Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 1st, 2018. New York City. 

Calm winds whisper through the city, weaving between skyscrapers that pierce the clouds like silver needles. The sky blushes with dawn—soft pinks and hazy golds bleeding across the horizon.   On the top floor of one gleaming tower, Angela Giarratana laces up her sleek black sneakers, pulls a charcoal hoodie over her shoulders, and strides toward the elevator. Her dark ponytail swings with purpose. This morning ritual is sacred: breath before meetings, motion before madness. She runs not just to stay fit—but to feel free. She had always prioritized her health and physique above almost everything else, making her daily morning run her most consistent routine. Well… nearly anything.

Across town, in a cozy apartment with eclectic decor, sits an unlikely pair of friends. Amanda, tall and curvaceous, with tanned skin and legs for days, shares the space with her roommate, Courtney. Petite and athletic, Courtney sports blonde hair and toned limbs. Here, mismatched curtains and shaggy carpet create a homey atmosphere where the roommates often huddle, gossiping with steaming mugs of tea in hand. 

With Winter's icy fingers gripping the city, it isn't just the weather causing discomfort. Courtney, nursing a nasty cold, despairs at being sidelined for her long-awaited interview with the infamous Angela Giarratana — a notorious billionaire known for their ruthless attitude. Amanda, ever resourceful, proposes stepping in instead, arguing that since they're both Journalism majors, the transition should be seamless. Courtney, although reluctant, agrees, too weakened to protest.

Courtney, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and Kleenex, sneezes dramatically. Amanda breezes into the room, dressed to the nines in a fashionable ensemble that only emphasizes her statuesque frame. With her towering stature of six feet, she hardly needs the added height of her heels. 

“I gave you the recorder, right?” Courtney asks, her voice nasally from the cold.

Amanda pulls the recorder from her sweater pocket and gives it a little tap—*click*—testing it with a whisper: *"Testing, testing."* Satisfied, she snatches her keys from the ceramic dish on the counter.  

“Yes, I do.”  

“And you have all the questions?” Courtney croaks, squinting over the edge of her blanket like a suspicious potato.  

“Yep!” Amanda chirps, waving the notebook triumphantly. “Every single one—from your ‘How do you define power?’ to your ‘Do you ever dream in spreadsheets?’” She grins. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

“And you know where you’re going?” Courtney asks, causing Amanda to sigh and scoff playfully.

“Yes, Court! I have a GPS and a 4.0 GPA. I’ll figure it out.”

Courtney chuckles hoarsely and then pauses, looking her friend up and down carefully. She speaks up as Amanda smooths down her skirt. 

“And you’re going in that?”

Amanda rolls her eyes again, her grin widening.  

“Okay, less nagging, more napping. You need all the rest you can get, so let me handle this. Love you, bye,” Amanda retorts.

Courtney shoots Amanda a smirk and blows a teasing kiss. With a playful flourish, Amanda catches it and sends one hurtling back. They both erupt into giggles, the moment tinged with lighthearted banter. Amanda, now at the door, flashes a confident smile before shutting it quietly, leaving Courtney to her blankets and sniffles. As she steps outside, Amanda takes a deep breath, her mind already racing with anticipation for the encounter ahead. 

Amanda's drive is unremarkable, with light traffic at this early hour. However, as she draws nearer to the towering office building, she can't help but pause. The sheer scale of the structure leaves her momentarily in awe, but she regains her composure with a gentle shake of her head, silently chiding herself.  

As she strides into the building, the scent of floral fragrances and bleach greets her nostrils, the source evident in the diligent janitor's corner. Amanda proceeds towards the elevator, her heels echoing softly against the pristine marble floors.

Two secretaries sit poised behind a sleek wooden desk, posture perfect and expressions polished. One glances up, her smile warm yet professional.  

"Miss Miller?" she asks.  

Amanda freezes—just for a breath—caught off guard. Right. I’m supposed to be Courtney. The name jolts her back into focus, but before she can stammer out a correction, the secretary rises smoothly and adds with quiet courtesy,

"Can I take your sweater?" 

Amanda hesitates for a split second before responding with a soft, “Oh, uh, sure.” 

Amanda slips off her blue sweater, the fabric whispering as it comes free. Her fingers quickly adjust the collar of her blouse—now exposed to the crisp, over-air-conditioned air. The secretary takes the garment without a word and disappears into a side room. At once, the other secretary lifts her gaze from her desk and says smoothly:  

“Miss Giarratana will see you now.”

Amanda's mouth forms a small protest, but she quickly stifles it with an obedient nod. The stark surroundings—stark white, pristine marble, and sparkling glass—all contribute to the environment's sterile cleanliness. She follows the first secretary down the corridor until they come to a halt in front of a massive pair of mahogany doors. The secretary flashes a final smile, silently urging Amanda to proceed. Steeling herself, Amanda presses one of the heavy doors open, only to find her heel caught awkwardly on the threshold. With a sharp gasp, she loses her balance, tumbling to her knees in an ungraceful sprawl. 

As footsteps rapidly approach, Amanda's gaze lifts, fixing on the approaching form of Angela Giarratana. Her breath catches in her chest at the sight—she's stunning, radiating both beauty and an undeniable aura of power. Angela stands at a more petite frame, her athletic physique a testament to discipline and dedication. Her dark gaze pierces the room, eyes a rich coffee hue that contrasts starkly with her tailored black suit and tie. Angela halts her progression, a hint of concern crinkling the corners of her eyes. 

“Miss Miller. Are you alright?”  

Amanda blinks, realizing she's been staring unabashedly. She takes Angela's offered hand, rising awkwardly to her full, towering height. Despite her physical advantage, Amanda can't shake the unsettling feeling that Angela holds the upper hand, her presence commanding a respect that is both earned and natural. This woman, petite though she may be, exudes a confidence that Amanda finds both admirable and slightly terrifying.

 As soon as Amanda regains her footing, Angela extends a firm handshake, her dark almond eyes locked with an intensity that makes Amanda’s pulse jump.  

“Angela Giarratana,” she says—voice smooth, authoritative.  

“Amanda Lehan,” Amanda replies quickly, brushing down her skirt and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m filling in for Miss Miller—she’s out with the flu.”  

A flicker of confusion passes over Angela’s face before it clears into understanding—though something lingers in her expression… interest? Amusement? It's hard to tell. The air between them shifts—less formal now, subtly charged.

"Of course," Angela says at last, stepping back slightly but still holding eye contact. "So, you're studying journalism as well?" Angela asks, her voice calm but probing, like a blade wrapped in silk.  

Amanda nods quickly. "Yes—and English Literature too." She hesitates, fingers drifting to her nails where she picks at an invisible snag. "But Courtney—Miss Miller—is my roommate, so I couldn’t exactly say no." Her voice softens on the last word, tinged with both loyalty and apology.

Angela studies her for a beat—just long enough to make Amanda feel exposed under that sharp gaze—before glancing at the sleek silver watch on her wrist.  

"Well," she says crisply, "I only have ten minutes." The words aren't unkind, but they carry weight—a boundary drawn in stone. Then she gestures toward one of the two leather chairs before her desk with a subtle tilt of her chin. "Please, have a seat… Miss Lehan."

With that, she pivots sharply on one polished heel and strides back toward her desk—a vast expanse of obsidian glass illuminated by the morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the city sprawls beneath them like a living circuit board humming with quiet energy.

Amanda follows quietly behind—the click of each step echoing against marble floors—as if afraid too much movement might break some unspoken rule. The air here is cooler than downstairs: filtered through hidden vents high above and scented faintly with bergamot and paper from Angela’s open briefcase.

She takes one chair while Angela settles into hers like royalty returning to a throne—an effortless glide into power posture, straight-backed confidence, unshaken silence until someone speaks again.

The office is sleek and minimalist—almost austere. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls flood the room with golden morning light, casting sharp reflections across a vast obsidian desk at its center. Behind it sits Angela’s commanding chair, tall and structured like a throne, while two low-slung visitor chairs face it—elegant in design but merciless in comfort. Amanda sinks into one, instantly registering the firmness beneath her—a cross between a sculpture and a punishment.

She flicks on the recorder with a quiet click and sets it carefully on the side table beside her. Then it hits her: she has the notebook and recorder… but no pen.

Her stomach drops.

A flush creeps up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as she glances up—only to find Angela already watching her with cool, knowing eyes. Not judgmental… not quite. But observant—deeply so—as if reading every unspoken thought behind Amanda’s darting gaze.

A beat passes.

Then, without a word or shift in expression beyond the faintest tug of amusement at the corner of her lips, Angela rises smoothly from her seat. Her heels tap softly against marble as she circles the desk—one deliberate step at a time—and opens a drawer with quiet precision before retrieving an elegant silver pen.

She closes the distance between them in three strides and extends it toward Amanda—not placing it down for convenience—but offering it directly into waiting fingers. Their hands brush for just an instant. Cool metal meets warm skin, and suddenly ten minutes feels both far too short—and painfully long.

“Thank you,” Amanda says quietly, clearing her throat as a whiff of Angela’s musky cologne invades her senses. “Ready?”

Angela smiles softly as she leans back against the desk, facing Amanda. 

“Whenever you are.”

“Thank you,” Amanda murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as she takes the pen. A subtle wave of Angela’s cologne—warm, musky, faintly spiced—drifts toward her, wrapping around her senses like smoke. She clears her throat, pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. “Ready?”  

Angela doesn’t return to her chair. Instead, she leans back against the edge of the desk with effortless grace—one shoulder tilted down, arms loosely crossed—her dark eyes softening just enough to feel intentional.  

“Whenever you are.”  

Amanda inhales slowly through her nose and exhales through parted lips—a technique borrowed from weekly therapy sessions: *I am in control.* But now? Under this woman’s quiet scrutiny? That truth wavers like heat rising off pavement. She blinks it away and asks the first question.

“So, this is for the special graduation issue of the student newspaper—”  

“Yes,” Angela cuts in smoothly, her voice edged with quiet confidence. “I’m delivering the commencement address at this year’s ceremony.”  

“You are?”  

The words slip out before Amanda can stop them—honest surprise laced with awe. She freezes instantly, throat tightening as she realizes her misstep.  

Angela doesn’t scold. She smirks—a small, knowing curve of lips—and lifts one sculpted eyebrow, as if silently saying, *You didn’t know that?*  

Amanda swallows hard under that cool gaze and quickly regains composure.  

“I mean… I know,” Amanda corrects herself, clearing her throat to mask the stumble. The lie hangs thin in the air—but she hopes it’s enough to keep going without crumbling. “You’re very young to have built such an empire. To what do you attribute—”  

  “To what do I attribute my success?” Angela interrupts, cutting in with a soft scoff and a faint shake of her head—like Amanda just asked why the sky is blue. Her dark eyes lock onto Amanda’s, laced with amusement and something sharper… almost disbelief.  

Amanda freezes, confused by the reaction but too aware of the power humming between them to challenge it.  

“Yes,” she murmurs slowly, nodding as if bracing for impact.

Angela tilts her head slightly, both eyebrows arched now—one hand resting on the desk beside her like an anchor.  

“Seriously?” The words aren’t unkind—but they’re edged with challenge.

Amanda feels heat creep into her cheeks again under that penetrating gaze. Amanda nods—once, firm—and Angela lets out a low, measured sigh. She pushes off from the desk and moves around it with quiet purpose, her heels clicking softly against the marble like a ticking clock.  

“Business isn’t about age,” she says, voice smooth but charged. “It’s about people. I’ve always understood them—their motivations, their desires, what makes them move when everything else fails.” She pauses, turning slightly to face Amanda fully. “I know what pushes someone to stay late—or walk away. And that… that is power.”  

A beat of silence.

Then Amanda blurts it out—without filter or polish—“Well… maybe you’re just lucky.”  

The moment the words land, she stiffens. Even *she* can’t believe she said that.

But something in Angela unsettles her composure—in a way that’s equal parts electric and unnerving—and keeps pulling honesty from her like thread from cloth.

Angela doesn't flinch. A soft scoff escapes her lips as she settles back against the desk, fingers splayed wide against its cool surface. Her dark eyes lock onto Amanda’s—not angry—but *calculating*, searching deep behind those brown irises like she's reading between lines no one else would write.

“I’ve found that the harder I work, the luckier I seem to get.” Angela grins, a wry yet charming twist of her lips. “The secret to my success? Identifying talent and channeling it. That’s when you see real power unfold.”

Amanda blurts out the next question without thinking. “So… you’re a control freak?” Inwardly, she adds, *Like me*.  

Angela narrows her eyes, but her lips twitch into a half-smile.

