Mind Code (Coded Connections Duet #2)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amelia

The stone balustrade is cold when I lean against it, my fingers tracing the weathered patterns as I watch the bustling staff prepare for yet another tedious event.

A garden party.

Standing beside my mother in our expansive, meticulously groomed garden, the cloud-heavy sky mirrors the turmoil inside me. She’s barking orders to the staff, who try their best to keep up with her demands.

This is what happens when people have too much money and time on their hands. A gathering of some sort on almost every other day.

Two years ago, at least, I had college as an excuse to only go to the big events on the weekend. But now I have to attend every single one of them.

This, I realize with a sinking feeling, is what my life will inevitably become if I can’t find a way out for August and me. Endless parties, fake smiles, and soul-crushing expectations stretched out before me like a bleak, inescapable future.

The last two days I’ve done my best to avoid the guys, but I’ve kept a watchful eye on the security feed, monitoring their movements.

Not gonna lie, it felt good.

I’ve caught glimpses of them coming and going from the mansion, hanging out in the garden with Wilfred. The sensors I set up outside my room have been triggered frequently as if they’re checking to see if I’ve come home.

Misha’s words from our hike still echo in my mind, a constant reminder of what I desperately want but am utterly terrified to accept.

“Please, give me… give us a chance to make this right.”

“You’re the one thing I can’t afford to misplace.”

I spent Monday and Tuesday at August’s house with Abigail. I told my parents that I wanted to spend some time with my nieces and give Abigail a breather, and they reluctantly agreed that it would be a good idea.

Abigail and I made a plan for them to move to the States, start fresh, and build a life free from the constraints of my family name. She was right. She has the money. It won’t be easy to leave everything behind like that, and it will take August time to find work there. But it could work.

However, August is not going to agree to this so easily.

Two months. I have two months.

It’s a good thing we took time to figure out what the next steps could be. I feel better, and Abigail does, too, but I didn’t tell the guys where I went and didn’t pick up my phone when Grey called me a thousand times.

I’m a coward. I know that. But Misha almost made me falter. I would have loved nothing more than to jump into his arms and let him haul me back to Seattle, but I can’t do that to August.

Or to myself.

It’s everything I’ve ever wanted—to be cherished, to be fought for, to be seen as something precious. But the voice of doubt in my head is relentless, whispering thoughts that I can’t seem to silence.

What if it’s all just a ploy?

What if they still need me for Jamie? Maybe they haven’t gotten everything they need from me yet. What if they tell me sweet things I want to hear, fly all the way to London to bring me back, only to be done with me as soon as they’re done with the data collection?

Would they do that?

I mean, I didn’t think they would stalk me, either.

The trust between us is shattered, lying in jagged pieces at my feet, and I’m not sure it can ever be fully rebuilt.

Why else would I be worth all that hassle?

Three brilliant, successful, kind, and good-looking men would not just up and leave their lives behind to make amend s with me.

“Amelia Charlotte, you could at least attempt to show some enthusiasm rather than sulking about like a disgruntled child. It’s quite unbecoming.” My mother’s voice cuts through my reverie. I press my lips together to hold back a bitter response, but fortunately, her attention quickly shifts. “Careful!” she snaps at a servant juggling a floral arrangement. “Those blooms are worth more than your wages for the month,” she scolds sharply, and I grimace.

Bloody hell.

When she turns back to me, her eyes are sharp, the malice barely concealed. “Just how much do those friends of yours earn, anyway?”

Is she serious?

“They’re quite successful, actually,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Really?” She arches an eyebrow, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Then pray tell, why are they wasting their time here? Why do I see you giving them those longing looks whenever they are around?”

I flinch, caught off guard. “I… what?”

She turns away to scold two of our gardeners who are bringing another chair to a table. “Promptly, if you would. Our first guests will arrive in a matter of minutes, and we are far behind schedule.”

Just then, a young maid approaches out of breath. “Ma’am, some of the guests have already arrived,” she announces timidly.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Bring them through to the rose garden and make sure they’re offered refreshments,” my mother commands without missing a beat, then turns her icy gaze back to me when I already hoped she had forgotten about our conversation.

“Really, Amelia Charlotte, I can’t fathom why you entertain such fantasies. Men like that don’t waste their time without a reason. You’d do well to remember who you are and what your place is.”

Her words, sharp as thorns, dig into my already raw emotions and feed my insecurities. But they also awaken a defiant spark within me.

