Chapter 7

Amirah Holland POV:

Kendrick' s face, usually so composed, contorted with a mixture of anger and something I couldn't quite decipher. He held Chrissy tighter, his gaze burning into me. "Amirah, stop this. You're being irrational." He cut me off, his voice sharp, dismissive. "You are not family. You are my ward. And my fiancée, Chrissy, deserves respect in her home." His words, a brutal reiteration of my status, were like a fresh wound.

"This is her home now," he stated, his voice cold and final. "You need to leave."

My jaw clenched, a fresh wave of despair washing over me. I had expected this, prepared for it, but the words still landed like a physical blow. "Leave?" I repeated, my voice hollow. "Where exactly do you suggest I go, Kendrick?" The question was laced with a bitterness that surprised even myself.

He sighed, a weary exhalation. "I've already arranged for you. There's an apartment in the East Village. It's fully furnished, all expenses paid. You can live there while you finish your degree." He spoke as if he were discussing a business transaction, not my entire future.

East Village. My heart sank. It was an hour away by subway, a world apart from the Upper East Side penthouse. His meticulous planning, his efficient removal of me from his life, sent a chill down my spine. The distance wasn't just geographical; it was emotional, a clear demarcation of his desire for separation.

"When did you get this apartment, Kendrick?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. A terrible suspicion began to form in my mind.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering away from mine. "It was... a while ago. A contingency plan. Just in case you ever needed your own space." The words were carefully chosen, but the underlying truth screamed at me.

A contingency plan. Long before Chrissy, long before my confession, he had already envisioned a future without me. He had been planning my exit, meticulously arranging my removal from his life, even as I foolishly clung to the hope of his love. The realization was a gut punch, leaving me breathless and reeling. He had been preparing for this, for my departure, for years. My entire existence in his home had been temporary, a placeholder.

My vision blurred, the room swimming before my eyes. My stomach churned, a cold knot of nausea forming deep within. The pain was so profound, so absolute, it stole my breath. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but my body felt heavy, my limbs numb. I simply nodded, a silent, devastated acceptance.

"And when do you want me to leave?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I just wanted this agonizing charade to be over.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice firm, unyielding. "First thing in the morning. I'll have a car take you."

"Fine," I replied, the single word a quiet surrender. I turned and walked away, my shoulders rigid, my head held high. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Upstairs, in the guest room, I moved like a zombie, methodically packing the few belongings I had. My old teddy bear, a gift from my father. A worn copy of my favorite novel, its pages dog-eared and stained. A faded photograph of my dad and Kendrick, laughing, their arms slung around each other's shoulders, taken years ago. Each item was a relic of a past that felt increasingly distant, a life that was now irrevocably gone.

Kendrick had given me that photo, tucked it into my bag on my first day at his penthouse. "He was my best friend, Amirah," he'd said, his voice soft. "And now, I'm here for you." That photo, that comforting gesture, had become a symbol of our impossible bond, a constant reminder of the love I craved and the duty he offered. Now, it felt like a cruel taunt.

I carefully placed the photo into a box, then buried it under a pile of clothes. I had to bury the memories too. All of them. Every shred of hope, every lingering thread of affection. I had to seal them away, deep in the darkest corners of my heart, where they could no longer hurt me.

My phone buzzed. A text message from Professor Vance. "Amirah, your flight to Boston is booked for Wednesday morning. Your dorm key has been sent to your new address. Congratulations again!"

Wednesday morning. Two days from now. My escape was real. I looked at the packed suitcase leaning against the wall, a symbol of my new, terrifying freedom. It was happening. I was leaving. For good.

The next morning, the air in the penthouse was thick with a palpable tension. I dragged my small suitcase down the grand staircase, its wheels rumbling softly on the marble. Kendrick and Chrissy stood in the living room, their faces stiff, their bodies radiating a silent hostility.

Chrissy forced a smile. "Oh, Amirah, darling! Let me give you a ride. It's the least I can do." Her voice was sickly sweet, a thin veil over her triumphant glee. She wanted to savor my departure, to ensure I knew she had won.

"No, thank you, Ms. Castro," I replied, my voice cool and even. "I've arranged for my own transportation." I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

But Kendrick stepped forward, taking the suitcase from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, a fleeting contact that sent a strange jolt through me. "I'll take you, Amirah," he said, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument.

I nodded, a silent concession. What was the point of fighting? I was leaving. That was all that mattered.

The drive was silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine. Kendrick kept his eyes on the road, his jaw tight. After a few minutes, he finally spoke, his voice surprisingly gentle. "The East Village apartment is well-situated. Close to the university. And safe."

I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. His words, meant to reassure, felt hollow. Safe. Yes, but empty. I offered no response.

He sighed, a faint exhalation of frustration. "Amirah, I want you to know, the apartment... it wasn't meant to hurt you. It was always meant to be a place for you, when you were ready for independence." He sounded almost vulnerable, almost sincere.

I remained silent. I had no energy left for his carefully constructed explanations, his attempts to soften the blow. His words were just noise, unable to penetrate the thick wall of my indifference.

"You can always come back to visit," he continued, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "For holidays. For special occasions. My door is always open."

A bitter memory, a phantom pain, stirred within me. How many times had I yearned for those words in the past? How many times had I clung to his casual invitations, hoping for more? But that naive, desperate girl was gone. I was numb. My heart was a barren landscape.

"Thank you, Kendrick," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was a practiced politeness, a detached acceptance.

He seemed to relax a fraction, believing he had diffused the tension. He reached for the dashboard, turning on the radio. A familiar melody filled the car, a soft, melancholic indie song I used to love. He remembered. The thought was a sharp pang, a reminder of the endless contradictions of the man beside me.

We arrived at the East Village apartment building, a charming brownstone nestled on a quiet street. He killed the engine, plunging us into a heavy silence. He didn't move, just sat there, his hands on the steering wheel.

"I can take it from here, Kendrick," I said, my voice firm. I gathered my small handbag, preparing to open the door.

He turned to me, his eyes searching mine. "Amirah," he began, his voice tinged with something I couldn't place. "You're... grown up." He sounded almost surprised, as if seeing me for the first time.

I met his gaze, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Yes, Kendrick. I am." My voice was steady, confident.

He held my gaze, then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. A small, sad smile. "Your birthday is next week. I'll come visit. We'll celebrate properly, just the two of us." It was a promise, a desperate attempt to cling to a connection that was already severed.

"Okay," I said, the single word a polite, noncommittal acceptance. I knew I wouldn't be there. He would arrive to an empty apartment, just as I had arrived to an empty home for so long.

He watched me get out, his eyes following me as I walked towards the entrance. He waited until I was inside, until the heavy door clicked shut behind me. I heard his engine start, then the soft rumble of his car driving away.

The moment his car was out of sight, I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. "Professor Vance," I texted, my heart pounding with a fierce, exhilarating sense of freedom. "Change of plans. I' m coming now. To Boston."