“I prefer ‘disciplined’—but yes,” she replies, the corners of her mouth curling further, “I exercise control in all things. Miss Lehan.”

The other woman settles back into her chair, legs spreading slightly, her collar falling open as she loosens her tie. Those dark eyes never waver—watching Amanda with a remarkable intensity that makes her skin feel oddly warm. Amanda fidgets in her chair. She can’t keep still under that gaze. It feels like being peeled apart layer by layer. Amanda holds her gaze fixed on the notebook in her lap—an attempt to keep herself grounded. Her hands twist in her lap as she speaks, her voice surprisingly steady. 

“Your company specializes in telecommunications—yet you also invest in several agriculture projects, including several in Africa. Do you feel particularly passionate about that cause—‘feeding the world’s poor’? Or are your investments purely pragmatic?”

Angela furrows her brow, as if the answer is glaringly apparent.

“It’s smart business,” she says. 

Amanda raises an eyebrow. Angela catches the gesture and asks pointedly,

“You don’t agree?”

For a beat, Amanda is tempted to speak her mind. But something inside her makes her bite back the words threatening to spill out. She settles for a shrug instead.

“I don’t know enough about it.”

Her gaze drifts down to her heels, a subtle avoidance tactic. When she looks back up, Amanda sees something change in Angela’s eyes. It feels almost as if the other woman is silently coaxing, even daring her to continue. So she does. 

Amanda takes a steadying breath, holding Angela’s gaze as she speaks.

"I just wonder if," her pulse thrums under her skin, fingers twisting in her lap, "Maybe your heart's bigger than you want to let on."

Angela smiles, but the warmth doesn't quite reach her eyes this time. 

"There are people who say I don't have a heart at all."  

The honesty surprises Amanda, but she can't help but reply with curiosity.

"Why would they say that?"

Angela responds matter-of-factly, "Because they know me very well."

Amanda's mouth falls open before she catches herself. The other woman's bluntness is both startling and somehow... admirable. Amanda collects herself quickly. Her mouth is dry, her skin tingling strangely. She tries to ignore the feeling and moves on to the next question. 

"Do you have any interests outside of work?"  

Angela responds easily, resting her elbows on the desk.

 "I enjoy various physical pursuits... "

The phrasing feels oddly intimate, and Amanda's heart stutters in her chest. She swallows, trying to focus—even though every nerve feels over-sensitized now. 

"You're unmarried—"  

Amanda pauses, scanning the questions in her notebook. Her eyes widen as she processes more personal info.  

"You were adopted at age four."  

Angela stands, moving with a fluid grace to stand in front of her desk. Her reply is sharp, firm.

 "That's a matter of public record."

Again, Amanda senses a line being drawn—the power shift suddenly tangible. Her heart beats faster as she waits for what comes next, her notebook clutched tightly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't..." Amanda falters, her words losing themselves under Angela's piercing gaze. The other woman straightens her tie and leans back against the desk again. Her eyes never leave Amanda's. 

"Do you have an actual question, Miss Lehan?"  

Her directness surprises Amanda—but it's a reminder to stay focused. She nods, gathering herself. 

"Yes, sorry." Her eyes flick back to the page. Before she can process what she reads, however, she asks, “Are you gay?”

Before she can stop herself, the question tumbles out:  

“Are you gay?”  

The moment it lands, Amanda’s eyes fly wide—she might as well have dropped a bomb in the quiet room.  

Angela doesn’t flinch. Her eyebrows lift slowly, dark and expressive, before a smirk curls at one corner of her lips—smug, amused… intrigued?  

Amanda jerks her gaze back to the notebook like it betrayed her. Heat floods her neck and ears as she fidgets in the unforgiving chair—her pulse hammering louder than ever beneath skin suddenly too tight. The room goes eerily quiet except for the thumping of Amanda's heart, loud as a drum in her ears. She fumbles to recover, explaining timidly,

"It's... written here."  

But Angela's reply cuts her off—simple, straightforward—a confirmation that pierces through the tension.

"Yes, Amanda. I am gay."

Those words. Spoken with such a matter-of-factness that's more powerful than shouting. Angela studies Amanda like a predator, making her skin burn and prickle. Amanda swallows, feeling her pulse in the hollow of her throat.

"I apologize, Miss Giarratana. Courtney can be—"  

Angela finishes for her, arching a perfectly manicured brow with a hint of teasing.

"Intrusive?"

Amanda shifts uncomfortably. The pen tip between her teeth bears the brunt, a nervous reaction. She offers a slight shrug. 

"Curious?”

When Amanda lifts her gaze, the air shifts.

Angela’s eyes have darkened—locked not on her face, but on the pen resting between those bitten lips. The moment stretches, charged and silent. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, Angela taps her fingers once against the desk behind her—light as raindrops. Then she grips its edge firmly. Her stare glides downward—slow, deliberate: tracing Amanda’s soft chin, drifting down the column of her neck… lingering lower where fabric pulls taut across warm curves visible from this angle. She holds there—one breath too long—for Amanda to feel it before lifting her gaze back up. Their eyes meet again. Not innocent this time. Not professional. Not even close. Angela leans forward, voice calm but layered with quiet intensity.  

  "What about you?"  

  Amanda blinks, startled—not just by the question, but by Angela’s sudden shift in space. The woman stands fluidly and takes the seat beside her, not across from her—close enough that Amanda catches the faint warmth radiating from her skin, the subtle shift of fabric as she rests her elbows on her knees, turning to face her fully. Their heights are now more level.

“Why don’t you ask me something you want to know?” Angela continues—low, inviting, almost dangerous.

Their eyes stay locked, neither backing down—a charged stare. Then softly, in the heavy silence hanging between them, Amanda speaks,

"Earlier, you said that there are some people who know you well. Why do I get the feeling that's not true?"  

Angela doesn't reply, but something shifts in her. It's subtle—a stiffening of her shoulders, a tightening in her eyes, a shift of her lips—almost imperceptible if Amanda hadn't been drinking in every little detail. 

The earlier secretary enters, smiling politely.

“Miss Giarratana, your next meeting is in the conference room.”

Her words barely finish before Angela cuts her off.

“Cancel it, please. We're not finished here."

Amanda's eyebrows fly up at the unexpected change. The secretary nods and exits as quickly as she'd entered, leaving Amanda alone with Angela again. A sharp spike of heat shoots up her neck and blossoms across her skin—a mix of surprise and flustered embarrassment. Amanda stutters, her heart pounding against her ribcage.  

"No, I—uh, I can—" 

Angela speaks before she can finish, though, and in a tone that brooks no argument.

"I'd like to know more about you."  

Amanda blinks, caught off guard, and fumbles for a response.

"There's really not much to know about me."

Angela chuckles, a sound that sends a strange flutter through Amanda's stomach. The woman leans back in her seat, eyes still fixed on her.

"Journalism and English major?" she muses. "Which of the classic writers made you fall in love with literature? Charlotte Brontë, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy?"

Amanda smiles, pushing her bangs away from her face as she settles more comfortably.  

"Dickinson, actually."

Angela’s brows furrow slightly, her head tilting like a predator recalculating its prey.  

“I would’ve guessed Jane Austen.”  

Amanda’s lips curl into a slow, victorious grin—one she can’t quite suppress. There’s something electric in catching Angela off guard, in shifting the balance, if only for a second.  

She likes it.

Too much. 

Angela asks, seemingly out of nowhere, "What are your plans after you graduate?"

Amanda sighs, admitting with a note of weary resignation, "Just trying to get through finals right now. I know a lot of us are."

"And then?" Angela pushes.  

Amanda shifts in her seat, her expression thoughtful. 

"Then I was planning on moving here. To New York City. With Courtney, my roommate."

Angela offers, a touch eager, "We have an excellent internship program."  

Amanda blushes and looks away, her cheeks rosy against her tanned skin. She glances back at the suited woman before replying with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I don't think I'd fit in here."

Her eyes dart down to her wrinkled skirt and worn tights, then flutter back up. "I mean... just look at me."

A moment of silence stretches between them - electric, loaded.  

Then Angela responds, her voice low, her gaze burning into Amanda's.

"I am."

Two words. And they struck Amanda, igniting sparks that crackle in her skin, making her breath suddenly heavy. She stares back at this woman—this beautiful, powerful, enigmatic woman—and for a moment, every thought in her head vanishes like fog in sunlight. 

The cold, hard rain is almost a relief after the charged air inside the building. Water soaks through Amanda's sweater, plastering her clothes to her skin as she hurries to her car.

"Jesus," she whispers—to herself or the sky, she's not even sure.  

The interview replays in her mind, its intensity still making her pulse flutter. It was like standing too close to fire. She could feel the heat and the danger without even touching. And it excited her more than she cared to admit. 

The moment Amanda steps inside, Courtney glances up—color back in her cheeks, eyes bright and focused. She’s sitting at their small dining table, laptop open, fingers tapping lightly on the keys.  

  A sweet, familiar smile spreads across her face as she sees Amanda dripping in the doorway—rain-soaked and flushed—and it’s like a light switching on in the room. 

Courtney practically *radiates* excitement as Amanda takes off her rain-soaked sweater and sets it aside. Amanda plops down on the couch, letting out a loud sigh—part exhaustion, part something else she can't quite name. Courtney, of course, dives right in.

"So, what was she like?"   

Amanda groans and slumps back against the couch, her eyes closed. Amanda hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the damp hem of her sleeve as she searches for the right words.  

“Uh… she was fine.”  

Courtney turns entirely toward her, one eyebrow arched high, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  

“Fine?” She repeats, drawing the word out like it’s completely insufficient. “Just fine?”

Amanda's pulse quickens under the scrutiny, and she swallows hard, aiming for nonchalance.

"She was polite. And courteous. And very formal." The words come too quickly, and then suddenly an unscripted detail slips out: "And…clean."

Amanda cringes slightly, cursing her loose tongue. She can't help but remember the smell of Angela's cologne, subtle and expensive, still lingering in her senses… how those sharp eyes seemed to linger on her too, leaving her on edge yet wanting more. Courtney's voice breaks through her thoughts, tone filled with playful skepticism.

"‘Clean?'"   

Amanda clears her throat, her shoulders rising in a casual shrug.

"I don't know, I mean... she was smart. And intense." She pauses, and then, almost unconsciously, blurts out, "It was kind of intimidating."

  Images of Angela—her composure, her control—flit through her mind, and suddenly Amanda's eyes widen as she remembers something specific: the moment Angela had gripped the desk, the pen held between her teeth.

 Amanda glances up to see Courtney staring at her, brows raised and arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face. She huffs a laugh, shaking her head.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Courtney feigns ignorance, grin widening.  

"Like what?"

Amanda narrows her eyes, playfully suspicious. 

"Stop looking at me like that!" Amanda tosses a couch pillow at her, hitting her square in the chest. 

Amanda stands, feigning annoyance, and heads to the kitchen.  

"You know what? I’m gonna make a sandwich." She glances at Courtney. "Do you want one?"

"No thanks," Courtney answers, eyes already back on her laptop screen.

Amanda rolls her eyes—a mix of fondness and faux-frustration—as she rummages through the fridge. 

While Amanda moves around the kitchen—rummaging for sandwich ingredients—Courtney settles back into her seat, curiosity piqued. She types Angela's name into a search bar, a sly smile slowly tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The first result is a People magazine article, featuring a bold title: “The World's Most Eligible Billionaire Bachelorette.”  

Underneath the headline, a striking black-and-white photograph dominates the screen. Angela leans against a wall, wearing a classic suit and that signature stoicism. 

Courtney looks up from her laptop, a playful smirk on her face. 

"Okay, you have to admit—she's ridiculously hot."

Amanda rolls her eyes, pulling out the peanut butter and jam for her sandwich.

"I’m sure if you’re, like, attracted to that particular kind of person, then—”

Courtney cuts her off, laughing.

"The hot type of person?" 

Amanda shakes her head, a mix of exasperation and amusement in her voice.

"I asked her if she was gay," she says, reaching for a loaf of bread. "Y'know, since you marked that down. Jesus, Court. Why did you make me ask that?"

Courtney's smile widens, and she bites her lip, clearly enjoying Amanda's irritation. She tells the taller woman, shrugging and turning toward her,

"Because whenever she's in magazines or the society pages, she's never photographed with *anyone*—man or woman—who isn't family," Courtney explains, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, naturally—"  

Amanda cuts in gently, spreading peanut butter across her bread as if the motion steadies her voice.  

"Or maybe… she just wants to keep her private life private, Court."  

She says it a little too quickly—too firmly—and realizes too late that she’s defending someone who doesn’t need defending. Someone who wasn’t even there to hear it.

But deep down? She knows Courtney didn’t mean harm. Still… that flicker of protectiveness lingers. And Amanda isn’t sure why. 

