Chapter 8 Amelia
Iwake up feeling unsettled.
The events of last night replay in sharp fragments— Dominic’s touch, the low timbre of his voice when he spoke of duty, the near-kiss that had been seconds away from happening.
And then, of course, the interruption.
The phone call that severed whatever fragile thread we had been teetering on.
I shouldn’t feel this thrown off. I’m a professional, trained to handle high-pressure situations, to compartmentalize emotions that threaten to interfere with work. But something about Dominic Hawthorne makes me forget all the rules I’ve spent years reinforcing.
Shaking off the lingering weight of last night, I force myself into the comfort of routine—scrubs, coffee, a clear mental checklist. Today, I’ll focus on my responsibilities at Hawthorne Industries, not the man behind it.
Yet, as I step into the gleaming corporate building, my resolve starts to crack.
Whispers drift through the hallways as I make my way toward the medical compliance office. Employees murmur in hushed tones, side-eyeing me as I pass. I keep my head high, pretending not to notice.
But something feels off.
Something more than the usual curiosity about the new hire.
It’s not until I step into my office that I see the email waiting for me.
From: Eleanor Whitfield
Subject: Upcoming Royal Visit
Dr. Grant,
The Petrovian council has been informed of your involvement with Mr. Hawthorne. Given the nature of his transition, a regency delegate will be arriving next week to assess the current state of affairs.
Your role—both professionally and personally—will undoubtedly be of interest to them. Please be prepared.
Regards,
Eleanor Whitfield
My breath catches.
This is bad.
I read it again, pulse thrumming in my ears.
My involvement with Dominic?
I was hired to oversee medical compliance. That’s my only role here. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Except it’s not entirely true anymore, is it?
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally type a response.
To: Eleanor Whitfield
Eleanor,
I appreciate the heads-up, but I need clarification. What exactly does the council expect from me? My professional relationship with Mr. Hawthorne is strictly business.
Best,
Amelia Grant
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
A knock at my door startles me.
“Dr. Grant?”
I glance up, expecting a coworker.
Instead, my stomach clenches at the sight of her.
Margaux DuPont.
The last woman I ever expected to see in Dominic Hawthorne’s orbit.
She stands with effortless grace, blonde waves cascading over a tailored ivory dress. Everything about her screams polished perfection—from her designer heels to the quiet air of superiority she wears like a second skin.
I recognize her immediately.
A high-profile philanthropist. A fixture in European aristocratic circles.
And, if the rumors are to be believed—Dominic’s former lover.
I force a neutral expression. “Ms. DuPont, what can I do for you?”
Her lips curve into a slow, practiced smile. “Please, call me Margaux.”
She steps inside, her movements deliberate. “I thought it was time we met properly.”
I fold my hands over my desk. “I wasn’t aware we needed to.”
Margaux lets out a light laugh, as if my words amuse her.
“Oh, darling, I think we do.”
I resist the urge to sigh. “If this is about Dominic?—”
Her expression sharpens at the edges. “Everything is about Dominic. Surely you’ve realized that by now.”
There it is.
The underlying claim. The warning.
I steel my spine. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but my work here has nothing to do with his personal life.”
Margaux tilts her head, examining me as if she’s deciding whether I’m a worthy opponent.
“Oh, Amelia.” Her voice dips into something almost pitying. “I’ve been in your position before. Thinking he’s only half in that world, believing there’s a version of him that’s separate from the obligations he was born into. But you and I both know that’s not how this works.”
I swallow back the immediate denial rising to my lips.
Because deep down, I know she’s not wrong.
Margaux must see something flicker across my face because she leans in slightly, lowering her voice.
“I’m not here to be cruel, Amelia. But I do know Dominic. I know what happens when people try to pull him away from the world he’s bound to.”
“And what happens?” I ask, my voice quieter than I want it to be.
She smiles, but there’s no warmth in it.
“They get left behind.”
That night, I stand by my apartment window, watching the city lights flicker against the dark skyline.
Margaux’s words.
Eleanor’s email.
The way Dominic looked at me last night.
It all collides in a tangled mess of uncertainty.
I hate feeling like this. Like I’m caught in something I can’t control.
A sharp knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts.
My pulse spikes as I move to answer it.
Dominic stands there.
Dressed in a sleek black suit, the kind tailored for royal engagements.
He looks devastatingly handsome, but there’s a distance in his eyes I don’t like.
“I don’t want to but I have to go,” he says, his voice unreadable.
I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I figured.”
His gaze flickers over me, searching for something.
I don’t know what.
“You’ll be okay?” he asks after a beat.
I force a small smile. “I always am.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
As if he doesn’t believe me.
As if he knows that, for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure that’s true.
Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.
And I watch him go, wondering if Margaux was right after all.
The next morning, I wake up with a heaviness in my chest.
Eleanor calls later, confirming that the regency delegate will arrive by the weekend.
“Be prepared,” she warns. “They will scrutinize every aspect of Dominic’s life—and those connected to him.”
I don’t respond right away.
What would they see in me?
A doctor who got too close?
Someone already being left behind?
Later that evening, as I step outside the hospital, my phone buzzes with an unknown number.
I hesitate before answering. “Dr. Grant?”
A deep voice responds. “Yes?”
“This is Lord Alistair Wren. I believe we’ll be meeting soon. I look forward to discussing your role in Dominic’s life.”
My stomach clenches.
The regency isn’t waiting until next week.
They’re coming for me now.