Mind Code (Coded Connections Duet #2)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Amelia

The stylist, a chic woman with kind eyes in her late thirties who I haven’t met before measures my arms while Mother scrutinizes every inch of me, her gaze as sharp as a scalpel.

I stand awkwardly in my vast childhood bedroom, feeling like a mannequin as Mother, Miranda, and the stylist fuss over me. This impromptu styling session was a complete surprise, sprung on me without warning. I can’t help but fidget, and my skin crawls under their intense scrutiny.

The stylist, who wasn’t even introduced before she got up close and personal, is so nice, and even though I’d love to refuse this new season of Make Amelia at Least Look Like a Stanley , this nice woman would absolutely be a casualty of Mother’s subsequent wrath.

“Contacts would suit her better,” Mother declares, eyeing my glasses with disdain. “And some proper makeup wouldn’t go amiss. She looks so… plain.”

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to argue. We had that talk a thousand times when I was a teen, and I agreed to wear contacts for galas and events. But I can’t wear them long-term. They make my eyes hurt.

What’s wrong with my glasses?

They’re part of me.

The stylist steps back, tilting her head. “Actually, the glasses give her a certain je ne sais quoi . They complement her cheekbones beautifully. It’s a very intellectual, chic look.”

I give her a small, grateful smile, but Mother purses her lips. “We’re not going for the intellectual look.”

Of course, you’re not. Who would want a smart wife?

“How about we get her some new designer frames?” Miranda asks my mother, tilting her head while looking at me.

Again, I want to open my mouth to argue, to tell them that I need these specific frames for my work. But then I remember…

I don’t need them anymore.

And the little fight that was left in me leaves me on a breath. “I can go put in my contacts,” I relent, walking into my en suite.

The bathroom’s harsh light reveals my defeated reflection in the mirror. Dark circles underline my tired eyes in a testament to the restless night I spent barely holding myself back from pulling more hair. My mind wouldn’t stop reeling from everything Daniel told me, everything August had said, and the uncertainty of what I’m supposed to do with my life now.

And since I have no idea, I decided to stay for August for a while, to see and watch what this is all about, and maybe figure out how I can help him, at least a little bit. If that means I have to endure my parents, so be it.

He endured them for me for the last two years.

Rummaging through my toiletry bag, I find the contacts case. I pause for a moment to check the expiration date, then carefully put them in, blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust.

Let’s get this over with.

I walk back out into the room, giving Miranda a tight-lipped smile when she claps her hands at my appearance. “Her eyes are so much bigger with the contacts and so blue. Good call, Edith.”

As the stylist continues taking measurements, she hums thoughtfully. “Your legs are so much longer than your upper body. It’s quite striking, actually.”

My stomach drops.

Another flaw to add to the list.

“I always knew she wasn’t proportional,” Mother chimes in, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “So tall and so flat too. It’s a shame, really. She got that body type from her father’s side.”

I clench my fists, willing myself not to cross my arms over my chest. Her words cut deep, reopening old wounds I thought had healed. But the stylist’s next words catch me off guard.

“That’s actually ideal,” the she says, smiling warmly at me. “You have model measurements, dear. Long legs, thin frame… designers would kill to have someone with your body type model their dresses. You could wear anything and make it look good. It’s quite enviable.”

Miranda laughs, nudging Mother. “See? I told you she’s a paragon of grace.”

I blink, stunned.

Me?

Years of Mother’s criticisms have shaped my self-perception, and this praise feels almost alien.

Mother clears her throat, changing tack. “We’ll need outfits for high tea, horse racing, and garden parties. The weather’s unpredictable, so plan for warm and cool options. And some casual attire, of course. Nothing too… eccentric.”

I cringe inwardly, knowing her idea of casual is worlds apart from my comfy jeans and oversized sweaters. I can already picture the pastel twin sets and pearls she’s envisioning.

They continue discussing my wardrobe, and I zone out. Part of me wants to rebel, to show up in my favorite T-shirt decorated with an avocado and ripped jeans, just to see Mother’s face. But another part, the part that’s always craved her approval, wonders if I should just go along with it all.

Maybe if I look the part, I’ll finally fit in.

Maybe she’ll finally see me as worthy.

But do I even want her to?

The thought of changing myself to please others makes my skin crawl. I’m a computer scientist, for fuck’s sake, not a debutante. Yet here I am, being molded like clay into someone else’s vision of perfection.

The stylist drapes fabric swatches over my shoulders to help determine my color season—cool winter—and I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Who’s that girl staring back at me?

And more importantly, who do I want her to be now?

