Amelia didn’t plan to leave her room that evening. After the fight in the garden, her chest felt too heavy, her thoughts too sharp. She wanted nothing more than to curl into herself, maybe even cry, though she hated admitting it. But the longer she sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank page where she had written You are not his, the more the walls around her seemed to close in.

She needed air.

The hallway was dim, lit only by lamps along the walls. Her bare feet made no sound against the cold floor. She didn’t have a destination in mind, just the desperate need to walk, to keep moving before she drowned in her own thoughts.

By accident, she found herself near the library.

The door was cracked open, light spilling out. For a second, she hesitated. She didn’t want to see him, not tonight. Not after everything. But something, curiosity maybe, or stubbornness made her push the door open wider.

Alexander sat by the fireplace. No suit jacket this time, just a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. He looked… different. Not polished. Not untouchable. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and a glass of whiskey rested in his hand.

He didn’t notice her at first. His gaze was fixed on the flames, his expression unreadable, like he was somewhere far away.

Amelia could have slipped away. She almost did. But then the floor creaked under her step, and his head lifted. Their eyes met, and she froze.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was lower, softer than usual.

Amelia shook her head. “No.”

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Normally, she would have snapped at the command, reminded him she wasn’t his to order around. But tonight, the fight drained out of her. She moved quietly and sat down, tucking her legs close like a shield.

The silence stretched again, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

“Do you always drink alone?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

He tilted the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. “Sometimes alone is better.”

“Better than what?”

He looked at her then, eyes darker in the firelight, something raw flickering beneath the surface. “Better than remembering.”

The answer caught her off guard. She frowned, leaning slightly forward. “Remembering what?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze dropped back to the fire, his jaw tense. She thought he wouldn’t say anything at all, but then his voice came again, quieter.

“My mother used to sit by the fire every night. Reading. Laughing.” He let out a small, humorless breath. “She died when I was twelve. The house was quiet after that. Too quiet.”

Amelia’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected that. She studied him, the way his hand gripped the glass, the way his shoulders seemed less straight, less invincible. For once, he didn’t look like the man who controlled her life. He looked like a boy who had lost something he couldn’t get back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp again, but not cold. “Don’t be. Everyone loses someone. It’s part of life.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less,” she said softly.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he set the glass down on the table beside him. His hand lingered there, fingers curled as if holding onto something invisible.

“You remind me of her sometimes,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.

Amelia’s breath caught. “What?”

He turned toward her fully now, his gaze steady, piercing. “The way you fight. The way you refuse to bow, even when it would be easier. She was like that.”

Heat rushed to Amelia’s cheeks, and she hated that. She hated the way his words tangled with something inside her chest she didn’t want to name.

“I’m not like her,” she said quickly.

“No.” His lips curved slightly, not in mockery, but something softer. “You’re you. But strength… it’s the same.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. Amelia shifted in her seat, unsure what to do with the weight of his stare.

She wanted to hate him. She wanted to throw his words back in his face. But instead, she found herself whispering, “Why are you telling me this?”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “Because you think I’m made of stone. And maybe I want you to know I bleed too.”

Her heart stumbled at that. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady her breath.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she admitted, her voice breaking at the edges.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, moving slowly, each step deliberate as he walked toward her. She tensed, ready to pull back, but he stopped just a foot away, crouching slightly so his eyes were level with hers.

“I want honesty,” he said.

She blinked. “Honesty?”

“Yes.” His gaze was sharp, but his tone softer than she’d ever heard. “Tell me when you hate me. Tell me when you want to scream. Don’t hide it. Don’t pretend.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. He wasn’t lying, she realized. He wanted the truth, even if it cut.

“Why?” she asked finally, her voice trembling.

“Because lies build walls,” he murmured. “And I’m tired of walls.”

For the first time since she had met him, Amelia didn’t see the billionaire who held her contract, the man who made her feel like a prisoner. She saw a man who carried ghosts, who hid them behind power and control.

It terrified her more than his anger ever had.

He reached out then, slow, careful, his hand brushing against hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. Not a grip. Not control. Just a touch.

Her breath hitched.

She wanted to pull away. She should have pulled away. But her hand stayed still, trembling under his.

For a few heartbeats, they sat like that, the firelight painting shadows across their faces. Neither spoke. Neither moved.

Then Alexander pulled back, standing tall again, the mask sliding back into place. “It’s late. You should rest.”

Amelia swallowed hard, nodding. “Right.”

He turned toward the fire, his back to her now. The moment was gone, but the echo of it stayed, heavy in her chest.

She stood slowly, her legs unsteady, and walked to the door. Before leaving, she glanced back once.

Alexander stood where she had found him, staring into the flames, alone with his ghosts.

Amelia pressed her lips together, then slipped out quietly.

That night, as she lay in bed, sleep still out of reach, Amelia couldn’t shake the memory of his touch.

It wasn’t the control she had come to expect. It wasn’t forced. It was something else.

And that something scared her more than anything.