The Kingmaker

I can't breathe.

Someone's hand is on my shoulder. Pressing down. The marble floor is cold against my cheek, slick with something wet. My blood? I try to turn my head but can't. Voices fade in and out, warping like bad reception.

"–told you she wouldn't cooperate–"

"–needs to disappear–"

"–unfortunate complication–"

A glass rolls from my limp fingers. Champagne pools on white marble. My phone is ringing somewhere. Nasir's ringtone. I need to answer. I need to tell him–

Pain slices through my abdomen. Sharp. Absolute. Dark spots cloud my vision.

"Make sure there's nothing left to find."

The voice is familiar. I should know it. I try to speak but my tongue is too thick, useless. A shoe comes into view. Expensive. Italian leather. Then a face bending down. A face I know.

"You should have stayed away from my brother."

Darkness.

***

I bolt upright, gasping. Sweat soaks my silk nightgown. My heart hammers so hard that I can feel it in my fingertips, and my throat.

3:14 AM. Again.

The penthouse is silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city that never quite goes dark. My hands find the scar on my lower abdomen–thin, raised, a question mark etched into my skin.

Fifteen years, and I still don't remember how I got it. Don't remember anything beyond fragments of that night. Just the marble floor. The pain. The shoe.

And the certainty that I needed to run.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My throat is desert-dry. The dreams are getting worse. More frequent. Like my subconscious is trying to warn me about something.

Down the hall, Koda's door is cracked open. I always leave it that way now. After fifteen years of running, of hiding, of building a life where I control every variable, there's still one thing that terrifies me: the night his oxygen levels crashed without warning. The night I almost lost him.

I peer in. He's asleep, one arm flung above his head. In sleep, the resemblance to his father is painful. The same curls. The same stubborn set to his mouth. I try not to dwell on it during daylight hours, but at 3:14 AM, the truth is harder to avoid: my son is becoming the man I ran from. The man who doesn't know he exists.

The tiny beeps of medical equipment create a beat in the dark. A reminder of what is at stake.

"Another nightmare?"

I don't startle at Vivienne's voice. After fifteen years as my shadow, my protector, my one confidante, I'm used to her materializing from corners.

"Just checking on him," I whisper, the lie automatic between us.

"His oxygen levels dropped again tonight." Vivienne sits in the corner chair, her tablet casting blue light across her angular face. "Dr. Sengupta called while you were asleep. The experimental protocol isn't working."

Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. Fear has a physical weight, I've discovered. It sits like stone.

"We'll find something else," I say, more to convince myself than her.

"Amelia," Vivienne hesitates – which immediately puts me on alert. Vivienne never hesitates. "Have you considered reaching out to–"