Mind Code (Coded Connections Duet #2)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Amelia

The outfit my mother chose for me for the high tea is the epitome of posh elegance—a cream-colored silk blouse with delicate pearl buttons tucked into a high-waisted pencil skirt that hugs my nonexistent curves in a way that feels almost indecent.

My feet are encased in nude stilettos that make my legs look miles long.

This is not me.

But does it really matter?

It’s not like anybody likes the real me. Lately, not even I do.

I glance at the sorry bouquet of flowers next to me, a blinding truth I refuse to acknowledge.

The laptop and sensors James managed to acquire for me are laid out on the vanity in front of me. The familiar hum of the machine is almost soothing in the otherwise quiet room. The process of setting them up is methodical, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm of it, grasping the tether to control .

To who I want to be.

Innovating, troubleshooting, and eventually linking them to my smartwatch is a victory and a comfort—like slipping into a pair of old, well-worn shoes and walking with my head held high. For a moment, I can pretend that I’m back in Seattle, back where I belong, working toward my dreams.

But I’m not.

As I work, I keep my eye on the security feed on the laptop that shows the mansion’s public rooms, garden, and driveway. It’s a simple interface, nothing like the advanced system I had at my apartment that the guys used to watch me, but it does the job. I smile faintly at the real victory of gaining access without setting off any alarms, however small.

Take that, Doctor Donovan.

You’re not the only one who can hack.

I finish setting up the sensors and link them to my smartwatch, which will now alert me of any movement outside my door. This felt like a higher priority. Next, I will work on the motion detection to amplify the alert when I’m spiraling. Not only is each beep and flicker a success, but also a rebellion.

Mother will never again just sneak up on me.

And if they think they can just barge their way in here, then they’ll be sorely disappointed when I use the same type of tech to avoid them as they used to pry into my life.

Having the guys in this house is a fucking joke, like the universe has conspired against me, or rather, my father has.

Not that that’s anything new.

As I wrap up the setup and head out of my room, the hallway stretches out, pristine and cold, a perfect metaphor for my current state—polished but empty .

It’s hard not to feel a pang of disappointment and self-reproach. I’m back to being monitored, guarded, and controlled, even if it’s in a different way.

Once the final sensor is set in place along the hallway to my room, I try to ignore the creeping sense of being trapped, even if it’s in a cage of my own making. Just as I’m about to make my way toward the godforsaken high tea, I spot the guys coming out of a room further down the hallway, blocking my path.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

They’re talking amongst themselves, but as soon as I mutter the curse under my breath, they turn to look at me. They look like they’ve showered and made an effort to fit in. Pants, shirts, cardigans. Styled hair.

Handsome as fuck.

“Amelia, hey,” Misha greets me, and a mixture of longing and hurt churns in my stomach.

I square my shoulders and lift my chin, determined to walk past them with as much dignity as I can muster. But they form a line across the corridor, effectively cutting off my escape route. Forcing myself to meet their eyes, one by one, I can see the hurt reflected there, and it’s almost unbearable. It’s like looking into a mirror of my own pain, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to crumble.

Why are they hurt?

They’re the ones who used me .

Oliver’s voice breaks the tense silence. “You look… beautiful, but I like my Amelia more.”

His words transport me back to our date. The memory of his gentle touch, his kind eyes, the way he made me feel seen and understood. It all comes flooding back.

All this hurt is too much, and I have no idea how to handle it. I refuse to cry in front of them, not in this fucking house. So I do the only thing I can. I turn my pain into anger, letting it harden me like armor.

“There is no such thing as your Amelia,” I say flatly without an ounce of emotion. The words taste like poison on my tongue, but I force them out anyway.

Oliver looks stricken, his green eyes widening behind his glasses, and for a moment, I almost regret my words. But then I remember the betrayal, and my resolve strengthens.

He watched you work, eat, shower, dress.

He watched you touch yourself.

Misha tries to intervene, his tone soft and pleading. “Ladybug—”

I cut him off, not trusting myself to look into those warm brown eyes that have always been able to see right through me.

“Let me through… please . Mother doesn’t like to wait.”

They nod and step aside, but as I pass, Grey speaks up. His usually stoic voice has a hint of desperation that I’ve never heard before. “Princess, can we talk after… whatever this is we’re going to now?”

“No,” I respond, my steps faltering slightly as I try to steady myself, but the tremble in my voice betrays me. “You had weeks to tell me what you were doing, and you chose not to.”

“Please, at least listen to what we have to say,” Grey pleads, his hand reaching out as if to touch me before dropping back to his side. “We came all the way here to talk to you.”

I whirl around. “Oh, and I should thank you for that?” The sight of them standing there, looking so out of place in the opulent hallway, only fuels my rage. “Just leave!”

I don’t want you here.

You were my freedom .

I don’t want you in my cage.

“Amelia—” Oliver starts, but I cut him off.

