Threads Of The Past
622 Words
The apartment was small, barely enough for two people to move around without bumping into each other, but Amira had made it hers. The second-hand couch was draped in a warm knitted throw. A line of sticky notes curled at the edge of the mirror above her dresser. And pinned to the wall was a photo of her mother—smiling in a faded sundress, eyes crinkled in the way Amira’s did when she let herself laugh.
It had been a long day. Longer than usual.
She collapsed onto the couch, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding since leaving Killian’s office.
Naomi’s visit had rattled her.
Not because she felt threatened by the woman, but because it confirmed what she’d been dreading: she was replaceable. Disposable. Another name in a long list of assistants who hadn’t lasted.
Killian Locke might have been brilliant, powerful, and devastatingly focused—but he was also unpredictable. Cold one moment. Strangely attentive the next.
And she didn’t know what she was doing anymore.
She picked up the locket around her neck and flipped it open. The picture was still gone. She’d never gotten around to adding one. But it helped her breathe on nights like this.
“I’m not here to impress them,” she whispered to herself. “I’m here to survive.”
Killian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, staring out at the city below. He’d been staring too long. His whiskey glass sat untouched on the table behind him.
“We know about the girl.”
The words kept replaying in his mind. Delivered with precision. The kind of warning that didn’t need repeating.
He didn’t know who had sent it. Not yet. But he had ideas.
This city had rules, even for men like him. And those rules didn’t take kindly to emotional liabilities.
He turned and walked to his desk. Pulled open a drawer.
Inside was a file he hadn’t touched since the night of the gala. A security photo—blurry, low-res—of a girl helping him into a hotel room.
The hallway camera had picked it up. He’d only seen it once.
He knew it was her.
He knew long before the broken glass, before her rolled sleeve gave away the butterfly tattoo.
But he didn’t want it to be her.
Because if it was—then this fragile, stubborn, complicated girl in his office was the only person who’d seen him truly weak.
And that was dangerous.
A knock came at her door around 9 PM.
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She crept up and peeked through the peephole. Her stomach dropped.
Standing outside was her stepsister, Callie.
Glossy lips. Perfect hair. Expensive heels that didn’t belong in this part of town.
Amira opened the door halfway. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” Callie pushed past her like she owned the place. “God, this is tiny.”
“Get to the point.”
“I just came to warn you,” Callie said sweetly, perching on the arm of the couch. “Daddy’s curious. He asked me why you suddenly have a full-time job in one of the most exclusive companies in the city.”
Amira froze.
“He thinks you’re lying about where you work.”
Amira’s chest tightened. “What do you want, Callie?”
Callie stood and smiled. “I don’t want anything. But if I were you, I’d be careful. Secrets have a way of getting out.”
Then she walked out the door without looking back.
Amira stood there, fists clenched. Her stepsister hadn’t come to warn her. She came to rattle her cage.
And it had worked.
- Writer