Courtney raises an eyebrow, her gaze almost amused.

"And now you’re defending her?" she teases.

Amanda shakes her head, cutting her sandwich in half with a little more force than necessary.

"I’m ending this conversation," she states firmly—a little too vehemently for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Courtney holds her hands up in surrender, grinning.

"Alright, alright. My bad." 

Amanda takes a large bite of her sandwich, trying to appear bored. 

"Too bad we don't have some original photos of your hot, 'clean', 27-year-old billionaire," Courtney muses, a sly smile lighting up her face. "The camera loves her almost as much as you do."

Amanda rolls her eyes, feigning indifference—even as a hint of a blush kisses her cheeks.

Chapter Text

Amanda sits in class, trying—and failing—to focus. The professor drones on at the front of the room, but Amanda's mind is elsewhere. She keeps replaying her interview in her head, Angela's cool eyes and sharp words playing like a broken record in her mind. As class ends, Amanda slings her bag over her shoulder, lost in thought. She’s halfway to the parking lot when a familiar voice calls out behind her.

"Hey, Amanda! I’ve been looking for you.”

She turns to see Mark jogging towards her, his camera bag slung over one shoulder and a lopsided grin plastered across his face. 

"What's up?" Amanda asks casually, shifting to face him.

"Guess what?" Mark beams, eyes alight with excitement.  

"What?" she replies, a smile already tugging at her lips.  

"DEFY Media is exhibiting my photographs next month!"  

"Oh my god!" Amanda gasps—then pulls him into a tight hug without thinking. They both laugh, a kind of giddy joy that bubbles up.

"Solo show, corazón." Mark grins, his arms and shoulders practically bouncing. 

Amanda smiles, but her response hurries out before she can filter it.  

"Can we celebrate later? Because I'm really late for work."  

"Yeah, yeah, of course!" he waves away her worry, smile easy but polite. 

Amanda climbs into her car, turns the engine on, and looks to see Mark still standing there, gnawing his lip thoughtfully. 

Amanda is restocking bolts and nuts at the hardware store when her phone rings. She fishes it out of her apron pocket, and her face brightens when she sees her mom's number.  

"Mom, I'm at work," she says, a note of guilt already in her voice. "Can I call you later?"  

"No, wait, wait, wait," her mom, Cynthia, replies urgently. "I called for a reason. Rob broke his foot playing golf, of all things."

"Oh, God," Amanda breathes, her brows tightening with concern. "Is he okay? Is he in a lot of pain?"

Cynthia lets out a dry, knowing chuckle.  

"Who can tell with that man? He calls the paramedics for a *blister.* But apparently this is bad enough that they’ve put him in a cast and told him no walking for weeks." She sighs. "Which means... we won’t be able to make it to graduation."

Amanda freezes. The hardware store fades around her—the hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of metal and wood polish, the distant clang of tools—all muffled as if she’s underwater.

"Really?" Her voice comes out softer than she intended. She presses her fingers to her temple and closes her eyes briefly before whispering,

"You don’t want to come at all? You could come alone. You don’t have to bring Rob."

Even as she says it, she knows how desperate it sounds—how much she’s pleading beneath the calm tone.

"And leave Tiger Woods to fend for himself?" Cynthia teases, her voice light but edged with that familiar practicality. "You do understand, don’t you, baby?"

Amanda exhales sharply through her nose—half laugh, half surrender. The disappointment coils deep in her chest, heavy and warm behind her ribs.

"Yeah," she murmurs. Her thumb picks at the dry skin near the nailbed of her pointer finger—a nervous habit she’s had since childhood. "Yeah… It’s fine, Mami."  She swallows hard again and forces a brightness into her tone that doesn't reach her eyes. "I really gotta go. Okay?"

There’s a pause on the other end—brief but knowing.

"I love you, Amanda," Cynthia says softly—earnestly—the way only a mother can when she senses what isn’t being said. Amanda closes her eyes.

"I know." A whisper this time. "I love you too." And then silence as she lowers the phone from ear to screen—but not before staring at it for one breath too long.

Amanda lets out a scoff, more a gust of air through her flared nostrils, and the corners of her mouth pull back in a grimace. Her mom always finds a way to miss the big moments for her—and this is one of those moments. The weight of disappointment presses heavy on her heart. Her coworker's voice cuts through her thoughts like a sharp knife.  

"Amanda? Can you give me a hand out back?"

She glances up, meets his polite smile.

"Uh, yeah," she agrees, mustering a nod. "I'll be right there."

Amanda is sliding a box of screws back onto the shelf when a voice—smooth, low, unmistakable—snags her attention.

"Hello?"

She startles, nearly dropping the inventory list in her hand. Her head snaps up.

And there she is.

Angela Giarratana stands just a few feet away, bathed in the soft overhead light of the hardware store. The polished executive from yesterday is gone—replaced by someone effortlessly cool: a fitted long-sleeved black tee tucked into slim black jeans that hug every line of her frame. Her dark hair spills loose over her shoulders like ink down marble, and those sharp eyes—so controlled before—are now edged with amusement.

And that smirk. That damn knowing smirk curls at one corner of Angela’s lips—the kind that makes Amanda's stomach flip-flop like it’s betraying its owner entirely.

"I thought that was you," Angela observes, taking a few steps forward—each click of her heels like a bullet through the quiet store. She comes to a stop close enough that Amanda could reach out and touch her.  

"What a pleasant surprise, Miss Lehan."

Amanda wills her heart to stop stuttering in her chest, feeling like a moth pinned under a spotlight. She coughs softly, clearing her throat. 

"Um… It's just Amanda," she stammers, fingers fidgeting at the edge of her apron. "You can call me Amanda. What—uh…" She swallows hard. "Why are you here?"

Angela tilts her head, one eyebrow lifting in that slow, knowing way—the kind that says I know everything. Her dark eyes flicker over Amanda’s flushed face and trembling hands.

"I was in the area for business," she says smoothly. "Needed to pick up a few things." A beat. Then:  

"Are you busy?"

"No—yeah! I mean—I'm not busy." Amanda winces internally at her own slip but forces a nod, voice dropping into something like composure.  

"What do you need?"  

She asks it too quickly—but Angela doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she looks pleased.

Angela's tone is casual, unhurried, but the gleam in her dark eyes seems to say something else entirely. She's amused.  

"Do you stock cable ties?"

Amanda swallows, suddenly aware of the sweat starting to collect at the back of her neck.

"Yes, we do," she affirms quickly.

"Okay," Angela smiles. "Please lead the way, Miss Lehan."

Amanda rolls her eyes, a nervous habit.  

"Just Amanda," she corrects for the second time.  

Amanda leads the other woman to where the cable ties are, prompting Angela to grab a bag off a hook swiftly. 

"Anything else?" Amanda blurts out, her heartbeat loud in her ears.  

"Masking tape," Angela answers smoothly.

Amanda blinks, a thousand thoughts racing through her head, each wilder than the last.  

"Are you redecorating?" she blurts out, stepping away from the shelves of cable ties to grab a roll off a shelf.  

Angela stays silent. But when Amanda turns to look at her—holding up the roll of beige grey tape like an offering—she catches the way one corner of the shorter woman’s mouth quirks in a sly grin. 

"No." 

Amanda gestures at the wall of options before her, her hand trembling ever so slightly.  

"We have one inch and two inches," she breathes.  

 Angela meets her eyes with an intensity that seems electric, hand outstretched. "I'll take both."

Amanda's gaze darts to Angela’s hand—strong, elegant, fingers poised with quiet confidence. She swallows hard, pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.  

Reaching for the tape, she grabs both rolls—one a little too fast—and their fingers brush. Just a whisper of contact. But it’s enough.

A shiver races down her spine like a live wire has been lit beneath her skin. She forces herself not to pull back—to not react—but her breath hitches all the same.  

"Here you go," she murmurs, handing them over with a voice suddenly too soft for the moment. 

"Good," Angela replies, voice low. "Now—rope."  

Amanda’s brows knit together slightly—this inventory run feels less like a coincidence with every request—but she nods and leads the way to the back aisle, where coiled ropes hang in neat loops along the wall.  

Without a word, she reaches for a thick length of braided nylon and expertly unspools it with smooth, practiced motions. She winds it clockwise around her forearm and elbow—one turn after another—the muscle in her arm flexing subtly beneath sun-kissed skin.  

And all the while, Angela watches.

Her dark eyes trace every movement—the curve of Amanda's wrist, the tension in her forearm, the quiet confidence in her hands—as if memorizing each detail like poetry worth learning by heart.

"Impressive. Were you a Girl Scout?" Angela muses.  

Amanda smiles faintly, unwinding the coil from her arm as she answers, 

"No. Organized group activities aren't really my thing."  

Angela arches an eyebrow. "So then what *is* your thing?"  

Amanda blushes a bit, biting her inner cheek before replying, "Uh... Books? I guess?"

Amanda hands the rope to Angela and gives her a sheepish smile.

"Rope, tape, cable ties. You're the complete serial killer," Amanda teases, her hands working the rope as easily as breathing.  

A smirk tugs at Angela's lip, and she rolls her eyes with dry humor, replying, "Not today."  

"Anything else you need?" Amanda asks, rolling her eyes playfully—though her voice wavers just a touch.  

Angela tilts her head, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smirk again.  

"What would you recommend?"  

"For a 'DIY' project?" Amanda laughs nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Uh... maybe coveralls? So you don't ruin your clothes."  

Angela steps slightly closer—just enough to make the air between them feel charged—and holds Amanda's gaze like she’s daring her to look away.

"I could just take all my clothes off," she says smoothly.

No inflection. No blush. Just quiet confidence—delivered like it’s the most logical solution in the world.

Amanda’s heart races as she realizes how close they are—close enough that she can make out the pale freckles dotting the other brunette's cheeks like a summer night sky.  

She's frozen in place, her eyes locked with Angela's—dark, unflinching, and far more intense than Amanda could've ever anticipated.  

Her mouth opens to say something—to object, or agree, or gasp in shock—but she can't find her voice. Instead, her gaze flickers away as heat floods her cheeks and spills down her neck as every nerve in her body suddenly stands at attention.

"Okay, sure, no clothes," Amanda blurts out—then immediately winces.  

She stammers into a correction, voice cracking slightly: "I mean—no coveralls. You... I think that's it."  

Her breath comes shallow and uneven, like the air itself has thickened around them. She feels unbalanced—even though she’s standing still—even though Angela is barely five feet from her and several inches shorter.

It’s not height that makes her feel small. It’s the way those dark eyes hold hers like a secret promise. Like they’re seeing exactly who she is—and liking what they find.

"Well, I guess that’s it then," Angela says—voice smooth, unhurried—with that same maddening smirk still playing on her lips.  

Amanda nods stiffly, gesturing toward the front of the store like she needs to put distance between them before she forgets how to speak entirely. She leads Angela to the register, her movements a little too quick—too deliberate—as if speed could outpace the heat humming under her skin.

Fingers trembling slightly, she scans each item: cable ties, tape, rope—the ordinary things now loaded with unspoken tension. The scanner's beep sounds unnaturally loud in the silence between them. As Amanda slips the last item into the paper bag, she forces a casual smile—voice soft, almost shy.

"Thank you… for answering all my questions yesterday. Courtney was thrilled. Like, seriously obsessed."  

Angela tilts her head slightly, a flicker of genuine concern in her eyes.  

"I hope she's feeling better."  

"She is," Amanda says quickly—"Yeah. A lot better." She hesitates before adding with a small laugh: "She’s just having… trouble getting one of your photos out of her head."  

A slow, knowing smirk returns to Angela’s lips.

"If she wants an original,"—she pauses, locking eyes with Amanda—"I'm around tomorrow."

The words hang in the air—not quite flirtation, not quite innocent. And suddenly it doesn’t feel like they’re talking about photography anymore. 

Amanda blinks, caught off guard.  

"You'd really be willing to do that?" she asks, voice tinged with disbelief—like she's trying to catch the meaning beneath the words. Angela smiles—soft, composed, utterly in control.  

"Yeah."   

Amanda pauses, fingers still toying with the bag of goods, before she hears her coworker Preston come up behind her.  

"You okay?" he asks, genuine concern in his eyes. "Want me to bag for you, Amanda?"  

Amanda startles, cheeks warm with embarrassment.  

"Um..." she glances at Angela, who's watching them both with a neutral gaze. "No, I'm good. Thank you, though, Press." She gives him a small smile, hoping he'll understand. 

Angela’s eyes narrow—just slightly—as Preston steps closer, her gaze slicing past Amanda with an appraising intensity that borders on possessive. There’s no smile. No softness. Just the quiet, unmistakable weight of territory being marked.