The three women go over to the bed to discuss the fabrics lying there when my phone vibrates on the vanity. I walk over to turn it off, but when I see the caller is Morgan, I hesitate.

I should let her know I’m still alive.

I should say sorry.

She’s not one of the people I’m running from.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone and cross to my walk-in closet to take the call, closing the door behind me .

“He—”

“Amelia!” Morgan’s voice bursts through the speaker, a mix of relief and panic. “Where are you? Are you okay? We’ve been worried sick!”

“I’m fine. I’m back in London and… I’m sorry.” I run my fingers along the soft fabrics of my old dresses, trying to ground myself.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Morgan says, her voice softening like she’s talking to a spooked animal. “They told us what this is about. I’m sorry. God , I’m so sorry. But you should have come to me. You can still come to me, you know that, right?”

They told her?

What did they tell her?

That they watched me?

That they stole from me?

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to tug at my hair. My fingers twitch, seeking that familiar, destructive comfort, but then I pull on a silk scarf instead.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

“He’s your brother, Morgan…” I whisper, the words heavy with unspoken pain.

He’s your brother, your kind, sweet brother, who I wished was lying next to me last night.

Who I needed to hold me so badly.

Mr. Donovan’s voice suddenly joins the conversation. “You could have come to me, dear.”

“He’s your grandson,” I whisper, my throat tightening.

Your grandson who said he loved me before they all broke my heart.

Morgan sighs, a sound full of frustration and worry. “We know they fucked up, they know it. Everybody with a brain knows it. You could have come to us. We’re on your side. We’re here for you, Amelia. ”

I grip the silk scarf more tightly, twisting it between my fingers. The smooth fabric bunches and wrinkles under my touch. “What else is there? If you know what they did, how would you want to figure this out? You can’t make this undone. You can’t erase what happened.”

You can’t make them unsee what the y saw.

And even if they weren’t the ones who took the AR, I can’t think too long about what else they saw while they were watching me for weeks .

Me looking like garbage, taking a shower, doing… self-care.

Fucking hell.

Did Oliver watch while Jamie made me come with his voice?

Did the others?

Ugh.

“True,” Mr. Donovan interjects. “But they probably didn’t mean it like you think. You should listen to them. Give them a chance to explain.”

So much for they’re on my side.

“I should nothing ,” I snap, my voice harsher than intended. The pent-up anger and hurt spill out. “ They shouldn’t have done this. They had no right.”

“Yes, okay, you’re right,” Morgan concedes. “But come back. Let us help you through this.”

“I have a room for you,” Mr. Donovan offers. “You can stay here as long as you need. I promise I won’t let him come to you. You’ll be safe here.”

I lean against the wall, sighing and closing my eyes. It’s tempting, so tempting to give in, to let them shelter me.

But I can’t.

I can’t go back.

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. Seattle was a nice dream, but the dream is over now,” I whisper.

“Amelia—” Morgan starts, but I cut her off, my resolve hardening.

“No, it’s fine. Really, it is.”

As if on cue, Mother’s voice pierces through the wardrobe door, sharp and demanding. “Amelia Charlotte, stop dawdling around in there. We’re going to cut that rat’s nest you’re calling your hair.”

“Was that your mother?” Morgan asks, alarm evident in her voice.

Mr. Donovan’s tone grows urgent, almost pleading. “You have a place with us. You don’t have to stay there.”

“The grandmas and the grandpa, remember?” Morgan asks, and a bittersweet hurt blooms in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying not to choke on the emotion. “And thank you, it was nice having friends for a bit.”

“Amelia, stop—” Morgan’s voice sharpens with rising frustration and desperation, but before she can finish, I hang up and shut off my phone.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Stepping out of the wardrobe, the weight of the conversation presses down on me like a heavy cloak.

“Finally,” Mother chides. “We don’t have the entire day.”

My feet feel leaden as I cross the room, sinking into the cushioned seat at the vanity that is already pulled out for me. Before me, an array of makeup products, a dizzying assortment of bottles, tubes, and palettes is splayed out.

“May I?” The stylist asks as she stands behind me with a brush.

When I nod, she begins to brush my hair, her hands moving with a gentleness that surprises me. The bristles glide through my strands, soothing my frazzled nerves. But then she pauses. I watch in the mirror as her fingers brush the bald spots at the base of my skull.

Our eyes meet in the reflection, and my heart skips a beat.

Fuck. I forgot.

Anxiety bubbles up inside me, threatening to overflow. My shoulders tense, rising slightly as if to shield me from the impending confrontation.