“You being here in my home is a violation of my privacy. But you’ve already proved that you don’t give a fuck about that.”

I turn to leave, but Misha’s voice stops me in my tracks. “You’re right… with everything , but this is not your home, Amelia. Your home is in Seattle with us .”

His words pierce through my anger, hitting a truth I’ve been trying to ignore. I don’t look back as I finally walk away, descending the stairs. “It was,” I whisper, the admission barely audible.

Making my way down, I’m struck by how much I’ve changed. The girl who left this house two years ago, desperate for some semblance of freedom, is gone.

I talked back to my father earlier. Now, I stood up to them. I’ve outgrown my life here, but I have nowhere else to go.

The weight of my stilettos on each step feels like a countdown to something I’m not ready to face. Behind me, I can hear the muffled voices of the guys, probably debating whether to follow me. Ahead, the sounds of polite conversation and tinkling china drift up from the drawing room. I’m caught between two worlds, belonging to neither, and the loneliness of that realization threatens to overwhelm me.

It’s even worse than before, now that I know how it could be.

When I hear them catching up to me, I want to walk faster, to put as much distance between myself and the three men behind me as possible, but I know they’d just get lost in this labyrinth of a house.

We approach the grand room where the high tea is taking place, and my chest tightens. The sounds grow louder, a cacophony of social niceties that sets my nerves on edge. The room is already crowded with people, a sea of unfamiliar faces and judgmental eyes, and my anxiety spikes.

I hate this.

All these eyes on me.

A warmth from my right cuts through the chill of my anxiety when Grey comes to stand next to me. His knuckles brush against the back of my hand in a gesture that feels both accidental and deliberate. I look up at him, meeting his steady gaze, and he gives me a reassuring nod as if to say that he’s here, that I’m not alone in this.

For a fleeting moment, I feel a spark of comfort, a lifeline in this suffocating atmosphere, but then I remember— them being here is part of why I feel so damn uncomfortable in the first place.

A knot forms in my stomach, making me nauseous.

A server, dressed in a crisp uniform, guides us to our table, where Mother, Father, August, Miranda, and Daniel are already seated, looking for all the world like a picture-perfect family tableau.

Only Daniel’s future wife is missing. And Abigail and the girls, but that’s not the point.

I’m placed between August and Daniel again, and it feels more like a trap than a comfort.

Oliver, Misha, and Grey sit opposite me as Daniel leans in, his lips brushing my cheek as he whispers, “You look beautiful today.”

His breath is warm against my skin, and the guys stiffen at Daniel’s familiarity.

Perfect, just perfect.

I glance at August, seeking some sort of support, only to find him grinning like he’s enjoying some private joke. He clears his throat and says, “I don’t think you got introduced. This is our mother, Edith Stanley. And our dear family friend, Miranda Bancroft, and her son, Daniel. He’s a good friend of Amelia’s.”

August’s words hang in the air, loaded with implications. I feel the weight of the guys’ gazes, the silent questions.

No, I don’t want him. But it’s not your fucking business.

The tension at the table is thick enough to cut with a knife—or perhaps as thick as one of these ridiculously tiny sandwiches.

“And these are Amelia’s ex-coworkers,” August continues, his expression radiating open contempt. I wince internally, wishing I could disappear into the plush upholstery of my chair.

Mother’s eyebrows arch delicately, a movement I’ve seen a thousand times before. It never fails to make me feel like I’m about to be scolded. “Oh? And what brings you gentlemen to London?” Her voice is honey-sweet, but I hear the venom lurking beneath.

“We’re here for a tech conference,” Grey replies smoothly, his eyes flickering to mine for a moment. “We thought we’d surprise Amelia.”

“How… thoughtful,” Mother says, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but.

Daniel leans in, his arm brushing against mine. The scent of his cologne is cloying, almost suffocating. “Oh, so, you’re working with computers too? That must be terribly dull. I can’t imagine staring at a screen all day.”

I feel a hot and sharp flash of annoyance, and before I can think about it, I say, “It’s anything but dull. It’s the future.”

“It’s a job for nerds who don’t like sunshine or getting properly paid.” Daniel laughs. His hand comes up to hold my shoulder. “But it’s a nice hobby, I guess.”

I read between the lines.

A hobby you can keep when I provide for you as your husband.

A lump forms in my throat. It’s so thick I’m worried I’ll choke on it.

“I admire the authenticity of your ignorance,” Grey says flatly, his face a mask of polite interest. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

Oh, how I’ve missed Grey’s particular brand of snark.

Daniel blinks, confusion clouding his features as he finally takes his hand off me. “Did he just call me dumb?”

He did.

“Of course not,” Misha interjects, his charm cranked up to eleven. “He’s simply impressed by your… unique perspective.”

God I’ve missed their banter.

A mixture of amusement and longing twists in my chest as my gaze meets Oliver’s, who looks like he has to suppress a laugh.

I missed them .

Fuck.