Preston freezes mid-gesture—his hand still hovering near the register—and gives an awkward nod, sensing the shift in air like a storm rolling in under silence. Without another word, he backs away, disappearing down the aisle with a little too much haste.

The moment he’s gone, Angela turns back to Amanda. Their eyes lock, and something unspoken crackles between them—a current low and electric beneath the fluorescent hum of the store.

Amanda exhales shakily as she finishes placing the last item into the bag—the rope coiled at the bottom like a secret promise—but before she can speak or move or breathe again properly,

Angela slides something across the counter.

A business card. Sleek black finish. Silver lettering: Angela Giarratana. And beneath it, an elegant script font reads: Private Collection & Consultations.

Her fingertip rests beside it as she tilts her head just so—confident, inviting without saying it outright—and says softly:

“I’m staying locally at The Heathman." A beat. Her voice drops an octave—"Call me anytime before 10 PM—if you’re serious about those photos.”

The bell above the door gives a soft, metallic jingle as Angela steps out, and a sudden rush of crisp wind sweeps into the store, ruffling Amanda’s hair and snapping her back to reality.  

She exhales—deeply—her shoulders dropping as if she'd been holding up something heavy without realizing it. Her fingers linger at her back pocket where she'd slipped Angela's card, now pressed between her phone and denim like a secret too hot to touch.

Outside, under the amber glow of the streetlight, Angela hands off the paper bag to a man in an impeccably tailored suit—security or assistant or both. Without speaking, he opens the rear door of a sleek, light grey sedan parked flush with the curb: no emblem on its chrome grille but radiating money in every unblemished line.

Angela slides into the passenger seat with effortless grace—and, for just one breath before closing the door, the sharp composure cracks.

She leans back against leather upholstery still warm from earlier sunfall and runs long fingers through her dark waves: not polished this time—a wilder motion—like she’s untangling more than just strands. A flicker of exhaustion crosses her face… then vanishes behind the mirrored tint as windows rise like silence descending.  

The guard slips into the driver’s seat without so much as glancing around—he knows better—and within seconds they pull away from view.

Leaving only pavement… quiet…  And Amanda standing frozen by the glass that still holds traces of warmth from being near her.

Chapter Text

"Thank you so much again for doing this, Miss Giarratana," Courtney says, practically buzzing as she beams beside Amanda. 

Angela turns to her—face composed, almost unreadable—but something flickers in her dark eyes: patience? Amusement? Power?  

"I'm happy to help," she replies, voice smooth and low.  

Angela stands perfectly poised in front of the seamless grey backdrop, sunlight from the nearby window catching the sharp line of her jaw. Her suit—impeccably tailored from slate-gray wool—fits like it was poured onto her frame: structured shoulders, a narrow waist accentuated by a slim lapel, and sleeves ending precisely at the base of her wrists. Arms at her sides. Fingers relaxed but deliberate.

Every detail speaks of control. Every breath measured. Like she’s not just posing for photos—but asserting presence into the room itself. 

Mark, camera in hand and ready to capture every second, calls out a friendly suggestion to his subject, taking a break before snapping another shot.

"How about we try a few with a smile?" 

Angela remains still, face schooled into a mask of calm composure. There's a beat of awkward silence as Mark squirms uncomfortably, unsure of how to take her stoic expression. He clears his throat, muttering something about lighting under his breath before continuing. Angela's gaze flits back to Amanda, dark eyes holding steady with an almost imperceptible intensity. Across the room, Courtney leans in to whisper in Amanda's ear, a conspiratorial grin on her face.

"You realize she hasn't stopped looking at you?"

Instantly, heat floods Amanda's cheeks, and she looks down at her hands—a nervous tell—trying to hide the effect Angela's gaze has on her.

"She actually… she asked me to go out for coffee afterward," Amanda murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud might make it disappear.

Courtney’s eyes widen—brows leaping toward her hairline—and in one swift motion, she jabs Amanda’s arm with a playful, incredulous punch.

"What??" Courtney nearly squeals, voice jumping an octave in giddy disbelief.

"Court, shh," Amanda hisses through a nervous smile, her eyes darting toward Angela—only to find the other woman already watching her. Not looking. Staring.

A silent thread pulls taut between them—charged and quiet—while the camera shutter clicks softly in the background like a heartbeat keeping time. 

As promised, Angela and Amanda step out of the hotel together after the shoot—side by side beneath a sky painted in soft twilight hues. The air is cool, laced with the faint scent of rain-washed pavement and distant city life.

"So," Angela begins, voice smooth and composed as she adjusts her coat sleeve, "is he your boyfriend?"  

"Who?" Amanda asks, glancing over with furrowed brows.  

"The photographer." Angela tilts her head slightly—just enough—and raises one eyebrow like a challenge wrapped in silk.

A soft laugh escapes Amanda before she can stop it.  

"Mark? No." She shakes her head, eyes sparkling with amusement. "God, no."  

Angela shifts slightly, undoes a button at her neck—loosening the crisp collar of her shirt.

"I saw the way he was smiling at you," she remarks casually, eyes never leaving Amanda's face.

Amanda scoffs playfully, a slight smirk curving her lips.  

"No," she insists, shaking her head—dark hair bouncing with the motion— "Mark isn't my boyfriend. He's more like family, to be honest."

"And the guy at the store?" Angela asks—tone cool, measured.  

"Preston?" Amanda laughs, a breathy, incredulous sound. "No. Definitely not."  

Angela doesn’t smile, but something shifts in her gaze—a subtle softening behind those dark eyes as they lock onto Amanda’s beneath the golden spill of a streetlamp. The silence between them stretches, warm and close despite the cooling evening air.

She gives a slow nod—like she’s filed that answer away for later—and together they turn the corner onto a quieter block lined with café lights and ivy-wrapped lampposts. 

Amanda wraps her hands around the warm cup of coffee, trying to keep them from shaking—from fidgeting—as she steals glances at the woman across from her. Angela is still in her neat, tailored suit—dark fabric molding to her frame like a second skin—and Amanda can't help feeling underdressed in her wool sweater, jeans, and that hand-knitted scarf from her mother. Her fingers fiddle with the frayed hem at the edge, feeling the wool as soft as her own nerves. She takes a sip of her latte, and the warmth chases away some of the shivers in her chest. The café is alive around them—the buzz of quiet chatter, the hum of machines, the clink of silverware against porcelain—but all Amanda can think about is the woman sitting across the table. The woman whose gaze is still fixed on her like a hawk on its prey.  

She tries to stop her anxious habit of picking at her fingers, but Angela catches her all the same—eyes narrowing slightly in silent observation.

"You seem nervous," Angela says—calm, direct, no trace of judgment.

Amanda swallows, then gives a small, sheepish smile. "I find you intimidating."

Angela doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just leans back slightly in her chair, the corner of her mouth lifting like smoke curling from a match.

"You should," she replies simply—and unwraps her muffin with deliberate grace: the crinkle of paper peeling away, revealing golden crumb and faint cinnamon scent rising between them like a quiet challenge.

Angela lays a muffin on the plate in front of Amanda, the pastry catching the ambient light from the nearby lamp like a miniature Sun. Amanda's stomach does a slow backflip, but she swallows her nerves back down, forcing her hands to grip the table instead of giving in to their trembling.

"Eat," Angela instructs softly, nodding at the muffin.

"Not to mention," Amanda says, arching a teasing eyebrow, "I also find you incredibly high-handed."  

Angela’s lips twitch—then slowly spread into a fuller, unapologetic smile.  

"I’m used to getting my own way."  

Amanda lets out a soft chuckle, her nerves giving way just slightly to boldness. 

"That must get very boring."  

The words hang between them—playful but charged—like she’s just challenged the queen on her throne. And Angela watches Amanda with dark, glittering eyes… as if she finds the rebellion delicious.

A beat.

"Tell me about your family," Angela orders, voice as calm and commanding as ever.

Amanda gives a small, nervous, soft laugh.

"Uh, okay," she clears her throat slightly. "My dad passed away when I was a baby. So I was raised by my stepfather, Rob. He's amazing." 

A subtle shift flickers across Angela’s face—just a softening at the corners of her eyes, like distant light breaking through storm clouds.  

“And your mother?” she asks, voice lower now, less sharp.  

Amanda exhales a quiet laugh—half-amused, half-resigned.  

"Uh… my mom’s on husband number four," she says with a wry smile. "She’s an incurable romantic."  

Angela doesn’t laugh. Her gaze narrows just slightly—not in judgment, but as if filing it away with quiet intensity. 

“Are you?”  

“Am I romantic?” Amanda clarifies softly, caught off guard by the weight behind such a simple word. Angela nods once—unhurried—and waits.

Amanda traces the rim of her coffee cup for courage before answering with gentle defiance,

“Well… I study English literature.” A pause—a lopsided smile forming—"So I kind of have to be."  

Angela's smile flickers—vanishes for the briefest moment—before being replaced by another that sits cooler, quieter, one that doesn’t quite warm her eyes.  

A shift slips between them, subtle but sharp—an undercurrent of thought churning beneath Angela’s stillness. Amanda can feel it—the way her gaze grows distant yet focused all at once, like she’s turning some unspoken decision over and over in her mind, testing its weight.

But Amanda refuses to let the silence win. She straightens in her seat, breath steadying. No more nerves. No more shrinking. She leans forward just slightly—into the tension—and decides to push through it anyway.

"I thought the photoshoot went well, right? Courtney seems happy—"  

"I'm sorry. I can't... uh," Angela cuts in, her voice tight, the calm mask slipping back into place—too fast. The warmth from moments ago evaporates like breath in cold air.  

Amanda frowns, her stomach dipping. "What?" she asks, voice smaller now—bewildered by the sudden shift.  

Without answering, Angela rises smoothly to her feet, suit jacket falling perfectly into place as if armor just clicked back on.

"I'll walk you out."  

No explanation. No apology. Just that quiet command—and a space between them that suddenly feels too wide to cross.

Amanda’s heart plummets—like it did earlier at the store—but this time the knot in her throat is heavier, tighter. Her palms grow slick against the paper cup as she scrambles to make sense of what just went wrong. She scoffs under her breath—soft, disbelieving—more at herself than Angela. Of course.

With a final, bitter sip of cooling coffee, she sets it down and rises from her seat. The muffin remains untouched on the plate: crumb golden, edges glistening with melted butter… abandoned like a promise never kept. As they step out of the café into the dusky evening, the city humming around them, Amanda walks beside Angela with her arms wrapped lightly around herself—more for composure than warmth. The silence stretches too long, too thick. She can’t stop herself.

"Do you have a girlfriend or something?" she blurts out, voice tight with nerves. "Is that... it?"

Angela doesn't look at her. Her jaw remains still, controlled.  

"I don’t really do the girlfriend thing," she replies—firmly, flatly—as if stating a law of nature.

Amanda frowns, frustration edging in.  

"What does that even mean—"  

Before she can finish,

"Watch it!" Angela snaps—sharp and sudden.

In one fluid motion, she grabs Amanda by the arm and yanks her back as a cyclist rockets past on the sidewalk—a blur of black helmet and spinning wheels—missing them by inches.

Amanda stumbles slightly against Angela’s grip; heart lurching—not just from near-collision—but from how close they are now: breath uneven, bodies almost pressed together beneath flickering streetlight—and Angela’s hand still locked firmly around her forearm like she has no intention of letting go.

Angela’s grip is firm—almost bruising—as she pulls Amanda away from the oncoming cyclist. They’re face to face now—so close the city around them seems to fade into white noise.

Amanda draws in a shaky breath—her heart still racing from the near collision—but finds herself staring at the intensity of Angela’s face instead. She traces the sharp planes of the other woman's features—how her nose slopes, the way her lips purse as she furrows her brow—then meets her gaze: dark, steady, focused.

Slowly, Angela raises her hand, brushing a thumb softly over Amanda’s cheek—a touch tender amidst the tension between them. Amanda finds herself leaning unconsciously into the contact, her breath catching in her chest as tingles rush down her spine. They stand in silence for a long, heavy beat, gazes fixed on each other. Angela’s eyes shift from Amanda’s eyes to her lips—just briefly—then back again. A barely-there pause. A tiny, quiet moment of anticipation.

"I'm not the right woman for you," Angela murmurs, gaze steady and intense. "You should steer clear of me." The words, though quiet, carry a weight of conviction.

Amanda watches her—eyes searching, desperate to get a read on what hides beneath the surface. She can sense *something* churning in Angela—an invisible battle—but can't for the life of her figure out what. 

"I have to let you go," Angela says—voice low, certain, final.  