To my immense relief, she simply picks up the scissors and says in a soft, reassuring tone, “I’ll only cut the dead ends and then show you how to style your hair. Cutting more of these beautiful strands would be criminal.”

I relax, but then my mother steps closer, her eyes critical as she examines my reflection.

“You’re sure? I think a bob would suit her face shape,” she says, her voice filled with that familiar, insistent edge.

The stylist meets my mother’s gaze without flinching. “I’m sure. The bob wouldn’t fit her elegant neck,” she replies confidently, her tone leaving no room for argument.

My mother narrows her eyes but then nods slowly. “You’re probably right.”

Miranda, who has been silently observing, decides to weigh in. “Daniel likes women with long hair.”

As if his opinion is the final word on the matter.

I feel a pang of frustration, my hands clenching in my lap.

“Fine,” Mother agrees, this time more firmly, finally stepping back.

“Thank you,” I mouth to the stylist.

This could have turned out very differently if she’d decided to tattle on me. But she just gives me a short nod.

She continues to work, and the tension slowly ebbs from my body. Her skilled hands move deftly, snipping away only what’s necessary off the ends of my dry hair. She then guides me through the process of styling my hair and applying makeup, introducing me to products I’ve never used before. It’s far more extensive than my usual routine of moisturizer and mascara, but she keeps it light and elegant. I don’t feel like a painted doll or a clown, just like an enhanced version of myself.

When she’s finished, I stand and, without thinking, pull her into a hug—something I would have never done before Seattle. The little gasp I hear from Mother only makes me hold her longer.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She returns the embrace. Her voice is gentle in my ear as she murmurs, “Hang in there.”

I don’t have a choice.

“I’ll just tidy up the room,” the stylist says and gets to work, putting all her stuff back into two suitcases before she, my mother, and Miranda leave the room, closing the door without saying so much as a goodbye, their conversation fading as they move down the hall.

I catch myself in the mirror—I’m wearing a mask of pristine makeup and glossy hair, but underneath, I feel the same hollow emptiness I once knew all too well.

My hands tremble as I reach up to my head. My fingers graze the base of my skull and skim over the uneven patches of hair. I should have hidden them better, but there was no time. No time to be anything other than what they wanted me to be.

I pull at my hair, the roots giving way to my frantic need for comfort.

My AR project, which should’ve been the highlight of my career, gone.

Tug.

My empty apartment, the loss of its safety.

Tug .

The betrayal. Their betrayal.

Each tug sends a jolt through my system, a sharp, physical sensation that does nothing to distract me from the chaotic storm swirling in my mind. I’ve allowed myself to be yanked back into this world. Just as I yank at the strands of my hair, making no move to stop this charade of perfection.

I’ve lost so much, and now here I am without a strand of peace left.

The room spins and I yank harder, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. The mirror reflects a distorted image of a girl caught between two worlds, the one she was forced into and the one she didn’t want to need to escape from.

I can’t cry, can’t even muster the tears as I focus on the sharp sting of hair being ripped from my scalp. The relentless vibration of my smartwatch on my right wrist finally jolts me from my spiraling thoughts, cutting through the haze of despair, snapping me back to reality.

Why am I still wearing this damn thing?

I glance at it, the irritation bubbling to the surface. I want to tear it off, to rip it apart, but all I do is scream. The sound echoes off the walls, sharp and raw. It’s both a release and a cry for help, and it startles me into stillness. Panting heavily, I look down at the strands of hair now scattered across the vanity.

A knock at the door jolts me from my trance. I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice as I call out. “Yes?”

James, our butler, responds from the other side, each word measured and calm. “Miss Stanley, is there anything you might need?”

The formality in his tone makes my heart clench, reminding me of Jamie.

I glance back at my reflection in the mirror. Even if I look like the Amelia from two years ago, there’s a defiant glint in my eyes now, a defiance that wasn’t there before Seattle. I’m back in this gilded cage, but I’m not the same person. I’ve lived two years of freedom, embraced two years of growth. I will not let them mold me back into the meek, compliant mouse I once was.

I straighten, grasping for some semblance of composure. “Yes, James, thank you,” I reply. “Would you mind getting me some things from the city? A laptop, and maybe a few other items. I need to… start working on something.”

Like the idea that just came to me, to program my watch to escalate its vibration when it senses that I am escalating my self-destruction.

There’s a pause on the other side of the door, and then James’ voice comes back, filled with a touch of surprise but also a hint of… relief? “Certainly, Miss Stanley. I’ll see to it right away.”

As I turn back to the mirror, the face looking back at me is one that has endured, one that has evolved.

It’s the face of someone who will not surrender so easily.