“They’re here for a conference,” I assert, standing taller and holding her gaze “And they care about more than just money and power.”

“Surely not,” she scoffs. “Wake up, girl. People maneuver for their own gain, especially men.”

Mother’s words are still hanging in the air when my father arrives with the guys in tow. They’re all dressed in crisp pants and shirts. My flowery, long-sleeved dress feels like another layer of the expectations pressed upon me in this house.

A twinge of guilt hits me—I hadn’t asked for their presence, yet here they are, caught up in the demanding spectacle of my family’s social expectations.

My father, having seemingly overheard Mother’s last words, interjects with his defusing skills. “Ah, speaking of beneficial associations…” he chuckles, gesturing toward the guys, “… we’ve just had a rather delightful chat with Professor Donovan. He sends his regards.” My mother gives Grey a forced smile. “He’s the same spirited fellow I remember. I’m considering a visit to the States once I retire.”

My eyes widen as they find Grey’s. He smirks at first, but the smile quickly turns into a scowl.

He’s definitely pissed that I just disappeared for two days.

The buzz of arriving guests filters through the garden, and Mother turns to Father, her tone brisk. “Darling, would you please welcome our guests?” Without waiting for his response, she directs her gaze elsewhere, scouring the setup for any imperfection.

Father nods, a practiced smile already forming again.

This is all so fake I could puke.

Grey steps closer to me, his hand finding a gentle rest on my back, ready to guide me toward a table, but I resist his lead, stepping aside. He halts, his eyebrow arching in silent question.

I guess he would spank my ass now if he could.

Why does that sound like something I’d enjoy?

Before the moment grows awkward, my father turns back to us. “Amelia Charlotte is going to play the piano in the parlor. With the balcony windows open, it provides a lovely backdrop of music for the garden.”

The guys exchange quick glances, their brows furrowing in concern and confusion. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I realize how this must look to them .

Yeah, I know.

I’m not more than part of the staff, or maybe even a dirty little secret kept away from the guests. Yet, paradoxically, being kept from the crowd is my best-case scenario for today.

“Enjoy the party,” I say, barely louder than a whisper, a hint of forced cheerfulness lacing the words. Without waiting for their response, I turn and walk into the house, my steps echoing softly as I make my way up to the parlor, the soft murmur of the first guests growing fainter with each step.

Upon entering, I swiftly move to the balcony doors, throwing them open to let the music drift out, but I draw the white curtains closed. I don’t want to watch the party unfold, nor do I want the guests—or the guys—to see me secluded up here.

Standing beside the grand piano, I let my fingers glide over its smooth, cool surface, the familiar feeling grounding me. I take a deep breath, soaking in the moment of solitude that is broken when I sense a warmth creeping up behind me.

A finger trails down the side of my waist, caressing in the same way I just touched the piano, sending a shiver through me. Grey’s breath tickles my ear as he murmurs, “Princess.” I turn to face him, and in an instant, he closes the space between us, his body pressing mine against the piano. His voice is low, with a playful yet stern edge to his words, “You know I should put you over my knee for not answering me again .” I chuckle despite the tension, and his expression turns into a scowl. “What’s funny?”

“Why did I know that you’d want to spank me for that?” I retort, the words slipping out more flirtatiously than I intended.

Oops.

There’s heat in his eyes—a fiery mix of frustration and something more tender—as he reaches out and traces my jawline with his thumb. “Because you did it again, even after I told you that I can’t handle not getting a response from you.”

“Next time, just give me a fucking sign that you’re still alive. Just tell me to shut up or whatever. It’s fine as long as I know that you’re still breathing. Okay?”

Guilt crashes over me, heavy and suffocating. I’m the worst.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s forgiven,” Grey whispers back, his eyes fixed on my lips before his fingers drift down, tracing the curve of my neck with such tenderness that my heart stutters. “See how easy that is? Your turn.”

“Grey…” My protest is weak, my resolve wavering.

“Shh, I know. That should have been a joke,” he admits softly.

“You don’t joke,” I point out, my eyebrow quirking up.

“Not when it comes to you, I don’t.”

The longing I feel is so intense it’s almost overwhelming.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask, trying to steer us back to safer ground.

“Playing the piano,” he says, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“What? Why?”

Why would he want this?

“Because you don’t like to play for a crowd.”

My heart.