The words don't just land—they wreck. A cold wave crashes through Amanda’s chest, the knot in her throat tightening like a fist. Her breath hitches silently as tears gather at the corners of her eyes—bright and unshed—but she refuses to blink them away fast enough to hide them.  

She stares at Angela, searching for cracks in that perfect composure, hoping for one sign that this isn’t really goodbye.

But Angela doesn’t waver. Just holds her ground, letting silence say what words never could. 

"Goodbye, Miss Giarratana," Amanda chokes out—voice fractured, barely above a whisper.

She pulls herself from Angela’s grasp like tearing free from something deep-rooted, her chest heaving with the effort of holding it together. Without another glance, she turns and rushes toward the hotel parking lot—boots striking pavement too fast, too hard.

The wind bites back at her—a sharp, stinging slap against wet skin—as tears break free and race down her cheeks. Each gust carries them sideways, turning them cold before they can fall.   

As the final bell rings, signaling the end of school year exams, a collective sigh of relief washes over the room. Students begin packing their things—books, papers, pencils, and pens. Courtney wastes no time hurrying to her best friend's side, a determined expression etched across her face. Amanda is picking absently at her nails, eyes downcast and expression distant. 

"Hey, are you good?" Courtney asks, concern lacing her voice.  

Amanda looks up, offering a small, forced smile. 

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

Courtney rolls her eyes, grinning. "Oh, we're definitely partying tonight," she declares confidently. Amanda chuckles in reply,

"Oh, my god."

Later that night, the bathroom glows with warm, golden light from the vanity as steam still curls through the air from an earlier shower. The scent of vanilla body wash lingers beneath sharper notes of hairspray and perfume.

Courtney kneels behind Amanda on a plush bath mat, one hand steadying her friend’s chin while the other glides a velvet-red lipstick across her lips with expert precision. The color is rich, deep, and opulent like crushed berries under moonlight.

“This is way too much,” Amanda mumbles around stiffened lips, laughing at her reflection. “I look like I’m about to seduce a mob boss.”

“No,” Courtney corrects, leaning back to admire her work with an artist’s pride. “You look exactly how you should—like someone who’s not disappearing into their sweater tonight.” She grins widely. “This? This is perfection.”

“You’re getting it all over my face, I swear,” Amanda mutters playfully as she wipes at smudged liner near her temple.

“Yeah? That’s called makeup, genius,” Courtney teases—snapping the cap onto the lipstick like it's proof of victory. 

Amanda studies her reflection—really looks—and for a moment, she doesn’t recognize herself.

Amanda’s dark curls spill over her shoulders in soft, gleaming waves, catching the light like ribbons of midnight silk. Her eyes, usually wide with quiet observation, are now smoldering pools framed in sleek charcoal liner and dusted with shimmering copper shadow that glints when she blinks—subtle fire beneath composed brows. Rosy blush warms the apples of Amanda’s cheeks, not from makeup alone but from the nervous heat building under her skin.

And her lips—painted blood-red and impossibly soft-looking—are almost distracting even to herself. The taller woman catches a tiny smudge near the corner of her upper lip and swipes at it gently with her thumb.

The girl in the mirror looks bolder. Brighter. Like someone who says yes when things get dangerous.

As the doorbell rings through the apartment, Amanda runs her hands over her clothes—a simple blue top and sleek skinny jeans—nervously fussing with the cuffs, the hem, anything to distract her racing thoughts. Behind her, Courtney rolls her eyes in playful exasperation and leaves to answer the door. 

“‘Manda! It’s a package for you!” Courtney calls, her voice singsong with curiosity.

Amanda steps out of the bathroom, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, brows drawn in confusion. Courtney stands by the door holding a slender box—elegant, wrapped in charcoal-gray paper tied with a black satin ribbon. In her other hand, a small ivory card flutters as she hands it to the taller woman. Courtney reads aloud, slow and dramatic, 

“‘Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation…’”

Amanda’s breath hitches—just slightly—as recognition flickers in her chest like a match struck in the dark.

“…And the exponent of breath,” she finishes softly—the rest of Emily Dickinson’s poem falling from her lips like something sacred.

The room stills. Even Courtney turns slowly toward her roommate—with wide eyes and knowing grin—and lets out an exaggerated gasp that breaks nothing because Amanda is already staring at the package like it’s breathing.

It has no return address. But she knows.

Amanda carefully lifts the box onto the coffee table, her fingers trembling slightly as she peels back the gray paper to reveal a deep black leather case. She unlatches it slowly—like opening something hallowed—and inside lie three exquisitely bound volumes, their spines gleaming under the soft apartment light with gold-embossed lettering: Emily Dickinson’s Collected Poems.

A ribbon of burnished gold wraps around them like an embrace, tied in a perfect bow at one end—the kind of detail that feels deliberate, intimate.

She runs her fingertips over the cool leather and raised script—so smooth it almost hums beneath her skin—and lets out a breathless “Oh my god,” more prayer than surprise.

The scent rises too—old paper and fine binding glue, maybe even traces of Angela’s perfume: sandalwood and faint jasmine? Her pulse kicks.

“These… have to be from Angela,” she whispers—more statement than question—as if no one else in this world would send poetry with such quiet intention.

Amanda undoes the silk ribbon and gently lifts a book from the case. Her fingers trace the edges of the pages—so thin, almost fragile—the faint scent of aged paper wafting past, mingling with the room's quiet excitement.

"I mean… what," she starts, words tripping over each other, "I mean, what? These are incredible."

Courtney leans against the coffee table, eyebrows quirked.  

"Wow, Giarratana," she whistles softly. 

Amanda gently lays the books back in the case—careful to keep the bow intact, like it was some delicate part of a ritual. She shakes her head, stomach twisting as she glances at the coffee table, then back up at the books.

“Oh my god, these are like… historical, Court. I can’t accept these… This is too much. I have to send them back.”

Before she can overthink any further—or make any more excuses—a horn honks outside, breaking the tension like a pebble tossed in a pool. Courtney smiles—bright and unwavering—and pushes herself off the coffee table.

"That's the cab," she chirps, practically skipping to the front door.

Amanda looks between the case of books and her smiling best friend before nodding—too hard, too fast.  

"Uh, yeah. Yes. Okay. Let's go." 

Without looking back, she follows Courtney out the door and into the waiting cab. Her heart hammers against her ribs the entire way.

Music pounds the air like a heartbeat, pulsing from the dance floor to the bar as club-goers sway beneath neon lasers. People lean against the bar, drinking, or dance in the middle with drinks clutched in their hands; the air thick with sweat and the clink of glasses. 

Amanda and her friends—Courtney, Mark, Arasha, and Trevor—crowd around a small table near the bar. The group tosses back shots, the burn of liquor coating their tongues. They're buzzing—two shots in and already riding high on a pleasant haze. As Amanda pushes away from the table, her bladder presses for attention, demanding a pit stop at the ladies' room. The music and laughter become a blur as she leans over to Courtney, their foreheads nearly touching. "I have to pee!" she exclaims, the thudding in her head mirroring the thumping bass line.

Courtney shoots her a concerned look before shouting, 

"Okay! Just be careful!"

Mark slides in closer, breath hot with the stench of alcohol and cheap shots,

"Hey, where are you going?"

Amanda shrugs him off with a wave. "Bathroom," she mutters, rising from the table with difficulty.

Mark nods—his smile flickering for just a split second, like a light dimming under static—before he turns back to the group.

Amanda weaves through the pulsing crowd, heels clicking against sticky tile, her skin still buzzing from the shots and the heat of too many bodies. The bathroom line snakes out from behind a velvet rope—impatient sighs, laughter, clinking bracelets—and she joins it with a quiet groan.

As she waits, shifting her weight from foot to foot (her bladder screaming louder by the minute), her thoughts drift back to those leather-bound books resting on her coffee table… so carefully chosen. So personal.

And then—the memory surfaces like something sharp rising through water: Angela’s voice low but firm in that quiet moment on the sidewalk.

“I have to let you go.”

Her chest tightens. That look in Angela’s eyes—not unkind, but so full of restraint it hurt.

She shivers despite the club’s heat and pulls her arms around herself. How could someone feel so close one second… and untouchable the next?

Amanda shakes off her thoughts with a quiet huff, refusing to let herself dwell on the ache of being *almost* but *not quite*. Instead, she pulls her phone from her pocket and dials a number, biting back a nervous laugh as the line rings.

After two rings, Angela picks up—her voice low and cool.

"Amanda?"

“Yeah, it’s me!” Amanda blurts into the phone, her voice warm and slightly slurred from the shots. “Just calling to let you know—I’m sending back those fancy books. I already have copies,” she adds with a shaky breath, leaning against the wall for balance.  

“Thanks… for the gesture,” she says—trying to sound light, flippant—but there’s a tremor underneath that gives her away.

She rolls her eyes at herself more than anyone else—as if pretending this conversation isn’t shredding something quiet inside. 

“You’re welcome, “ Angela responds flatly. “Where are you?”

Amanda sighs,

“Oh, I’m in line ‘cause I have to piss really bad.”

“Amanda, have you been drinking?” the other woman asks firmly. The taller woman giggles, 

“Yeah. I have, ‘Mrs. Fancy Pants.’ You hit the hail—hail on the nead. Or,” she giggles again, “I mean, the head right on the nail.”

"Listen to me," Angela says—her voice low, sharp, and utterly serious in a way Amanda hasn't heard before. "I want you to go home. Now."

The command slices through the buzz of the club and Amanda’s hazy thoughts like a blade.

Something about that tone—the control in it, the sudden authority—pricks at her already frayed nerves. It doesn’t calm her. It irritates. That cool certainty, like she has any right to step back into Amanda’s life just to give orders. Amanda lets out a frustrated groan, mimicking Angela's voice with an exaggerated, low-pitched grumble.

"You're so bossy! 'Amanda, let's go for coffee. No, stay away from me, Amanda. You can't have me.' Get away. Come here, come here! Go away.'"

She mocks her own bitter imitation with a bitter laugh, the sound swallowed by the thumping music of the club. She pushes off the wall with a stumble—the liquor and frustration colliding in a dangerous mix.

Angela's voice is sharp and direct through the phone.

"Alright, that's it. Tell me where you are."

Through the buzzing of the club's music and the chatter around her, Amanda hears shuffling and keys jingling on the other end of the line.

Amanda responds, her words slightly slurred as she replies, "I'm, like, an hour away from New York. And from you."

Each word feels heavier than it should be—the alcohol and the anger mixing in her blood like a potent cocktail that she can't quite shake.

"Which bar or club? What's it called?" Angela asks, firm and insistent.

Amanda slurs out a "don't know," the alcohol making her words loose as she rocks slightly on her heels.

But before Angela can press any further, Amanda giggles and disconnects the call, leaving only the pulse of the club and the lingering taste of shots on her tongue. However, a second later, Amanda's phone lights up with Angela’s name flashing across the screen.

She can't help but tease, her voice slightly slurred, "I'm sorry, did I not make myself clear—"

But Angela cuts her off, her words like an order. "Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you."

Amanda's eyes widen, her heart suddenly pounding against her ribcage as her palms start to sweat, her tongue suddenly dry with nerves and something that feels a little like anticipation. 

"What?" Amanda asks, brow furrowed—her voice softer now, half-disbelief, half-dazed confusion.

But Angela’s already gone. The line goes dead with a quiet click, leaving only silence beneath the club’s pulsing bass.

Amanda stares at her phone screen as it fades to black. Then she scoffs—a small, shaky laugh escaping her lips—and shakes her head like she’s trying to wake up from a dream.

She hugs herself briefly, the air suddenly cooler against her skin.

"Unbelievable," she mutters under her breath—but deep down, beneath the alcohol and bravado… her heart won’t stop racing. 

An hour later, Amanda steps outside and takes a deep breath, the cool night air like a balm against her flushed skin. The buzz from the club's flashing lights and pounding music fades a little, giving way to the city's quiet hum.

Suddenly, she hears footsteps rushing up behind her, and Mark appears, a small, somewhat drunkenly affectionate smile on his face.

"Hey, here," he says softly, draping a jacket over her shoulders with surprising care. She wraps it around herself, her fingers trembling slightly as the fabric settles around her frame, before she slots her arms through the sleeves. 

"Oh, thanks," she replies, her words slightly slurred—the alcohol still playing with her coordination.

Mark takes a step closer, his breath warm and slightly reeking of beer as he asks, 

"You okay?"

She swallows, the closeness making her nauseous and dizzy as she stammers out, 

"Yeah… I, uh… I’m just a little more drunk than I meant to be."

Mark laughs softly,

“Here, come here, stay warm.”

