Chapter 4: Recognized

I lowered my voice and curtsied.

The gesture felt stiff, half-remembered from cotillions and state functions. I barely managed not to trip on the edge of the rug.

“…This aide was sent to serve the president.”

I kept my tone neutral, professional, hoping he wouldn't recognize the slight tremor that betrayed me.

He took a deep breath, rubbed his brow, and spoke with annoyance and fatigue: “Was it my mother who sent you?”

He sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep, the way people sound after one too many pointless meetings.

I didn’t deny it.

A small lie of omission—just like old times.

He said it himself, so it didn’t count as me lying.

The tiniest corner of my mouth threatened to twitch at the loophole. I kept my eyes low.

Seeing me silent, Caleb took it as silent agreement.

“I’ve said, there’s no need to waste any more effort.”

His words dropped between us, heavy as lead. I swallowed and forced myself to keep still.

I kept my head down, fists clenched at my sides, biting back a retort.

The ache in my knees was nothing compared to the pounding of my heart.

Caleb stood there for a while, probably feeling it was pointless to talk to me, then turned away.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, relief and disappointment tangling in my chest.

“Forget it.”

With a sigh, he walked off and sat alone at the writing desk.

The chair squeaked quietly beneath him—a mundane, homey sound in all this opulence.

The lamp flickered, melting into a patch of warm light.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beam, and the pages of his folders glowed amber. For a moment, the room felt small and safe, like a den on a winter night.

Caleb was immersed in that light. I watched him through the curtains, inexplicably feeling a kind of longing, almost like homesickness.

Memories of old movie nights, shared secrets whispered in the dark, drifted through me. I nearly forgot why I was here.

For a second, I almost chickened out. Then I remembered Marcus—alone in a cell, counting on me.

After a long hesitation, I still walked toward him.

My feet moved of their own accord, the carpet muffling my steps as I crossed the distance between us.

Caleb didn’t look back.

His pen moved smoothly, folders piled up like a small mountain beside him.

The rhythm of his writing was steady, sure, the only sound in the vast, high-ceilinged room.

They say he’s a wise leader, gifted by fate, both kind and tough.

On TV, he was all charisma and steel. In person, the lines of fatigue around his mouth were more pronounced.

If he had a flaw, it was only that he had few close relationships.

The loneliness of power, I thought, is a uniquely American heartbreak. Out here, even the most powerful guy in the world can’t call anyone at 2 a.m. without making the news.

Caleb before me sat with a straight back, looking even thinner than before.

I wondered if he ever remembered to eat, or if his aides just left sandwiches on the credenza, hoping he’d notice.

I stared, lost in thought, when suddenly Caleb said, “Why are you standing there?”

His tone snapped me back, the same sharpness that used to catch me sneaking out of his room at dawn.

I snapped back to reality, remembering why I was here.

I had to seduce him, make him remember old feelings, and let my brother go.

Failure wasn’t an option—not with my family’s future on the line.

This was my brother’s only way out.

The Quinns had always been survivors; I wouldn’t be the one to let us fall.

I carefully reached out and pressed my hand to Caleb’s temple.

My fingertips lingered in his hair, a gentle, practiced touch. The moment crackled with the ghost of old intimacy.

He used to joke I missed my calling as a physical therapist—back when touching him was easy.

The ink under his pen suddenly spread in a circle.

It bled into the paper, a dark bloom that marred his otherwise perfect notes.

“What is it?”

His voice was wary, but I could feel him tense beneath my hand, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“You’re busy with state affairs,” I answered softly, “I once learned some massage techniques, and can help you relax.”

My words came out half-teasing, half-pleading, the echo of our long-ago inside jokes.

Caleb actually didn’t refuse.

Typical.

He talks about boundaries and restraint, but who knows how wild he really is.

Even now, he couldn’t say no to a bit of comfort, not when he thought no one was watching.

As my fingers pressed his pressure points, the force unconsciously increased.

I remembered the way he used to lean into my touch, the way his breath would hitch in his throat.

Caleb grunted in pain.

The sound jerked me out of my reverie, guilt pricking at my conscience.

Only then did I realize what I’d done and quickly let go.

I withdrew my hand, apologetic. Old habits die hard.

Caleb turned to look at me and suddenly grabbed my wrist, his eyes sharp.

His grip was tight, the warmth of his palm burning against my skin. His gaze bore into me, searching, suspicious.

“These eyes of yours… I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

My mind scrambled for a cover story, but all I could hear was my own pulse roaring in my ears.