Amara’s POV

“Good morning everyone, we’re shifting the strategy for the upcoming week,” Cassian said, voice sharp, precise.

“The op-ed runs Tuesday. I want every talking point aligned with our district-level wins. Influencers and media partners—coordinate with Isobel and double-check the outreach. We cannot afford any slip-ups.”

Heads nodded around the table, pens scratching, fingers tapping keyboards.

I stayed silent, just absorbing every detail.

His control was seamless, but something in the rhythm of his speech hinted at the cracks he didn’t show the cameras.

The campaign was polished on the surface, but he needed someone who could humanize him, someone who could give him edges without exposing weakness.

That someone was me.

“Additionally,” he continued, “debate prep—full simulations starting Thursday. Every word, gesture, answer will be rehearsed to anticipate questions. Poll numbers are solid, but I want our likability to rise before the weekend. Is everyone clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the team chorused.

Cassian’s eyes flicked briefly toward me.

I caught the look—a fraction too long—and quickly shifted my attention to my notes.

My stomach fluttered with those stupid butterflies.

I still felt that same instinctive pull from years ago.

I had to steady it.

I was here for Eli, not him.

“Good. Meeting adjourned,” he said, straightening his blazer and lifting his gaze to the ceiling, like he was drawing strength from the air around him.

People rose and shuffled out, murmuring updates and confirmations.

I waited, letting the energy in the room settle before I stepped out.

An assistant appeared almost immediately.

Polished and professional with a clipboard in hand. “Ms. Bishop? Follow me. Your office is ready,” she said, leading me down a corridor lined with frosted glass doors.

I followed silently, scanning the layout.

And then I stopped.

My office was right next to Cassian’s.

I blinked. “Excuse me… Why is my office next to his? I thought I'd stay with the rest of his team?” My voice carried a mix of curiosity and caution.

She gave a polite smile. “As his strategist, you’ll be working closely together so proximity is key.”

I nodded, already understanding the implication.

This wasn’t casual.

This was constant exposure.

Every briefing, every discussion, every moment he adjusted his strategy, I’d be there.

I lingered by the doorway, debating whether I should go straight to him.

Finally, I walked the few steps toward his office.

“Mr. Hale,” I said, trying to steady my voice, hiding every flicker of emotion, “why place me right next to you?”

He glanced up from the files in front of him, expression neutral.

His gray eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned me, measured me. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together. You’re my strategist now. Close proximity is… necessary, I'm sorry.”

My heart skipped.

Not because of the closeness—it was a professional necessity—but because every instinct screamed at me to look for recognition, to see if he remembered.

I searched his eyes.

Nothing.

No flicker, no pause, no acknowledgement.

He looked right through me, like I was anyone else.

I made up excuses in my head of why he didn't remember me.

I pressed my lips together, swallowing the sting, and nodded. “Understood.”

He returned to his files, and I backed away silently, turning toward my office.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I finally exhaled. I sank into the chair, letting my hands rest on the desk.

My mind raced, but one thing cut through everything: Eli.

“Eli?” I whispered softly, pulling out my phone.

“Mommy?” came the precise, slightly formal voice from the other end.

My heart swelled.

“Hi, baby. Are you missing Mommy today?”

A small pause. “I was… a little,” he admitted, voice serious but warm. “I counted the minutes until your call.”

I chuckled softly. “Oh, Eli. I missed you too. I’m at work, but I wanted to hear your voice. Can you tell Mommy what you did today?”

“I read three chapters of my new book. And I built a tower with my blocks. It’s taller than me. Almost. Almost taller,” he said, voice measured but proud.

“You sound very intelligent, Mr. Engineer,” I teased gently.

“I am. You taught me,” he said matter-of-factly.

A pang shot through me.

I would do anything to give him more than lessons—I’d give him stability, protection, everything I never had.

But I had to play my cards, keep my distance from the past, and focus on the present.

“I love hearing about your day, Eli. Did you eat well?”

“Yes. I ate. Then I practiced my math.”

“You’re growing so fast. Mommy is proud.” I could hear the faint warmth in his words. “You aren't giving your nanny any reason to worry now, are you?”

“No,” he said, almost softly and I could almost see the way his eyes would widen.

I chuckled.

“Do you want mommy to read you a bedtime story when she's back?” I asked him

“Yes.” He paused, “But read it fast. I want to play after.”

I laughed. “Of course, my smart boy. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“Okay, Mommy. I love you.”

“I love you more, Eli.”

I ended the call and stared at my reflection in the glass wall.

My resolve, sharp as a blade, cut through any lingering hesitation.

I would do everything.

Everything.

For Eli.

Nothing else mattered.

I would navigate the politics, the strategies, and yes… Cassian Hale himself.

I glanced at the wall dividing our offices.

Behind it, he continued to work, unaware that I was more than a strategist.

That I was the mother of his child, the one who carried a world of memories he didn’t remember.

And I smiled faintly, a small, dangerous curve of lips.

He didn’t know it yet, but every move I made would be calculated.

Every strategy, every decision would serve two masters: his campaign… and my son.

The day stretched on, meetings and briefings, edits and rewrites.

I kept my professional mask tight, voice controlled, posture perfect.

But every glance toward him reminded me of the balance I had to maintain: calm, capable, untouchable.

And yet, my heartbeat betrayed me whenever our eyes met, fleeting or deliberate.

I wondered, not for the first time, what it would take for him to see me—not as a strategist, not as a colleague, but as the woman who had carried his child.

I shook the thought away, returning to the files.

By the time the office quieted in the evening, I had mapped the first week’s strategy, aligned talking points, and drafted speech revisions.

The folders lay in perfect order, ready for Cassian’s review tomorrow.

I stood, stretching my arms above my head, and glanced once more at his office.

The light from his desk lamp glowed softly.

He was immersed in his work, oblivious to the storm quietly building next door.

I let my hand linger on the glass, tracing an imaginary line between us.

'Would things change if you knew?'