Mark lets out a low laugh, drawing closer and wrapping his arms around her—pulling her into his personal space. Amanda's stomach lurches at the sudden closeness and the overwhelming smell of alcohol radiating off him.

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens around her arms—like iron wrapped in velvet—and he refuses to let her move away.

"It's fine," she tries to reassure him, the word slurring a little in her mouth. "I got it. Really."

Mark sighs, his expression almost wistful as he murmurs, 

"I don't know when I’ll have the courage to do this."

Amanda's mind spins in a confused haze—her head spinning from the alcohol, the bass from the club thumping through the air, and the sudden shift in Mark's gaze. She frowns, the words slurring slightly as she asks, 

"Do what?"

Mark stares intently at her, his brown eyes holding hers with an intense heat that sends a jolt of cold down her spine.

"No," Amanda whispers—more instinct than thought, her body tensing under his grip.

"I like you," Mark says softly, the words slipping out like smoke in the cool night air.  

Amanda blinks down at him, brow furrowed. 

“You… do?” 

The alcohol buzzes in her veins, slowing everything down—the way she processes his words, how fast she can think of what to say next.

His nod is slow but sure. “Very much.”

A shiver skates across Amanda’s skin—not from the cold this time. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to their clothes and mingles with spilled liquor and damp pavement as nearby smokers laugh too loudly under a flickering streetlight. But none of that feels real right now.

The only thing that does? His hands still on her arms—and the weight of something unspoken thickening between them like fog rolling in off a river nobody asked for.

"Oh my god," Amanda stutters, trying to back away, but Mark's grip is firm, pulling her against his chest.

"Please," he whispers urgently, and she feels the heat of his breath on her face as she wraps her arms around herself, trying to put distance between them.

"No," she protests, her words slurring with her panic and alcohol. "No, no, no. Mark, I don't—"

But Mark moves fast, cupping his hands around her cheeks, holding her still as he leans forward to press his mouth against hers. 

Just as Amanda's vision begins to blur, she hears quick footsteps approaching, and the next thing she knows, Mark is shoved forcefully away from her.

The sudden movement snaps her focus back into sharp relief, her pulse racing in her ears as she blinks rapidly to clear her head.

Angela stands firmly between them, her voice low and fierce as she addresses Mark,

"Dude! She said no!" 

"Angela?" Amanda breathes—just a whisper, barely audible over the sudden rush of blood in her ears.

The name feels like a lifeline, spoken in disbelief. But before she can take another step, or say another word, the world tilts violently.

Lights smear into streaks. Sounds warp and stretch. The cold air, Mark’s lingering heat, Angela’s sharp voice—it all collapses into a suffocating whirl.

And then—  

darkness.

Amanda sways for half a second before her knees give out completely...  

only to be caught just in time by strong arms rushing toward her.

Chapter Text

The next morning, pale gold sunlight seeps through the gaps in the curtains, cutting soft stripes across Amanda’s face. A single beam rests just beneath her eyelids, insistent and warm—pulling her from the thick fog of sleep.

She stirs with a low groan, eyelashes fluttering open as reality crashes back in fragments. Her head throbs—a sharp, insistent pulse behind her temples—each heartbeat sending a dull ache radiating outward like ripples in poisoned water.

Squinting against the cruel brightness of daybreak, she pushes herself up slowly on trembling arms. The room tilts slightly before settling into focus: crumpled sheets tangled at her feet, clothes from last night strewn across the floor like casualties of war.

Silence hangs heavy—but beneath it hums the echo of memories slipping back into place: The club. Mark’s hands. His voice. And then… Angela. Her breath catches mid-inhale. She was really there… wasn’t she? 

Confusion turns to surprise as Amanda looks down and sees the soft, silk sheets pooling around her waist—her surroundings slowly coming into sharper focus with each passing second.

Her eyes dart around, taking in the unfamiliar opulence: plush carpet underfoot, golden sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, furniture so pristine it looks untouched.  

The unexpected sight of a note catches her gaze, the words "For your hangover" scrawled neatly in black ink across the folded paper. Next to it, a pair of ibuprofen pills and a glass of orange juice sit like an offering on the nearby bedside table.

Amanda's brow furrows as she takes in the sight, the pounding headache and churning stomach confirming the note's message. She stares at the gesture for one long moment before reaching for the medication. She glances at the note one more time before reaching for the pills. They slip down her throat easily, followed by a gulp of cold, citrus-rich orange juice.  

With a weary sigh, Amanda sinks back against the headboard, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths.  

The pounding in her head softens, and her stomach begins to settle as she sits quietly, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in. 

Moments later, the soft click of the door unlocking jolts Amanda’s focus back into the room as Angela slips quietly into the room. She’s out of breath, her cheeks flushed from a recent run, and dressed casually in a t-shirt and running shorts—a stark contrast to Amanda’s crumpled night clothes.

Angela pauses, catching her breath as she takes in the sight of Amanda sitting up in bed, clearly surprised to see her awake.

“Good morning, Amanda,” Angela says—her voice low and warm, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. A soft smile touches her lips, not quite teasing, not quite sad—just there, honest and careful. "How are you feeling?"

She steps further into the room, toeing off her sneakers without breaking eye contact. The damp hem of her running pants clings to her calves; a thin sheen of sweat glistens at her temples. She unscrews the cap from a plastic water bottle and takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving Amanda’s face.

Amanda sinks back slightly against the headboard, arms crossed like armor across her chest. But beneath the sulk—the pout she can’t entirely help—the truth trembles in the quiet; relief…guilt…?

“Better than I deserve, probably,” she murmurs—and then stops short as heat pricks behind her eyelids.

She blinks fast. Looks up at the ceiling. At the curtains. At anything but Angela’s steady gaze. But it doesn’t matter. The tears don’t fall—but they’re there in every shaky breath between them anyway. Amanda exhales deeply, the question slipping out quietly,

"Did you put me to bed?"

Angela glances at her once more before crossing the room to sit on the couch, facing the bed. The soft couch cushion dips beneath her lean form as she scans the food laid out around the coffee table—the things Amanda hadn’t had time to notice amidst the chaos of waking up and the pounding in her head and the weight of so many unspoken words.

“Mm-hmm,” Angela hums, not looking up as she carefully spreads a thick layer of strawberry jelly onto a piece of toast—her movements calm, deliberate. The sweet scent mingles with the morning air already warmed by sunlight and lingering sleep.

Amanda stiffens slightly under the sheets, her fingers tightening at the hem. 

"You… undressed me?" Her voice drops an octave—half accusation, half breathless disbelief—as heat surges up her neck and floods her cheeks in a deep, flustered flush.

Angela finally glances over, one eyebrow arched with cool amusement. 

"I didn’t have much choice," she says lightly—"You were drenched in sweat and wearing last night’s makeup like war paint. And honestly? I wasn’t letting you sleep in those jeans.”

“Where did you sleep?” Amanda asks, her voice small—brows drawn together as if bracing for an answer she’s not ready to hear.

Angela doesn’t look at her right away. Instead, she tilts her head toward the other side of the bed, a faint imprint on the pillow where someone had lain still there.

Amanda follows her gaze—and just like that, something inside her sinks. Her heart does a strange little stutter—not disappointment exactly. Not relief either. Something messier. Heavier.

Because Angela was here. All night long? In the same room? So close and yet so far?

She swallows hard, fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets like they might hold back everything else threatening to spill out: gratitude… regret… desire… all tangled together in silence thicker than morning light could ever cut through. 

"Oh God… wait…" Something occurs to Amanda in a rush; her palms start to sweat as she fidgets anxiously with the edge of the sheets. "We didn't… did we?"

Angela glances up, her lips tugging into an amused smirk as if reading the panic in Amanda's face.  

"Somnophilia isn’t my thing," she retorts casually—her attention back on the plate of food as she spreads a thin layer of butter onto the toast. 

"So we just… slept?" Amanda asks, her voice tinged with disbelief, brows knitting together like she’s trying to solve a puzzle missing half its pieces.

Angela lets out a soft sigh—half exasperated, half fond—and sets the plate of toast down on the nightstand. Then she reaches for it again, shaking her head slightly as if correcting her own hesitation.

"No," she says quietly. "We didn’t sleep." She takes a step closer—close enough that Amanda can see the faint smudge of tiredness under Angela's eyes, the crease between her brows that wasn’t there before. "I watched you sleep. Listened to your breathing. Made sure you didn’t choke on your own spit or throw up in your sleep." A beat. A small smirk tugs at one corner of her mouth. "That was my night."

She picks up the plate again and offers it forward—firmly but gently—as if handing over more than just breakfast.

"It was a novelty for me too," she admits, voice low now—"Staying all night like that… worrying about someone else.” Her dark eyes flicker up to meet Amanda’s fully for the first time this morning: clear, steady, unguarded.

“Now,” she says with quiet command masking something tender underneath. “You need to eat.”

"I had Spencer pick you up some clothes."

Amanda takes the plate, her face still a picture of confusion, eyebrows drawn together. "Who's… Spencer?" she asks mid-bite.

Angela goes to the couch, sits down, and leans back a little, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a half-smile. 

"He's my security detail," she explains casually—not quite looking at Amanda, her attention fixed somewhere near the far wall. "But also kind of like an assistant, I guess," she adds, her tone lighter now. "And a driver."

"Thank you," Amanda replies, the words soft, almost self-conscious. "But you didn't have to do that…"

Angela shrugs, the hint of a smirk flashing across her face. 

"Yes," she answers simply. "I did. Yours were covered in vomit."

Amanda's eyes shoot up, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. She swallows hard, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. She stares at her plate, taking another slow bite of toast, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her so she can escape this conversation.

"You shouldn't get drunk like that," Angela says, a hint of scolding in her tone. "I'm all for testing limits, but you put yourself at risk last night," she continues firmly.

Amanda swallows the food in her mouth and nods sheepishly, unable to meet Angela's gaze. 

"I know," she whispers, a wave of shame washing over her.

Angela watches her silently for a long moment, gauging her response. A flash of something—something almost but not quite pity—flickers across the planes of her face, softening the sharp angles and edges. Then, without warning, Angela stands—slow, deliberate—and doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches for the hem of her sweat-damp shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulls it over her head and off, letting it drop to the couch beside her.

The morning light spills across her shoulders and collarbones—the warm gold catching the fine sheen of sweat on her skin. Her chest rises with a steady breath beneath a plain black sports bra that does little to hide the shape or strength beneath.

Amanda’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen—wide enough that Angela notices—but doesn’t comment. The shorter woman climbs onto the bed, closing the distance between them in mere seconds. She leans forward, her face now mere inches from Amanda's, her gaze so intense and penetrating that Amanda almost feels bared to the core. Angela speaks up suddenly, her voice low and nearly harsh—as if the words had slipped out without thought, the words she never meant to say.

"If you were mine," she murmurs, eyes burning— "You wouldn't be able to sit down for a week."

Amanda nearly chokes, sputtering around a half-chewed bite of toast. She pulls it away from her mouth just in time, eyes wide and watering.

  In one smooth, almost predatory motion, Angela reaches forward—her fingers cool against Amanda’s pulse—and takes hold of her wrist. She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Gently but firmly, she guides the toast back toward Amanda’s lips and takes a slow bite herself—her dark eyes never leaving Amanda’s as she chews deliberately.

  Amanda watches every movement—the curve of Angela’s jaw as she swallows, the flicker of amusement in her gaze—as if witnessing something sacred and dangerous all at once. Her breath catches again… softer this time… quieter… helpless under that steady stare.

"I gotta go take a shower," Angela murmurs—her gaze still watchful, but the sharpness in her expression having softened slightly. She rises from the bed and walks toward the nearby open bathroom door.

Alone again, the silence feels heavy. Amanda sets the toast down, her mind a tangle of thoughts.

"Angela?" she calls out, her voice sounding small in the empty room. "Why am I even here?"

A moment later, Angela saunters back out, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. 

"You're here," she says firmly, "because I'm incapable of leaving you alone.”

"Then don't," Amanda whispers—so quiet it barely brushes the air between them, fragile as a heartbeat.

  They lock eyes. The space between them hums with something raw and unspoken—charged like the hush before thunder rolls in. After a long pause, Amanda asks, voice trembling just slightly, "Why did you send me those books?"

  Angela lets out a slow breath through her nose—almost pained—and closes the distance again. She stands beside the bed now, looking down at Amanda not with judgment or anger... but something closer to sorrow.

  "I thought I owed you an apology," she says quietly.

  “For what?” Amanda asks.

   Angela hesitates—the kind of silence that doesn’t come from forgetting words, but from choosing not to speak truths too dangerous to voice aloud. Her lips part… then press back together. Her gaze flickers down to Amanda’s hands resting in her lap.

