Chapter 3

The city was cold and indifferent. Amelia' s small apartment felt cavernous and empty when she finally got back. Every movement was a fresh wave of pain from her ribs. She fumbled with the first-aid kit, clumsily re-dressing the scrapes on her good hand with one-handed motions. The silence of the apartment was deafening, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.

She sank onto the couch, her eyes landing on a framed photo on the mantelpiece. It was of her and Sarah, smiling on a hiking trip years ago, the sun in their hair. Sarah looked so alive, so full of hope. A fierce wave of grief washed over Amelia, so powerful it left her breathless.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," she whispered to the empty room. "I messed up."

Her personal phone rang, startling her. It was Julian's number. She stared at it, her heart pounding a painful rhythm against her bruised ribs. She let it ring until it went to voicemail. A moment later, a text appeared.

"My office. Now."

No "how are you," no "are you okay." Just a command. The rain had started again, a relentless, driving downpour that lashed against the windows. The thought of going out in this weather, in her condition, was exhausting. But the thought of ignoring him was impossible. Her plan, her real plan, was still in motion. This was a piece of it.

When she arrived at Vance Corp, soaked and shivering, the office was mostly empty except for a few late-working staff who stared at her with a mixture of awe and pity. Julian was in his office, and Isabella was with him, perched on the edge of his desk like a pampered cat.

"There you are," Isabella said with a triumphant smirk. "We were just talking about the new floral arrangements for the lobby. I think lilies would be perfect, don't you?" She looked directly at Amelia, referencing the flowers she had brought to the hospital.

Julian ignored the comment. He gestured to a stack of documents on the corner of his desk. "I need these cross-referenced and summarized. I want it on my desk by morning."

Amelia looked at the stack. It was a week's worth of work. "By morning?"

"Is there a problem?" Isabella chimed in, her voice sweet as poison. "Julian needs it. Surely his loyal assistant can handle a little overtime, especially after her... vacation."

Julian didn't look at Amelia. He was focused on his computer screen. "Just get it done."

Amelia picked up the heavy stack of files, the movement sending a jolt of fire through her side. She didn't say a word. She just turned and walked to her own desk in the outer office, the weight of the documents a physical manifestation of their contempt.

She worked through the night, her body screaming in protest. The cast on her arm made typing a slow, awkward process. Every few hours, Isabella would wander out of Julian's office for one reason or another, each time with a new, petty demand designed to demean her.

"Amelia, Julian needs coffee. And make it quick. He hates waiting."

An hour later. "Amelia, this coffee is cold. Make another one. And try not to spill it this time, you look like a mess."

Later still. "Amelia, the printer is jammed. Fix it. I don't want to get my hands dirty."

Each time, Amelia complied without a word, her face a mask of calm composure. She fetched the coffee. She unjammed the printer. She did it all while the mountain of paperwork on her desk remained untouched. The pain in her ribs was a constant, grinding agony, and her head was foggy with exhaustion. But she kept going, fueled by a cold, burning resolve. This was a battle of wills, and she would not break.

Finally, near dawn, Isabella came out with one last demand. She was holding two glasses of whiskey.

"Julian and I are celebrating the success of the gala," she said, her eyes glittering with malice. "But he's worried. There have been some threats. Anonymous emails. He's supposed to meet a new investor across town, but his security team thinks it might be a trap."

She placed one of the whiskey glasses on Amelia's desk. "He wants you to go instead. He said you're good at... handling things." The implication was clear. They were sending her into a potentially dangerous situation as a decoy.

Amelia looked from the whiskey to Isabella's smug face. She knew this was a test. A cruel, deliberate move to see how far she would go.

"And he wants you to drink this," Isabella added, pushing the glass closer. "A little liquid courage. His orders."

Amelia knew the whiskey was a bad idea, especially with the painkillers she'd been taking. It was dangerous. It was reckless. But refusing was not an option. Not if she wanted to maintain her cover. She looked at Julian's closed office door. He was in there, letting this happen.

She thought of Sarah. She thought of her promise.

Without a word, she picked up the glass and drained it in one go. The whiskey burned its way down her throat, a fiery path into her empty stomach. It hit her system almost immediately, making the room spin.

"Good girl," Isabella purred. She handed Amelia a piece of paper with an address. "Don't be late."

Amelia stood up, swaying slightly. She grabbed her coat and walked out of the office, the burning in her throat matched only by the fire in her soul. She would go. She would walk into whatever trap they had set for her. She would take the risk meant for him. Because that was the only way. It was the only way to stay close enough to make him pay.

As she stepped into the elevator, she glanced back. Through the glass wall of his office, she saw Julian standing by the window, watching her leave. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, his face a mask of shadows. For a moment, she wondered if he felt anything at all. Guilt? Regret? Or was it just the cold satisfaction of a master watching his dog obey one last, final command? The elevator doors slid shut, and she was plunged into darkness.