Amara’s POV

The words wouldn’t line up.

I stared at the laptop screen like I could bend the headlines into something manageable, but the damage was already done. Cassian’s interview had gone off script. Again. This time, it was about veteran healthcare—a question from a grieving widow that caught him without prepared stats or a polished line. He froze and blurted a few inconsistent words. .

By the time I’d reviewed the footage, media was already cutting clips and spinning it as “Detached Hale Dodges Vets.”

I was in his office. Alone. The others had left hours ago.

I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows, pulled my hair into a loose knot, and started drafting responses. I rewrote a five-minute video script, prepared an emergency press statement, and built a new speech draft that opened with empathy instead of numbers. My fingers ached from typing, my eyes dry from the screen, but I kept going.

The door creaked open.

I didn’t look up. “Close it behind you. I’m almost done.”

The footsteps has started slow. Then they stopped.

“You’re still here,” Cassian said quietly.

His voice was normal, nothing political or polished. I looked up. His blazer was gone. Shirt sleeves rolled up, the first two buttons undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. The image almost sent thoughts to my head, but I faced my screen in time.

“You missed half the damage control meeting,” I said, coolly.

“I know.” He dropped into the leather chair across from me, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You can’t keep winging interviews. Not at this level.”

“I didn’t mean to. She just…she reminded me of someone.”

“That woman asked you a direct question, and you blinked like she spoke Martian. We can’t afford that again.”

“I’m aware.”

My voice rose. “Are you? Because every time you go off-script, I have to spend six hours rebuilding the version of you people actually like.”

He looked up sharply. “The version of me they like?”

“Yes, the one I package into something sympathetic. That’s my job, remember?”

“And what version do you like?” he asked, voice low.

I ignored the question.

“Cassian, this campaign has no room for mistakes. One more interview like that and Reed will eat you alive.”

He stood. “I said I’m aware.”

Reed was the former governor rooting for him. I had met him once at the donor ceremony, but he didn't give me any attention. I got the message instantly—he was a no-nonsense man.

He turned away, pacing. I could feel the tension bleeding off him like heat.

I pushed the laptop aside and stood too. “Then why do you keep slipping? Why are you letting emotion get in the way?”

He spun back to face me. “Because maybe I’m not a robot, Amara. Maybe I care too much. Maybe that woman caught me off guard, and I didn’t want to feed her a prewritten line.”

“You didn’t feed her anything.”

His jaw clenched.

The silence grew and before I could control myself, I snapped.

“You lie so easily, don’t you?”

His eyes flared. “Excuse me?”

“You walk around smiling like your charm can erase anything. But it can’t. Not all of us forget so easily.”

He stepped closer, confusion clouding his features.

“What did I lie about?”

I laughed, bitter and cold. “Pick a starting point. Your name, for one.”

His brows pulled tight. “What are you talking about?”

I shook my head and turned away, my chest tight, my hands trembling.

“Damn it, Amara,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“You want me to talk?” I spun back around, voice rising. “You know what you're doing, but you're pretending to forget.”

“Forget what?”

But I was already too far gone. The past bled into the present and spilled out through my mouth.

“You took everything from me that night. You lied, disappeared, and left me to deal with the fallout alone. You didn’t even remember my face.”

His body went still.

“What night?”

I stared at him sngry. Exposed and totally unaware of how close we stood. Then I saw the opportunity. My eyes dropped to his lips.

It happened like combustion. A spark lit and everything else caught fire.

I threw my hands around his neck and my mouth crashed into his before I could stop myself. The kiss was messy, hot and furious. Our tongues were colliding into each other while our breath came in between half-formed words. His mouth devoured mine like he’d been starving and I loved the idea I was giving him.

I gripped the front of his shirt, yanked him closer, and let myself drown in the heat. His hands roamed up and down my spine, his fingers threading into my hair.

It was too much, damn good and most of all, it was everything I remembered. The party crashed. I tore away first, panting.

“No,” I whispered. “No—you don’t get to kiss me like that after what you did.”

He blinked, dazed. “Amara…what the hell is going on?”

“You really don’t remember,” I said, shaking my head. “Of course you don’t.”

He stepped forward. “Tell me. Please…tell me.”

But I wouldn't. It was well played like this and if I stayed one second longer, I’d hate myself more than I hated him.

I turned and walked out, slamming the door behind me. Let him burn in the silence. I’d already burned enough.