He stopped in front of Amelia.
She could smell sandalwood and smoke and the winter air still clinging faintly to his coat from when he’d entered. She lifted her chin, though her legs felt hollow. If this was the end, she would not cry in front of Camila Vanderhoven.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
Only then did Amelia realize she had closed them.
She forced them open and looked up at him.
For one long beat, Langston Scott studied her face as if he were reading a language no one else in the room understood. Then, to the horror of everyone watching, he reached into his breast pocket and drew out a white silk handkerchief.
Camila inhaled sharply, already stepping toward him as though claiming her reward.
But Langston ignored her completely.
He lifted the handkerchief and gently dabbed a splash of champagne from Amelia’s cheek.
“You missed a spot,” he said softly.
The room did not merely go silent. It became stunned.
Then he turned, at last, to Mr. Henderson. “Give Miss Miller the rest of the night off. With pay.”
“Langston!” Camila’s voice snapped with disbelief. “She assaulted me.”
He looked at her then, and the entire temperature of the room seemed to drop. “She defended the dead. If she hadn’t done it, Camila, I might have.”
Camila stared at him, speechless.
Amelia did not wait for permission, explanation, or whatever catastrophe might come next. She ran. She ran through the kitchen past the startled line cooks, out the alley door, and into the raw Chicago night where rain needled her skin and her breath came in ragged bursts. She did not stop until she reached the bus shelter three blocks away and collapsed onto the bench, hands shaking so badly she could barely pull her coat closed.
Only then did the terror settle in.
Because mercy from a man like Langston Scott could be a public performance.
And performances ended.
By morning, Amelia had lost her job.
Mr. Henderson sent the termination in a text so short it looked embarrassed to exist. DO NOT RETURN. FINAL PAYCHECK MAILED. She stared at the message while sitting beside her father’s hospital bed in the county cardiac ward. Arthur Miller slept beneath thin blankets, his cheeks sunken, oxygen hissing softly beside him. The room smelled like antiseptic and old fear.
Amelia folded the phone screen down into her palm and smiled when he woke, because that was what daughters did when fathers were already carrying too much.
“You look tired, kiddo,” Arthur murmured.
“I look fantastic,” she lied, adjusting his blanket. “You should see the other guy.”
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