AMARA

“You’re staring again,” I said without looking up.

Cassian’s reflection hovered in the glass wall between our offices, the morning light cutting sharp lines across his face. His voice was heard from the doorway, smooth and almost amused.

“Maybe I’m trying to understand you.”

“You already assigned me half your image strategy,” I replied evenly. “You don’t need to understand me to use me.”

His mouth curved, the kind of smile that belonged on a campaign poster. “On the contrary. The more I understand, the better I perform.”

“And yet,” I said, closing my laptop, “your numbers still dip every time you freestyle.”

A few staffers passing the corridor tried—badly—to hide their smirks.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then fix me.”

“I am,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

He watched me for a little too long.

Before I could ask him what he wanted, someone appeared behind him.

“Sir, the team has assembled.”

Cassian nodded once, then looked back at me. “Walk with me.”

I didn’t want to but I did it anyway.

I wasn’t here for want.

The place was already pulsing with movement—interns sprinting between departments, staffers juggling tablets and coffee cups, screens flashing polling data and debate projections.

People who were at the brink of exhaustion but still ambitious.

Cassian entered the conference room last—as always—followed by his tight circle of advisors and Isobel Marchand.

His fiancée.

Her beauty was the kind that made headlines: classic, curated, camera-approved.

She didn’t spare me a glance.

I didn’t need one.

Her entire existence wasn’t my business.

His choices weren’t my concern.

Only the outcome.

Cassian rolled up his sleeves, leaned forward on both palms, and addressed the room like he was leveling with old friends.

“Let’s get to work.”

The brief moved quickly.

They spoke numbers, optics, strategy and I sat there taking notes. Measured. Observed.

Then he stopped at my chair.

“Miss Bishop,” he said, thoughtful, deliberate, “from now on, you’ll handle my personal messaging and media appearances. Humanization is a priority for us.”

I arched a brow. “You mean making you less of a machine.”

A ripple of laughter.

A twitch of his mouth.

He enjoyed it too much.

“Something like that,” he said.

“You’ll be doing weekly image touch-ups, debates, speeches, everything,” his aide added.

Great. Constant proximity. Exactly what I didn’t want.

Cassian nodded. “After this, stay. We’ll go through adjustments privately.”

Of course we would.

The room cleared until it was just us, the city skyline behind him framed in glass.

I folded my arms. “Well?”

He didn’t turn immediately.

Just watched the clouds shift above the buildings, as if looking for some version of himself he could sell.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Less polished.

“You talk like someone who’s used to being in charge.”

“I usually am. Case in question…”

“I like that.”

I didn’t want him to.

He stepped closer. “Honesty, then. What’s your first impression?”

Of you?

Arrogant. Detached. Calculated. A man who once walked out of my life without a footprint.

But none of that came out of my mouth.

“You’re too polished,” I said instead. “It reads as rehearsed. People don’t trust what looks like a product.”

His jaw flexed. “That’s why you’re here. To find the edges.”

“You might need to actually have some first.”

That struck him—just enough to register before he smoothed it over.

For the first time that morning, the smile he gave me was real.

We reviewed soft spots in his public narrative. Potential anecdotes. Family stories. Childhood lessons. Every answer sounded like something manufactured in a PR lab.

“You don’t have anything that’s yours?” I asked. “Not your father. Not your legacy. Just you.”

“I haven’t been mine since I was fifteen,” he admitted. “ I have been public property number one, in front of the cameras since when I could remember. Expectations. I don’t know what part of me is real anymore.”

That was the closest he had come to vulnerability.

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it.

“I have a meeting. It’s private.”

“I’m not attending.”

“You will if I ask.”

I held his stare until he blinked.

I walked out before I lost the last thread of control.

~~~

My hand was on my office door when his voice drifted through the small opening behind me—wrong voice, wrong tone, wrong damn audience.

He leaned into Isobel, hands on her waist, body angled like a man sharing something intimate.

“You taste like truth I wasn’t ready for,” he murmured.

The words hit like a punch under my ribs.

He had whispered those exact words to me.

Under the sheets.

As we were tangled together.

Before he left me with questions.

And a child.

I felt the humiliation rise hot, but I stacked my spine, closed my office door, and forced air into my lungs.

This was not happening.

Somewhere between headquarters and my apartment, the pressure cracked.

Tears slipped without permission—quiet, suffocating, unstoppable.

Not because the line was recycled.

Not because he remembered.

But because he used it carelessly, like it had never meant anything.

Like I had never meant anything.

I wiped my face, parked, and braced myself before stepping inside.

The moment I opened the door, laughter burst from the living room—bright, high-pitched, healing.

Becca waved from the kitchen. “Your boy insisted on a space mission. I bribed him with cookies.”

And there he was—my five-year-old, my universe—glitter glue smeared across his hands, cardboard rocket held proudly above his head.

“Mommy, look! It’s going to the moon!”

I knelt, pulling him close. “You’re sending glitter to space now?”

He pressed his forehead against mine. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more.”

His tiny arms wrapped around my neck, grounding me. Saving me. He always did.

After Becca left, I tucked him in, brushed glue from his hair, and kissed his cheek.

“Mommy?” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“Do I have a dad?”

The question carved straight through me.

“You have me,” I said softly.

“But did I ever… have him?”

“You have people who love you,” I whispered. “That’s what matters.”

He didn’t believe me. He pretended to.

And when he slept, I studied the shape of him—the same features as Cassian.

He didn’t just resemble him.

He was him.

I arrived early again.

He was already pacing, papers in hand.

He nodded at me. Neutral. Controlled.

The distance was calculated.

Everything with him was.

~~~

The town hall was staged to look spontaneous—strategically diverse audience, handheld cameras pretending to catch “raw” reactions.

I managed his cues through the earpiece.

Corrected his phrasing.

Adjusted his posture.

For every handshake, I supplied a line.

For every family story, I flagged inconsistencies only I seemed willing to challenge.

On the ride back, we ended up in the same SUV, the others in the cars behind us.

He watched the city blur while I reviewed post-event analytics on my tablet.

“You’re good at this,” he said finally.

“I’m good at most things.”

“Confident.”

“Competent.”

This time, his smile was slower. Sharper. Studying.

“You really do remind me of someone.”

I didn’t look up. “Is that supposed to unsettle me?”

“It should intrigue you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Liar,” he murmured.

I snapped my tablet shut. “Stop flirting. It’s unprofessional.”

“And ineffective?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied.

He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Then tell me something.”

“No.”

“Why do you feel so familiar,” he insisted. “Like someone I should know.”

I met his gaze head-on.

“i don't know,” I said, cool and controlled.

His eyes flashed with something like recognition—too quick to be certainty, too sharp to be coincidence.

The car slowed at the next light.

The city glowed outside.

Between us, unspoken truth sat like a live wire.

He didn’t know.

But he was getting close.

And if he found the truth before I was ready—

It wouldn’t just ruin the campaign.

It would ruin everything.