Chapter 3: Terms Of Detachment
1063 Words
The elevator fell with a heavy mechanical groan, every floor a muffled thump in Amara's head. Her hands wrapped her coat close around her as if it might shield her from the vibration of last night — the touch of Ronan's hands, the rasp of his voice, the fire they had burned so recklessly.
And that text.
You never should've returned.
She could still see it beating on her phone like a warning sign in the dark. But Amara was done playing games. She was done feeling. If last night was any lesson, it was that vulnerability was something she could no longer afford.
As the doors slid open into the polished lobby of Knight Industries, she stepped out with a posture sharp enough to cut. Her heels clicked against the marble like defiance, like armor.
“Miss Vance,” the front desk receptionist said, startled.
“Good morning,” Amara said crisply. “Let Mr. Knight know I’ll be working from the twentieth-floor office today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The receptionist stopped as if to say more, but one look at Amara's face discouraged her from it.
Ronan wasn't in his office when she passed by, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She needed space. Distance. The things she should have kept for herself last night but had foolishly given up.
Her assigned office was clinical and tidy, a hasty nest built in haste. She dropped her bag on the desk and powered up her computer. There were emails to read, security tapes to request, badge logs to scan. It was easier to become lost in data than in memory.
By midmorning, her coffee was lukewarm. Her desk was cluttered with spreadsheets, and her eyes ached from lack of sleep.
A knock at the door reminded her.
Kellen Drake leaned in the doorway, cradling a mug. "I figured you'd appreciate something more caffeinated than whatever is in the breakroom."
Amara c****d an eyebrow. "You're tracking my caffeine supply now?"
He smiled. "Only because I've seen you eat a man's head off in your third cup."
She laughed a reluctant smile and accepted the mug. The warmth felt good.
"Everything all right?" Kellen asked, entering.
She hesitated. "Define 'all right.'"
He exhaled a sigh, sitting down in the guest chair across from her. "You're in town less than forty-eight hours and already someone's making cryptic threats against you. I'd say that's not all right."
"I'm handling it," she told him, taking a drink of the coffee.
"By yourself?"
She shot him a dirty look. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Kellen's face softened, the charm wavering. "You know, I never did see eye to eye with Ronan about the way he let you take the fall all those years ago."
"Stop." Her voice was as sharp as glass. "That's history. Let's just leave it there."
He shook his head slowly. "Fair enough. But if you ever require backup now. I'm available."
"I'll bear that in mind."
Rising to leave, he added, "Keep your back covered, Amara. The past doesn't stay underground forever. Especially not here."
That afternoon, a private investigator named Leighton arrived.
He had contracted Leighton to help find the source of the anonymous note. Leighton was fast, clever, and quick-witted. In ten minutes, he'd racked up an IP trail to a proxy server in Prague.
" Whoever it was, they didn't want to leave a trace," he said to her. "But they made one mistake. There's a metadata stamp I can trace. Could take a few days."
Amara tracked the figures on the screen. "Why would someone go to such trouble just to scare me?"
Leighton tilted his head. "Perhaps it is not you they desire."
The thought gave her the creeps.
When twilight fell, Amara was on the executive floor's balcony, looking out over the city. The skyline was a fuzzy amber light, lights blinking on like secrets.
She sensed someone behind her.
“I thought you’d come by,” she said without turning.
Ronan stepped beside her. “You left early.”
“I needed space.”
“I figured.”
The silence between them was thick. Charged. The memory of last night still clung to them like the scent of fire after a storm.
“I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” he said finally. “Not the threats. Not us.”
She faced him then. “Exactly. That’s why it shouldn’t have happened.”
His eyes conflicted with hers, stormy and exhausted. "You're trying to pretend you didn't feel anything?"
"I'm trying to stay alive, Ronan."
"And I'm trying to protect you."
"You can't protect me from something that you don't understand."
"I'm trying to understand it. That's why I hired Leighton. That's why—"
"That's why you brought me back?" she interrupted. "To put me into danger again?"
No," he grumbled, his voice low. "I took you home because the company insisted. Because I insisted. Not like this. Not for this. But maybe. Maybe it was the only way fate could make me face what I did."
Her eyes drifted away. The city disintegrated.
"What if it's too late?" she whispered.
Ronan stepped closer. "Then we faced it too late. Together."
Her throat closed.
"You're impossible to untangle from," she said.
"Good," he replied. "Because I'm done playing like I ever did."
She nearly nuzzled him. Nearly. But a vibration in her phone.
A message. From a strange number.
Amber alert. Detach, or burn.
Her blood went cold.
Ronan read from behind her shoulder. "They're escalating."
She flipped the screen to his face. "Then it's time we escalate, too."
That night, Amara walked into her apartment with Ronan's security detail sweeping every corner.
"I'll leave somewhere else," she said. "I don't want you or your men hurt because of me."
Ronan didn't argue. He'd learned his lesson now.
She pulled over to her nightstand as she began to pack a bag.
A photo was in the drawer. Small. Yellowed. Frayed on the corner. She and Ronan at a charity event years ago. She was smiling. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
She stared at it for an eternity, and then she shoved it into her jacket.
If the past was coming after her, then she might as well be ready to face it.
- Writer