   “…For letting you believe that I…” She trails off again, her jaw tightening.

Angela takes a seat on the bed opposite Amanda, her face taut like she's wrestling with demons only she can see.

"Listen to me," she starts, her tone low and serious. "I don't do romance…"

Amanda looks at her... and waits. She knows there's more; the way Angela's jaw clenches, the tense set to her brow... There's always more.

"My tastes are very... singular," Angela continues, finally, her voice tight. She looks away, her eyes fixed on something across the room. "You wouldn’t understand."

Amanda takes a moment, sifting through memories and feelings like cards shuffled too quickly to read.

"Enlighten me then," she counters, her voice soft as her teeth graze her bottom lip once, then twice, the motion almost nervous—a mirror to the butterflies churning in her stomach.

Angela slowly lifts her hand, gently cupping Amanda's cheek—a touch so soft it might've been a dream if not for the warmth of her skin. Amanda leans into it, unable to help herself... and Angela's thumb brushes her bottom lip with just enough pressure to make it part in quiet invitation.

The shorter brunette leans closer—and pauses as Amanda looks up at her, eyes almost pleading. Angela stills her hand, pulling it back. She stands abruptly, turning to walk into the bathroom and closing the door quietly behind her.

Amanda watches her go, feeling a wave of heat spreading through her body, pooling heavy and thick in her core. She scoffs softly to herself, a frustrated, aching scoff as she feels herself respond to something that hasn't happened yet—a fire sparked by a breathless almost-touch, and a woman who keeps putting distance where there should only be closeness.

After some time, Amanda emerges—dressed in a fresh change of clothes, the new soft white blouse clinging to her form, the dark jeans skimming her curves like a second skin. Her curls, now unbound and loose, cascade down her shoulders, framing her face and catching the faint sunlight peeking between the curtains.

She pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame as she gazes across the room at Angela, who is typing on her laptop on the couch. Angela's eyes rove over Amanda's form, taking in every inch of her—from the curls framing her face to the tight jeans hugging her figure, and everything in between. 

"You look beautiful," Angela says—quiet, direct, no trace of irony. The words land like a vow in the stillness between them.

  Amanda feels the heat flood her cheeks and creep down the back of her neck, spreading beneath her skin like ink in water. She looks down instinctively, then lifts her chin with a small smile—one that tugs at something deep behind her ribs.

  "Spencer has good taste," she teases lightly, voice just above a whisper—but it doesn’t mask the flutter underneath.

  Angela lets out a low hum, not quite unamused but not entirely joyous either, like she’s fighting not to laugh. Her eyes stay locked on Amanda's—softer now—almost fond. Angela steps forward until they're standing inches apart, her arms folded. She asks with casual authority, 

"What are you doing later?"

"Working at the hardware store until seven," Amanda replies, trying to gauge Angela's expression—but the other woman's face is calm, unreadable.

"I'll have Spencer pick you up, then," Angela responds, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

Amanda perches on the edge of the bed—her posture relaxed but deliberate, bringing her nearly eye-level with Angela. She bites her lower lip, just once, slowly, then lifts her gaze. Her lashes flutter as she looks up at Angela—not coyly, not obviously… but in a way that speaks of quiet challenge and something softer underneath. 

As their eyes meet, Amanda catches a flash of something new in Angela's gaze. The soft fondness from a moment ago is gone, replaced by something darker... more intense. There's a weight to her stare now, a hunger that makes Amanda's breath stutter in her chest. It's like Angela's imagining what it would be like to devour her, fully and completely, right here, right now. 

Angela raises her hand again—slow, deliberate—and cups Amanda’s cheek, her thumb pressing gently against the plush curve of Amanda’s already-bitten lower lip. The touch sends a shiver down Amanda’s spine, warm and electric all at once. Without thinking, she lets out a soft breath… leans in slightly… melts into the contact like she was made to fit right here.

“I want to bite this lip,” Angela murmurs—quietly, almost under her breath—as if the words slipped out by accident. Her dark eyes stay locked on the other brunette's mouth like it's a forbidden page in a book she can't stop rereading—as if she's imagining how it would feel to take what’s always been hers.

"I think I'd like that too," Amanda murmurs—her voice soft, tinged with vulnerability. There's a quiet want in her eyes that's impossible to ignore.

  Angela's expression hardens. She lets out a low sigh, pulling back slightly. Her voice is firm, almost clinical—so at odds with the desire still sparking in her gaze.

  "I'm not going to touch you," she says firmly, "Until I have your written consent."

Amanda's eyebrows furrow at Angela's words, confusion and a touch of hurt flashing across her face. She wants to argue, to demand an explanation. She's been more than obvious—she's laid her desire at Angela's feet. Yet Angela's words hint at doubt, as if Amanda might use this against her, like they aren't both adults who know what they want.

  "Why...?" she asks, her voice shaky. 

Angela offers a tight half-smile, her expression suddenly business-like. 

"I'll explain later. Come on, I’ll take you home," the other woman promises, grabbing Amanda's jacket and holding it out—an offer.

  Amanda hesitates, confusion and disappointment warring within her. She wants an explanation now—needs it, even—but Angela seems determined to keep her at arm's length. With a heavy sigh, she shrugs on the jacket, her movements stiff and resigned. 

"Okay."

They step into the elevator side by side, and in the enclosed space, Angela's presence is even more overwhelming. Amanda can barely breathe, her mind swimming in a strange mix of desire and frustration. She can smell her cologne now—a subtle blend of musk and spice that makes her head spin.

  She glances discreetly toward Angela, feeling a pang of want shoot through her at the sight. She tightens her grip on the rail and bites her lip—harder this time, until it hurts—trying to quiet the rush of feelings churning in her chest.

The soft ping of the elevator ascending hums through the air. Then—silence.

  Angela’s gaze drops to Amanda’s lips, still swollen from biting, still marked by crescents from her own teeth. A muscle flickers in Angela’s jaw. Her breath hitches—almost imperceptible—but Amanda sees it.

  “Fuck the paperwork,” she mutters under her breath—low, rough, like a confession torn from bone.

  In one swift motion, she surges forward.  

Their lips crash together—not soft or tentative, but *hungry*, desperate—the kind of kiss that tastes like years of restraint snapping all at once. Angela's hands frame Amanda's face as if claiming what was always meant to be hers; Amanda gasps into the heat of it and melts completely… surrendering not just her mouth but every inch of resistance left in her body.

Amanda feels herself sink lower against the elevator's cool wall, trapped beneath Angela's touch. She lets out a soft gasp as her wrists are pinned overhead; the sensation sends a shiver down her spine. Angela's free hand finds its way to the base of Amanda's neck, tugging her down further, and the kiss deepens, hungry and desperate. They're a tangled mess of tongue and teeth, breathless and frantic. Every touch sparks a fire low in Amanda's belly. She presses herself against Angela, desperate for more, more, more.

For what feels like forever, the world narrows to just the feel of Angela's lips and hands—the fire racing across her skin, the heat pooling low in her belly.

But the elevator dinging jolts them back to reality. The doors glide open to reveal a small gathering of businessmen in sharp suits and briefcases. Amanda barely registers their presence, still dizzy and breathless. She breaks away from Angela slowly, cheeks flushed, lips swollen—a stark contrast to the businessmen's oblivious chatter.

The businessmen climb into the elevator, eyes darting curiously between Amanda and Angela. The sight of them clearly takes them aback—the flush on their cheeks, the redness of Angela's smeared lipstick, the still-tangled hair.

   Angela's gaze flicks to her reflection in the elevator mirror, and she lets out a quiet sigh of annoyance. She reaches up, rubbing a thumb across her mouth to fix the smudge of her lipstick. She rakes a hand roughly through her now messy hair, taming it back into some semblance of order. Amanda quickly composes herself, running shaky fingers through her curls to tame the wildness, and wipes at the corner of her mouth where Angela's lipstick left a faint trace. Her cheeks are still flushed—hot enough that she knows it won’t fade with a few touches—but she tucks her hands into her sleeves and stares at the floor numbers above.

  The elevator doors close with a soft chime, sealing them in once more—though this time, silence hangs heavy. The air is charged differently now: not just with desire… but consequence.

  She doesn’t look at Angela. But she feels every breath between them like a spark waiting to catch fire again. 

Chapter Text

Once home, Angela guides Amanda through the front door—her hand resting lightly on the small of her back—when suddenly, movement catches their eyes.

On the couch, Courtney is half-naked and flushed, tangled with a man whose pale white ass bobs up and down above her. The air is thick with panting breaths and the creak of springs beneath shifting weight. It’s unclear whether they’re finishing or just beginning—but either way, it's intimate… and very much not private.

Courtney’s eyes snap toward Amanda—and the moment she sees her, she shoves against the man on top of her with a surprised laugh. He grunts, stumbling back just enough for her to sit up, wild-haired and breathless, but beaming like this is the best possible twist.

“Mandy!” she exclaims—genuine delight in her voice—as if being caught mid-act is nothing more than a minor hiccup in an otherwise perfect day.

  The blonde man turns—cheeky grin spreading across his face—and quickly yanks his boxers and pants up over his hips in one jerky motion. He doesn’t seem embarrassed—just amused, maybe even proud—as he smooths down his shirt like he’s straightening himself after winning a game only he knew they were playing. 

"Hey," the stranger says with an easy, cocky grin—like he's greeting someone at a party rather than someone who just caught him pants-down on a couch. His voice is smooth, unfazed.

  Courtney giggles beside him, the sound bright and unapologetic as she snatches her bra from between the cushions and hooks it back on with one hand like she’s done it a thousand times. She tugs her shirt over her head next—messy hair tumbling free—and though her cheeks are still flushed and lips slightly puffy, she looks utterly pleased with herself.

Amanda can't help the soft laugh that slips out as she approaches the sofa. She glances from Courtney—ruffled but radiant—to the blonde man, who walks around to greet her. His broad shoulders and well-toned abs are on full display, gleaming with a faint sheen in the morning light. She takes his offered hand—his grip warm and strong.

  "We haven't met," he says, his voice deep and slightly husky—a contrast to the easy charm in his smile. "I'm Shayne."

Shayne chuckles, easily slipping free from Angela’s grip. He turns toward the couch, bending down to snatch his shirt off the floor. Slipping it on with a lazy grin, he glances back at Amanda—blue eyes bright and warm.

  “It was awesome meeting you,” he says, voice smooth with genuine charm. “Court told me a lot about you!”

Amanda smiles at the compliment while Angela scoffs softly in the background, her arms crossing in the universal symbol for impatience. She steps forward, one foot tapping a steady rhythm against the wood floors.

  "Come on," Angela calls out, a bite of frustration in her voice. "Some of us have work to attend to."

Shayne chuckles and sits back down on the couch, quickly slipping on his socks and shoes. He stands up again with a smirk, turning back to Amanda with a twinkle in his eye. 

"Don't mind my sister," he says with a shrug, "she was born with a stick up her ass, I think."

The farewells are quick but heartfelt. Shayne gives Courtney one last long, lingering kiss—his hand sliding down to her waist, fingers splaying across her lower back to pull her close. When they finally break apart, they’re both breathless, their faces flushed. 

  "Later, baby," Shayne whispers, his voice rich and rough as he winks at her and turns to Amanda with an easy smile.

  Courtney blushes profusely at the pet name, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. Shayne gives one last brief wave before stepping out.  

  Angela turns to Amanda, her dark eyes soft but intense, and suddenly Amanda feels smaller—exposed—in the best way. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Angela says, voice low and warm. “I’ll see you later tonight.” Then, with a flicker of mischief in her gaze, she adds quietly—mocking Shayne’s earlier words—“Later, baby.” 

A surprised laugh slips from Amanda’s lips; even Angela smiles at that—a rare, real thing—and the moment lingers between them like a promise. Then the door clicks shut behind her… leaving quiet in its wake.

Court and Amanda exchange knowing glances, and Court lifts her eyebrows in silent question.

  "Well, Shayne seems nice," Amanda teases, her smile easy and playful.

  Court shakes her head and grins in response, 

"No, no," she says, her tone growing more eager as she leans in slightly. "We're starting with you, Missy. If you're seeing her tonight, that means something happened!"

Amanda lets out a slow sigh, her mind drifting back to the messy, mortifying warmth of this morning—the toast, the confession, that kiss. Her cheeks flush all over again. She turns and starts to walk away—trying to retreat into the safety of routine. But Court chuckles and lunges forward, grabbing her arm with a firm grip. 

"No, no," she laughs, yanking Amanda back playfully. "You have to tell me what happened."

  "I have to get ready for work," Amanda protests—though her voice lacks real conviction… and both of them know it.

Amanda takes a deep breath, her cheeks flushed. 

