Chapter 4
Amelia did not put on the necklace.
She kept it in its velvet box for three days. At first, she claimed she was too busy to think about Lucas Hart. Then she told herself the necklace was too valuable to wear. By the third day, she stopped pretending.
It was the way he had left.
No note, explanation, or promise to call. Just an empty bed and an heirloom necklace that had belonged to his mother.
Amelia had held the pendant for nearly an hour that morning, tracing the blue stones around the pearl. Then she returned it to the box and went to work.
Vale Studio occupied the second floor of an old brick building in Westbridge, above a bakery that smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread. Amelia had spent years restoring the former printing company with her father. Its wooden floors creaked, tall windows overlooked the street, and exposed brick walls framed shelves of samples, drawings, and photographs.
It was not glamorous or anything like Hartwell Tower.
But it was hers.
At least, it would remain hers if she found enough work to pay the rent.
Amelia unlocked the studio just after seven on Monday morning. She had slept poorly in her apartment upstairs, waking from the vivid memory of Lucas asking her to stay.
She had left his apartment after checking her phone for a message that never came. Lucas had not called that day or the next.
Her assistant, Nora Bell, arrived twenty minutes later with two coffees and a worried expression.
“You’re here early,” Nora said.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early. It gives me time to panic before the day starts.”
Amelia accepted a coffee. “That’s an unhealthy work habit.”
“It’s the only one I can afford.”
Nora dropped a folder onto Amelia’s desk.
“Rent notice. Again.”
Amelia did not open it. “I know.”
“The Stone & Row invoice is overdue.”
“I know.”
“And Mrs. Halden called twice on Friday.”
Amelia looked up. “About the townhouse?”
“Her husband thinks the wallpaper samples are too bold.”
“The samples are cream.”
“He thinks cream is aggressive.”
Amelia rubbed her temple. “Of course he does.”
Nora studied her. “How was the Hartwell gala?”
“Productive.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I spoke with Evelyn Rowe.”
Nora’s eyes widened. “The Evelyn Rowe?”
“She asked me to send the studio portfolio. The Foundation may have a community-space renovation project.”
“That could be huge.”
“It could be a conversation.”
“It could become a contract.”
“It could become nothing.”
“Why do you ruin every good possibility before it happens?”
“Experience.”
Nora’s expression softened, but she did not argue.
Amelia finally opened the folder. The landlord was giving her ten days to clear the balance before late fees began. Ten days before the studio’s future became another problem she could not solve by working through the night.
Her gaze moved to the framed photograph beside her computer. Her father stood outside Vale Studio on opening day, smiling with one hand on her shoulder and a paintbrush in the other.
You build slowly, he had told her. You make it strong enough to last.
Back then, she had believed hard work was enough. Now she knew strength did not always protect people from losing what they loved.
“Amelia?”
She blinked. “Sorry.”
“Mrs. Halden will be here at ten,” Nora said. “The Blake brothers are coming at eleven-thirty to discuss the café renovation.”
“Good. We need both projects.”
After Nora left, Amelia opened her desk’s top drawer. The velvet box sat beneath a stack of invoices.
She had brought it to work without meaning to. Or perhaps she needed it close.
For a moment, she considered calling Lucas. Only to thank him and return the necklace, she told herself. Not to ask why he had left or whether their night meant anything.
But the thought of hearing his voice tightened her stomach.
Amelia shut the drawer.
“No,” she whispered.
Lucas Hart would not become another reason she lost sight of herself.
By ten, the studio had become controlled chaos. Suppliers called, and a contractor emailed that he could not begin another project until an unpaid deposit cleared.
Amelia answered every message calmly.
She was good at calm.
Mrs. Halden arrived ten minutes late with her husband, Richard, who wore the strained expression of a man dragged somewhere against his will.
They settled around the conference table. Amelia placed the revised plans and cream wallpaper samples before them.
“The goal is to preserve the townhouse’s original character while giving the rooms more light and function,” Amelia began. “The front sitting room will remain traditional, but we’ll open the rear space into the garden and—”
“About the wallpaper,” Richard interrupted.
Amelia paused. “Yes?”
“I still think it’s too much.”
Nora kept her face admirably blank.
Amelia looked at the pale cream, soft ivory, and nearly invisible botanical pattern.
“What color were you hoping for?”
“White.”
“This is white.”
“It has flowers.”
“Very subtle flowers.”
“They make the room emotional.”
Mrs. Halden sighed. “Richard doesn’t like emotional rooms.”
“I like rooms that aren’t trying to make me feel something,” he corrected.
Amelia forced a smile. “We can explore a plain option.”
“Good. And we should discuss your fee.”
Dread settled in her stomach. The Haldens had already negotiated her rate twice.
“I sent the itemized estimate last week.”
“Yes, but we’ve been thinking,” Mrs. Halden said. “The number is rather high for a project of this size.”
The number barely covered the hours Amelia’s team had spent on it.
“It reflects the restoration work required. The plaster, original moldings, and structural changes need specialist care.”
Richard folded his arms. “Couldn’t we hire someone less specialized?”
The words struck a familiar wound.
Someone less specialized. A smaller studio. Someone more desperate.
Julian Mercer’s rejection echoed in her mind.
“You could,” Amelia said evenly. “But the work you requested requires someone who understands the home’s structure, not only its appearance.”
Mrs. Halden exchanged a glance with her husband.
“We’ll consider our options.”
Amelia knew what that meant.
They left soon afterward. While Nora walked them out, Amelia stayed in the conference room, staring at the untouched plans.
Another client slipping away. Another project balanced on a number someone thought was too high because they had never calculated the cost of staying open.
Her phone buzzed.
For one wild second, she thought it might be Lucas.
It was an email from the bank.
Payment overdue. Please contact your account representative immediately.
The words blurred. Nausea rose so suddenly that she gripped the table.
Not now.
Nora returned, checking her phone. “The Blake brothers are downstairs early. I told them we’d be ready in a few minutes.” Her smile faded. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
But the room had begun to tilt.
Amelia stood too quickly, hoping to reach the restroom before the nausea overwhelmed her. A sharp wave of dizziness swept through her, stealing the strength from her knees.
“Amelia?” Fear entered Nora’s voice.
Amelia reached for the table.
Missed it.
And collapsed to the floor in the middle of the client meeting.
