He gave a weak laugh, then coughed until his chest rattled. Amelia waited it out, one hand on his shoulder, and wondered how many more small lies love required before it became a full-time religion.
That evening, as she walked back toward the bus stop with a pharmacy bag tucked under her arm, a black Escalade rolled slowly along the curb beside her.
Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.
She turned the corner without looking at it. The SUV turned too.
By the time two men stepped from the shadows ahead of her, blocking the sidewalk, her mouth had gone dry. One of them was broad-shouldered, scarred, unmistakably dangerous. She recognized him from newspaper photos and whispered rumors. Rocco DeLuca. Langston’s right hand.
“Miss Miller,” he said with unnerving politeness. “Mr. Scott would like a word.”
Amelia clutched the pharmacy bag tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Rocco opened the rear door of the SUV. “That would be a lovely plan in a different universe.”
Inside, the leather smelled expensive. Warm. Controlled. Langston sat across from her with a tablet in one hand, as though kidnapping frightened waitresses between meetings was simply another item on his calendar.
“Are you going to kill me?” Amelia asked, and hated how small her voice sounded.
He looked up. In the dim light, his face seemed less monstrous than exhausted. “If I wanted you dead, Amelia, you would not have made it to the curb.”
She stiffened at the sound of her name in his mouth.
He set the tablet aside. “Your father has advanced heart failure. You have debt. You are behind on rent. And despite all that, when Camila insulted your mother, you forgot self-preservation.”
“You investigated me.”
“Yes.”
She should have been horrified, but humiliation and survival had been roommates for too long to surprise her anymore. “Why?”
“Because courage is expensive,” he said. “And rare.”
He explained the engagement in a voice stripped of romance. It was a merger, not a love story. The Scotts needed peace with the Vanderhovens to stabilize business around the harbor. Camila, however, had become volatile, arrogant, reckless. He needed a way out without igniting open war.
“And you want me to help you,” Amelia said slowly, beginning to understand.
“I want you beside me,” Langston replied. “At events. Meetings. Dinners. I want Camila to see someone she considers beneath her receiving respect she believes belongs to her alone. I want the city’s elite to witness exactly who she is when her mask slips.”
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