying my face. "This must feel like quite an opportunity."

"Mom." Brooks's voice was quiet, dangerous.

But she didn't acknowledge him. She just went on, voice soft as silk.

"I don't mean that unkindly. It's simply reality. People in your...circumstances often find proximity to power...appealing."

My chest went cold. "I don't think-"

"No?" Her brows lifted in delicate surprise. "Then what is it you're here for?"

I felt my heart thudding, too loud in my ears.

Brooks stepped forward, voice low but tight. "Mom, cut it out."

She turned to him, slow and deliberate. "I'm only trying to be sure you've considered the optics, Brooks. What something like this looks like. What it will cost you."

He opened his mouth, but I didn't wait to hear what he'd say.

"I should...give you two a minute," I said, my voice thin.

"Amira-" Brooks started.

But I was already moving.

I didn't look back as I slipped past them and climbed the stairs, though I could feel her eyes on me the entire way.

In the guest room, I shut the door quietly.

My hands were shaking.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing my palms to my knees to steady them.

Downstairs, their voices were a low, muffled current I couldn't quite make out.

I didn't want to.

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe past the humiliation burning under my skin.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my towel twisted tight in my hands.

I wasn't crying.

I wasn't even breathing right, but I wasn't crying.

My brain felt too loud-like it was running through every choice I'd ever made that led me to this exact moment.

Pretending you fit somewhere doesn't mean you do.

I pressed my palm to the center of my chest, willing the ache to dull.

Downstairs, I heard the low murmur of voices. Then the front door shutting.

A pause.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Then Brooks's voice, quiet but certain.

"Amira?"

I swallowed, cleared my throat. "Yeah."

The door creaked open, and he stepped in, still wearing that careful expression he put on when he wasn't sure what he was walking into.

"She's gone," he said, softer now.

I nodded, eyes fixed on a spot on the carpet. "Okay."

He moved closer, stopping just a few feet away. "She shouldn't have come here and she can be judgmental."

"It's fine," I said. My voice was too even. Too bright. "Really."

"No, it's not."

I stood, tugging the towel tighter around me like it was armor. "Brooks, it's-"

He reached out, fingers brushing my arm. "Hey. Look at me."

I didn't. I couldn't.

"She doesn't get to decide who you are to me," he went on, voice low. "You know that, right?"

"I know," I said, still not meeting his eyes. "I just... I think maybe I need some space."

His hand dropped away, slow like he wasn't sure what to do with it. "Space."

I tried to smile. It didn't quite land. "I'm not... mad. Or anything. I just... I don't know."

"You don't have to go," he said, quieter now. "You can stay we can talk about this."

I looked up then, finally, and the softness in his expression almost broke me clean in half.

"I don't think I can," I said, voice soft but steady. "Not right now."

"Why?"

I shook my head and turned away, walking past him into the bedroom. My heart was beating too loud, too fast.

He followed. Of course he did.

"Amira, you can't let her get in your head like this," he said as I set my bag on the edge of the bed.

I didn't answer. I unzipped the bag, pulling out my a pair of

leggings and a tank top with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

"Hey," he tried again, voice softer. "Can you look at me?"

I kept my eyes down. "I don't want to fight."

"We're not fighting."

"It feels like we are."

"It feels like you're trying to disappear."

I let out a breath, blinking hard. "I just need some space."

"Space for what?" He stepped closer. "To pretend this didn't happen? To pretend you don't care?"

"To think," I whispered.

He exhaled like he was trying to stay patient. "You don't have to leave."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I can't stay here right now and pretend I don't feel like I'm a problem you have to solve."

His brow knit. "You're not a problem."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"It was my mother-"

"I know who it was." My voice broke a little on the last word.

His hand lifted, but I flinched back before he could touch me. He let it fall.

"I can't change who she is," he said carefully. "But that doesn't mean she gets to define this."

"I know," I said. My voice was so small it didn't even sound like mine.

"Then don't let her win."

"It's not about winning," I whispered.

"Then what is it about?"

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor between us. "It's about how easy it is for me to feel like I don't belong in your life."

His face softened. He reached for me again, slower this time, but I turned away before he could close the distance.

"I'm tired," I said.

"I know," he murmured behind me. "I know you are. But can you just-"

I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door gently between us.

For a second, I stood there with my hand on the knob, breathing like I'd just run a mile.

He didn't try to open it.

Didn't knock.

But I could hear him on the other side, his breathing almost as shaky as mine.

"Amira," he said, voice low through the door. "I'm not going anywhere."

I closed my eyes.

That was the problem.

I stayed in the bathroom longer than I needed to.

Long enough for the quiet to start feeling oppressive instead of safe.

When I finally stepped out, I'd pulled on my clothes and, my hair scraped back into a low bun.

Brooks was standing by the foot of the bed, his hands braced on the carved edge of the frame like he'd been waiting there the whole time.

He straightened the second he saw me. "Amira."

I didn't meet his eyes. I walked past him, pulling my bag onto my shoulder.

"Can you-" He stopped, like he was trying to find the right word. "Can you just slow down a second?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

His hand lifted as I passed, but he didn't touch me. "You don't have to go."

"I do," I said quietly.

He exhaled, frustrated. "You're not even giving me a chance to-"

"To what?" My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the quiet anyway. "To convince me this is fine? That she didn't mean it? That this doesn't feel exactly how I thought it would?"

His jaw flexed, but he didn't argue.

I moved past him to the door. My hand hovered over the knob.

"Amira." His voice was low, almost raw.

I didn't turn around. "I'll call you."

"Please don't shut me out."

"I'm not," I lied.

He didn't say anything else.

I pulled the door open and walked out without looking back.

And the worst part was, it didn't feel satisfying.

It just felt like loss.

The ride back to my place felt longer than it should have.

I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city wake up in soft blue streaks of dawn. A jogger crossing the street. A delivery truck rumbling past. People going about their lives, unaware of how small and out of place I felt.

When the car stopped, I thanked the driver in a voice that didn't sound like mine. My hands were too steady, like my body hadn't caught up to what had happened yet.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, every step feeling heavier than the last.

Inside, everything looked exactly the same. My keys in the bowl. The blanket draped over the couch. The mug on the counter where I'd left it.

Like I'd never left at all.

I set my bag down carefully. Toed off my shoes.

Then I just stood there in the hush, trying to figure out what to do with all this embarrassment and dread pressing under my skin.

I didn't mean to cry.

I didn't even feel it happening at first.

I walked into my bedroom, pulled the curtains closed, and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone, but I didn't open any messages. I didn't call anyone.

I just pressed it flat to my chest and let the tears come.

Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet. Relentless.

Like every insecurity I'd ever had finally decided to show up at once.

I folded forward, resting my elbows on my knees, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes.

I didn't know how long I stayed like that-ten minutes, maybe more.

When the worst of it passed, I sat back, blinking at the ceiling, willing myself to breathe normally again.

My phone buzzed against my chest.

I almost didn't look.

But then I did.

One message.

I read it once. Then again.

And even though I wanted to pretend I was fine, a fresh wave of tears slipped down my cheeks.

I curled up on the bed, phone still in my hand, and closed my eyes.

I didn't reply. Not yet.

I just lay there, hoping that eventually, this feeling would fade.