"We just kissed," she confesses softly, "Once."

  A slow smile spreads across Court's face, her eyes twinkling in that knowing way they always do. 

"Only once?" she teases. "That's odd."

  Amanda hums in agreement, her gaze dropping to her hands for a moment. 

"Odd doesn't even cover the morning I've had," she murmurs, half-amused, half-exhausted.

"Uh-huh," Court says with a sly grin, her eyes flickering toward Amanda's new shirt. "You have a new shirt."

  Amanda shrugs and smiles, trying to remain casual—though her cheeks give her away, flushing a faint pink. 

"It was a gift," she explains simply, before turning and heading for her room to change. 

  Court watches her go with an expression somewhere between pride and disbelief. Amanda doesn't usually talk about her love life, at least not like this—so this, for her, is a big deal.

Throughout the day, Amanda tries to keep her mind off Angela—really tries. But standing behind the register at the hardware store, scanning power tools and paint cans for disinterested customers, her thoughts betray her.  

She remembers how Angela’s face hovered so close that morning—warm breath ghosting over her skin just before she took a bite of toast—and how later, in the dim light of the elevator, those same hands had cradled her face with such certainty, such hunger.  

As Amanda steps out of the store, the cold evening air hits her instantly—rain falling in soft, steady sheets under the dim glow of streetlights. The pavement glistens, reflecting fractured halos from above.

  And there he is—Spencer—standing perfectly still beside a sleek black SUV, his broad frame wrapped in his signature black-and-white suit. Impeccable as always. Umbrella in one hand, expression unreadable.

  He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t check his phone. Just waits. Like he’s been doing it for years—and will keep doing it long after tonight’s rain has washed every trace of them away.

“You’re Spencer, right?” Amanda asks softly, tucking a damp curl behind her ear—her voice barely louder than the patter of rain.

  “Yes,” he replies smoothly, his tone low and polished. “Good evening, Miss Lehan-Canto. Miss Giarratana will be joining us later.”

  Amanda nods, a slight shiver running down her spine—not just from the cold. She steps forward as Spencer opens the back passenger door with quiet precision. The interior of the SUV is warm, dimly lit—the scent of leather and faint sandalwood lingering in the air. She climbs inside without another word… heart tapping out a rhythm only she can hear.

A short while later, Amanda stands beside Spencer in the hushed silence of a high-speed elevator ascending through a sleek skyscraper. The soft ding echoes as the doors slide open—revealing the rooftop.

  And there it is.

  Angela stands silhouetted against the stormy night sky, arms loosely at her sides, backlit by city lights and swirling rain. Before her—a silver and black helicopter, its rotors still and waiting like a crouching beast. Bold lettering along its side reads: Giarratana—elegant yet commanding.

  Amanda’s breath catches. Her jaw drops slightly, eyes wide with disbelief and awe as she steps out into the wind-lashed rooftop.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispers—half to herself—but loud enough that Angela turns… slowly… smirking like this is precisely what she hoped for.

“Good evening, Amanda,” Angela says—her voice smooth, her smile slow and utterly satisfied.  

  She can’t hide it; the pride in having stunned her again. It gleams in her eyes, curls at the corners of her lips like she’s just won something silent but significant. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit that hugs every sharp line of her frame, her hair softly curled over her shoulders with elegant precision, she looks like power dressed for a gala.  

  And Amanda? In her simple blouse, blue jeans, and burgundy pleather jacket—damp from the rain—she feels underdressed all over again… like she showed up to a symphony in sneakers.

Angela moves to the helicopter and opens the passenger door with a flourish. She offers her hand—palm up, expectant—and Amanda takes it without thinking, her fingers instinctively curling into Angela’s as she climbs inside.

  The warmth of that touch lingers even as she settles into the plush seat, still wide-eyed and speechless. The interior hums faintly around her—the scent of polished metal and leather filling her senses.

  In one fluid motion, Angela rounds the chopper with quiet confidence, then swings herself into the pilot’s seat like she was born for it—boots thudding softly against the frame before she pulls the door shut behind her. Then it dawns on Amanda…

“Wait… you’re flying this?”

  Angela doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she leans across the cockpit, her arm brushing gently over Amanda’s torso as she reaches for the seatbelt. Her fingers click the latch into place with deliberate care—then slowly trail back just a little too close to Amanda’s hip. She fastens her own belt with one smooth motion, then turns toward Amanda—dark eyes glinting in the low light. A slow, knowing wink.

The engine growls to life around them, thrumming with quiet power that hums in Amanda’s chest. Angela hands over a headset, her fingers brushing lightly over Amanda’s in passing, before putting on her own. Then she casually keys the mic, her voice smooth and confident as she speaks into it.

  “November-1-2-2-4. Charlie Tango, ready to take off.”

  From the headset comes a crackly, muffled response,

“Roger that, Charlie Tango. Your flight plan from New York to Chicago is cleared for departure.”

A soft, giddy giggle escapes Amanda as she processes what was just said. 

“Wait, Chicago? Is that where we’re going?”

  Angela smiles, her eyes glimmering with an unfamiliar warmth. Her hands move over the control panel, slender fingers flicking and flipping various switches and dials with calm, practiced motions.  

  Amanda watches, her heart fluttering a little in her chest, as Angela settles back in her seat—ready to take off into the stormy night.

From above, the city unfurls like a living circuit board—pulsing ribbons of gold and white tracing highways through canyons of glass and steel. Skyscrapers rise like monoliths, their upper floors vanishing into the low-hanging clouds, while clusters of light bloom in neighborhoods below—warm amber windows scattered like fallen stars.

  Rain-slicked streets reflect the glow beneath them, turning intersections into shimmering constellations. The Hudson glitters black and restless at the edge of Manhattan, its surface broken only by ferry wakes and bridge lights trembling in the current.

  Amanda presses closer to her window—the hum of rotors filling her ears as she watches it all fall away beneath them. The world is smaller now… quieter… beautiful in a way that feels almost sacred.

Amanda shifts her gaze, watching Angela pilot the helicopter with fluid, practiced ease. There's something almost poetic about it—this woman in charge, her face set in concentration, the soft glow of the control panel casting half her features in shadow.  

  And there it is; that flutter in Amanda's chest—a quick, almost imperceptible moment as that organ beats just a bit harder. God, what is this woman doing to me? 

Eventually, the helicopter descends with a soft grace onto a landing pad perched atop another towering skyscraper—its silhouette cutting into the storm-washed night sky like something out of a dream. They step into an elevator that hums quietly as it rises, then opens directly into an expansive penthouse.  

  Amanda steps out—and her breath catches in her throat. This has to be Angela’s home—or at least one of them. A second sanctuary high above the world.

  The floor is polished white marble, so pristine it mirrors the warm glow of gold sconces along the walls. Each step echoes softly beneath Amanda’s feet as she takes in the space: elegant oil paintings in gilded frames adorn the walls, abstract sculptures rest on sleek pedestals, and tasteful floral arrangements breathe color and life into corners draped in quiet luxury. Countertops stretch like rivers of veined marble; every detail exudes refinement—controlled elegance down to the last thread.

"Do you want a drink?" Angela asks casually as she moves further inside.

  "Yes, please," Amanda replies softly, her smile warm and genuine. 

The apartment's layout is nothing short of exquisite: large windows overlooking the storm-swept city, a long grey L-shaped couch anchored by a few glass-topped coffee tables, and an impressive crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceilings of the open living room. 

The open floor plan continues into the attached dining room—a vast space filled with a large dining table and pristine shelves holding tasteful decorations that could likely pay her rent for a year. Amanda can't help but stare—her fingers tracing the back of the couch as she follows Angela's movements through the apartment. Everything here is so polished… so flawless… the kind of high-end luxury lifestyle depicted in magazine articles and reality shows.

Soft strains of opera music filter through hidden speakers, the notes delicate and haunting.  

  In the corner, a sleek, black grand piano stands tall as a sentinel, ready to capture someone's fingers with its deep, resonant tones. Amanda lingers nearby, lost in a haze of awe as she takes it all in—her gaze wandering from a white staircase that twists gently toward the second floor to the hallway that leads into the kitchen.

She drifts over to the grand piano—her fingers running lightly over the slick keys, the white surfaces almost glowing in the dim light. She can hear Angela moving around in the kitchen behind her and the sound of liquid being poured into glasses, and calls out over her shoulder, 

"Do you play piano?”

  There's a beat of pause, and then Angela's voice answers from across the room, clear, steady, her words carrying effortlessly through the spacious apartment,

"Yes."

Angela strides over to the nearby dining room—graceful as always—and sets two fluted glasses on the table. The wine they hold gleams golden in the low light, like sunlight caught in a bottle.  

  As she does, Amanda can't help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness. This place is so high-end… pristine and perfectly put-together. She sits down in one of the dining room chairs, and for a fleeting moment, she feels like a child playing dress-up in a world of glass and crystal, and silk.

Angela sits beside her with a soft sigh, the weight of the moment settling in. She places a crisp packet of papers and a pen neatly on the table between them.

  "What's this?" Amanda asks, voice quiet.

  "It's a nondisclosure agreement," Angela says—calm, deliberate. "Which means... You can't discuss anything about me, us, or what happens here with anyone. Ever."

  Amanda’s eyebrows lift slightly—just enough to betray her surprise—and for a beat, all she hears is the faint hum beneath the opera music still playing in the background. Angela watches her closely. Her lips press into a thin line—serious… but not unkind. This isn’t malice. It’s protection. A boundary drawn in ink.

Angela leans back in her seat, and her gaze drifts to the tall glass windows nearby—the city lights like fireflies in the distance. 

  "I'm afraid that my lawyer insists on it," she says softly, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at the edge of her mouth.  

  Amanda shifts a little nervously in her seat, biting the inside of her cheek. 

"I'd never talk to anyone about us anyway," she reassures Angela, her voice more a whisper than anything else. She doesn't want to disturb the quiet peace settling around them.

"Are you going to make love to me now?" Amanda teases—her voice low, playful, laced with just enough boldness as she holds Angela's gaze.

  The second the words leave her lips, she feels them hang in the air heavily. Suddenly, she’s aware of every breath between them. Her courage wavers.

  And then, Angela quirks an eyebrow—the smallest smirk dancing across her lips—as a soft scoff escapes her. She leans back slightly but doesn't look away for a second… instead locking Amanda in that intense stare—dark eyes shimmering like storm-lit water.

  In that moment, Amanda shrinks again—not from fear or shame, but from anticipation so thick it steals her breath.

Angela stands—her movements smooth, practiced, precise. She leans forward, her palms resting on the tabletop with an effortless grace, leaving their faces only inches apart.

  Then, her words come—sharp and clear: "Two things. First, I don't make love. I fuck. Hard."

  The moment hangs heavy. Amanda can feel her cheeks flush scarlet, her heart hammering against her chest, like it's begging to burst. Her palms break out in a sticky sweat. Amanda swallows hard, her throat dry. The silence stretches—then she whispers, barely audible, 

"And the second thing?"  

  Angela straightens slowly and smiles—a soft curve of her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She extends a hand toward Amanda.

  “Come with me.”  

  Hesitant but drawn forward by something more profound than caution, Amanda places her hand in Angela’s. The grip is firm as she stands—heart pounding—and follows the brunette down the quiet hallway into the unknown.

“What is?” Amanda asks, voice soft with curiosity.

  “My playroom,” Angela replies—calm, deliberate.

  Amanda frowns slightly as her brows furrow.

“Like… your Xbox and stuff?”

  Angela lets out a quiet, almost imperceptible laugh—a rare sound—and shakes her head gently. Her dark eyes glint in the dim hallway light.  

  “Not quite.”

Angela's expression turns serious again—her voice soft but firm. "It's important that you know... You can leave at any time."

  Amanda's brows knit tighter, her gaze flickering to the plain white door as if it might reveal its secrets on its own.

  "Why? What’s in there?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

  "I meant what I said," Angela replies, holding up the small silver key between her fingers. "The helicopter’s on standby. It’ll take you wherever you want to go—no questions asked."

  A beat of silence hangs in the air. Amanda’s pulse thrums at her throat, nerves twisting like vines beneath her skin. Finally, she exhales sharply and meets Angela’s eyes.  

   “Just... just open the door, Angela.”

Angela nods, taking a deep, careful breath before she turns and slides the key into the lock. A soft click echoes in the stillness as the door unlocks, and Angela pushes it open slowly, stepping over the threshold of the room. For a moment, all is pitch black and still. 

  Then, the lights flip on, and Amanda gasps—a hushed, involuntary sound. Her heart hammers against her ribcage as she gazes around, eyes wide.

“Oh my god…”