“You can’t just sweep in and do—”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You have no idea what I can and can’t do.” His hand moves daringly down to the hem of my dress, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin of my thigh. I gasp as he ventures just a little higher, and his arousal presses against me. I know he’s holding back. “Will you let me do that for you?”

I nod, not quite sure if I’m agreeing to his hands on the piano or myself.

Grey’s lips graze mine as he says, “Good girl.”

But just as I’m about to press my mouth against his, he takes a step back, a knowing smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

Bastard.

He rounds the piano with a fluid grace, lifting the lid before settling onto the bench. I stand frozen for a moment, the sudden shift from intimacy to this casual display of distance leaving me a tad disoriented.

He glances at me, a silent invitation in his gaze. With a small sigh, I move to join him, sitting beside him on the piano bench. The cool wood beneath me is so different from the warmth of his body close to mine just moments ago.

Grey’s fingers begin to dance across the keys, and the first notes of “Nocturne” by Chopin fill the room, soulful and full of longing. His focus is absolute, each note played with precision yet infused with emotion. It’s as if he channels everything unspoken between us into the music, and my confused feelings blend into a quiet appreciation of his talent and the subtle way he communicates through the keys.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, almost to myself.

Grey doesn’t look at me, but a small smile tugs at his lips, acknowledging my compliment as I turn the music sheet for him. Then, amidst the notes, he speaks, his voice a low rumble, “You know your mother is wrong, right?”

“About what?” I ask, a hint of defensiveness weaving through my tone, my shoulders tensing .

“About us being here for our own gain. We’re here for you if that wasn’t clear by now.” His gaze remains fixed on the sheets, but I sense the sincerity in his words.

Is he sincere , though?

He continues playing, choosing to let the music fill the silence that follows rather than his words.

“That’s all?” I prompt, a bit incredulous, needing more than just his presence and cryptic statements for reassurance.

“What?” He looks at me briefly, feigning confusion.

“No big apology?”

After what Misha said, I somehow expected him to follow suit.

Which is so wrong, but the words are already out.

Grey smirks, a rogue spark dancing in his eyes as his fingers never falter on the keys. “I already told you that I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but I’m not sorry I watched you.”

“You know that’s pretty arseholey,” I retort, unable to hide my annoyance, even as a part of me thrills at his boldness.

“True, but I am an arsehole , and you love me anyway,” he counters confidently, his smirk growing wider.

“I never said—” I start to protest, my cheeks flushing with heat.

“I love you , you know.” His declaration slips into the brief silence as the piece ends, the final note lingering in the air, heavy with meaning.

Before I can even begin to formulate a response, Grey’s hands are on my hips, pulling me onto his lap. I find myself straddling him, our eyes locked, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.

He reaches around me, his fingers finding the keys, and begins to play “Invisible Beauty” by Frank Dang. For a moment, fear spikes through me at the choice of a non-classical piece, but it quickly melts away under the warmth of his light brown gaze.

I rest my hands on his shoulders, anchoring myself to him, then Grey leans in, his lips brushing against my nose, eliciting a giggle from me and drawing a grin from him. “This is your song for me, you know that?” he murmurs. “When Oliver was pining for you for the last two years, I thought you were boring,” he admits with a laugh. “I’ll forever deny anything I was wrong about, but God, Amelia, was I wrong about you . My life was dull before I met you. You are this incredible, once-invisible beauty that drew me in without even trying. It’s like you were a melody I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

His voice softens, and I find myself hanging on to his every word. “I hid behind a screen and watched you, yes, but I can’t hide it anymore. Yes, I’m overprotective and obsessed, possessive as fuck, and I can’t keep my hands off you. And that’s because I love you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone else before, and I won’t lose you only because you don’t understand the depth of what this is.”

The song ends, and he brings his hands up to cradle my face. I lean into his touch, my breath catching in my throat.

“This is a forever thing,” he continues. “You, me, the guys… this is forever . And I can’t wait to get back to it. So don’t make me wait too long, okay? You know I’m not patient.”

Before I can even process his words, he seals his speech with a soft, brief kiss, a mere peck on my lips that leaves me wanting more. Then, without another word, he sets me beside him on the bench again and starts up another classic piece.

I watch him for a while, but eventually, I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the subtle movements as he plays. I intermittently change the music sheets for him, but my mind is elsewhere, whirling with thoughts.

This may be, indeed, a forever thing.

If it’s real.

While he plays, I let my fears and doubts dissolve into the melody, allowing myself to be swept up in the beauty of now—and the potential of what’s to come.