Chapter 12 Amelia
The moment I step out of my apartment, I know something is wrong.
The air feels different—thicker, heavier—like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
I barely make it halfway down the street before I hear it.
“Dr. Grant!”
A chorus of voices erupts from behind a row of black SUVs parked outside my building. Cameras flash. Reporters swarm. My pulse spikes.
“Is it true you’re engaged to Dominic Hawthorne?”
“Are you moving to Petrovia?”
“Is this a royal arrangement?”
I freeze.
The last question hits too close to the truth I’ve been avoiding.
I clench my fists, forcing my feet to move forward, ignoring the onslaught of questions. My heart pounds as I push past the mob and slip into the hospital’s side entrance—the only sanctuary I have left.
Inside, Kate is waiting, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
“So, you’re royalty now?”
I groan, dropping my bag onto my desk. “Not funny.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I think it’s hilarious. But seriously, Amelia, this is a mess. I had to dodge three reporters just to get inside.”
I rub my temples. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. The media twisted things, and now it’s out of control.”
Kate leans against my desk. “So… what’s the plan?”
The plan?
There is no plan.
Dominic left for Petrovia, leaving me in the eye of a media storm with nothing but vague assurances and a deep, aching uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”
Kate studies me for a moment, then sighs. “Maybe it’s time to find out.”
That evening, I step into my apartment, expecting silence.
Instead, my phone vibrates on the counter.
I hesitate before answering.
“Amelia.”
Dominic’s voice is a balm and a wound all at once.
I close my eyes. “Dominic, what’s happening?”
A beat of silence. Then,
“The regency wants a public appearance. With you.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“They think it’ll stabilize the rumors. If we show a united front?—”
I cut him off. “This isn’t damage control, Dominic. This is my life.”
“I know,” he says softly. “And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
The words hang between us. Heavy. Unspoken.
Finally, I whisper, “When?”
A pause. Then, “Soon.”
I swallow hard. The weight of expectation presses down, suffocating.
“Amelia,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something I can’t quite name. “I need you to trust me.”
I want to.
God, I want to.
But as I stare out the window at the flashing cameras below, I wonder if trust is enough.
I don’t sleep much that night.
The city hums below me, but my thoughts race faster than the traffic.
Every scenario.
Every consequence.
Every single way this could go wrong?—
By the time the sun rises, I still have no answers.
At the hospital, the tension follows me.
The whispers. The sidelong glances. Even my patients, usually unaware of my personal life, seem to recognize my face now.
Kate corners me in the break room, arms crossed. “So, what’s the move?”
I sip my coffee, wishing it had something stronger in it. “I don’t know.”
She sighs. “Amelia, if you don’t make a move, the media will make one for you. And you won’t like their version.”
I know she’s right.
But that doesn’t make this any easier.
Three days pass before I hear from Dominic again.
This time, it’s not a phone call.
It’s a news alert.
I’m mid-shift when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting another PR disaster.
Instead, I see him.
DOMINIC HAWTHORNE, STEPPING OUT OF AN ARMORED SUV IN PETROVIA, FLANKED BY SECURITY, WALKING TOWARD THE ROYAL PALACE.
The headline is worse than I imagined.
PRINCE DOMINIC RETURNS: IS HE FINALLY READY TO TAKE HIS PLACE?
I feel like the air has been knocked from my lungs.
Prince.
I knew, of course.
On some level, I always knew.
But seeing it like this, spelled out so plainly, makes it feel real in a way it never has before.
Kate appears beside me, reading over my shoulder. “Well. That’s one way to confirm things.”
I grip the phone tighter. “He didn’t tell me.”
She glances at me. “Are you surprised?”
I don’t answer.
Because honestly?
I don’t know anymore.
Days stretch into a week.
The distance between us grows heavier with every passing hour.
Then, finally, a message.
Dominic: We need to talk.
I stare at the words, my chest tight.
I type and erase a dozen responses before finally settling on:
Me: Call me when you can.
Minutes later, my phone rings.
“Amelia.”
His voice is rough, tired.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Dominic, what’s going on?”
A pause. Then,
“It’s worse than I thought.”
My stomach twists. “How bad?”
“The regency is demanding a formal statement. If I don’t comply, they’ll take action.”
My pulse spikes. “What kind of action?”
Silence.
Then, softly,
“I don’t know yet.”
I exhale sharply. “So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
The line goes quiet.
Just our breathing, the distance between us stretching wider than miles.
Finally, I whisper, “Dominic… do you regret it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
But when he does, his voice is steady.
“No. Never.”
I close my eyes.
Relief.
Fear.
All tangled together.
“But Amelia,” he continues. “This isn’t over. And I don’t know how to fix it.”
Neither do I.