Misha

Amelia looks like a trapped animal between her brother and this Daniel guy, and it’s absolutely killing me. She’s visibly uncomfortable, but still, a twinge of jealousy rushes through me as I watch Daniel lean in close to whisper in her ear.

This Amelia doesn’t look like our Amelia, and I hate it with a burning passion. They’ve turned her into a fucking doll. A beautiful doll, sure, but a sad one, all porcelain and fragile edges.

Although I’ve got to admit, those stilettos that make her even taller than me? Hot as fuck, and that’s putting it mildly.

Amelia’s father launches into a monologue about Grey being the grandson of Professor Donovan, but I tune him out. My stomach growls so loudly I’m surprised the whole room can’t hear it, so I grab a little sandwich.

I’m absolutely famished—haven’t eaten a morsel since well before we left Seattle, too worried about Amelia.

Which is so not like me.

But now that I’m close to her again, that I can see she’s at least somewhat fine, my hunger returns with a vengeance.

It’s funny, really. When we’d called Grandpa earlier, he was shocked. He remembers Amelia’s father, too, but not for the reasons her old man might hope. He couldn’t believe such a person could have fathered someone as incredible as Amelia. But he promised he’d dig out his old notes and give it some more thought.

Amelia’s blue eyes meet mine over the table, and there is something more behind the hurt.

Everything will be all right, Bug.

She just jumped to conclusions—partly right ones, mind you—and got a bit lost. But that’s okay. I lose stuff all the time, and I always find them again.

Now that we’ve found her, we can fix this.

We can make it right.

It’s like debugging a complex piece of code. Sometimes, you have to trace back to the source of the problem before you can solve it. We just need to show her that we watched her out of concern, love, and yeah, maybe a little obsession.

But that’s fine, isn’t it?

Love can be a smidge obsessive sometimes. I just hope she can see that, can understand, even if our methods were a bit… unconventional.

But what isn’t unconventional about us?

These tiny sandwiches are a joke.

Without hesitation, I reach for another, then another, piling my plate high with delicate pastries and finger foods. The spread looks impressive, but it’s all style over substance. I’m half-tempted to ask if they have any proper food hidden away in the kitchen.

“Misha,” Oliver mutters, giving me a look that screams behave yourself .

But I catch Grey’s smirk from the corner of my eye. His expression seems to say, Fuck their posh manners .

I couldn’t agree more.

As I continue to devour the miniature feast before me, I notice Amelia’s mother watching me with narrowed eyes. She’s sizing me up, trying to determine if I’m a threat or an opportunity.

Little does she know, I’m both.

I chew my miniature cucumber sandwich with vigor as I meet her cold, calculating gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated by her icy demeanor. This would be funny if it wouldn’t affect Ladybug’s well-being.

Her mother is lucky that I’m trying to be nice for Amelia’s sake. I’d love to give her a piece of my mind.

The server hurries over, a look of mild panic on his face as he tries to keep up with my appetite. I flash him a charming grin as he refills the plates, enjoying the slight twitch in Mrs. Stanley’s perfectly manicured eyebrow.

“Thank you, my good man,” I say, clapping his shoulder. “I was beginning to worry I’d waste away to nothing with these dainty portions.”

The dimwit mother’s conversation with the other half of the table cuts through, capturing my attention. “… our vacation home in Scotland is simply divine, especially in autumn,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “The foliage is breathtaking, and the air is so crisp. It’s truly a magical place.”

I realize I’ve tuned out the conversation for so long that I didn’t even notice we changed topics, not that it’s a more interesting one.

Amelia is taking a sip of her tea when Daniel leans in closer, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It really is beautiful,” he murmurs. “The perfect place for Christmas with the kids.”

Grey growls beside me, but it’s drowned out by Amelia’s yelp. In an instant, all three of us stand and move toward her. She spilled her hot tea over her chest, and her pained expression tells me it burned her. Oliver grabs a napkin and pushes himself between Daniel and Amelia to help her clean up.

“Are you hurt, my Fa-ah… Amelia?” he corrects himself, keeping his tone soft, at odds with the deep concern etched on his face.

Amelia looks up at him with big eyes, her bottom lip quivering.

“Amelia Charlotte, how clumsy can you be?” her mother accuses.

God, I hate this woman.

Amelia pushes back her chair and stands, muttering an excuse to freshen up. She hurries away, leaving behind a worried-looking Oliver.

I glance at Grey who nods, and we’re just about to run after her, when Mr. Stanley’s voice halts us. “Sit down, gentlemen. She’ll come back.”

“She burned herself,” Oliver accuses, ignoring Mr. Stanley and walking off .

Grey mutters an apology and follows, and I look back at the table.

“Thanks for the miniature food,” I say with a smile, my words dripping with sarcasm before walking after them.

Amelia deserves so much more than this charade, and when we’re back in Seattle, I’m buying her a foot-long sandwich.