Amara Telgemeier Romane & Geschichten

They walked further into the building to the space that was specially created for holding outsiders or rogues. Waiting at the front of the questioning room was Emma’s third-in-command, her Gamma who went by the name Chloe Riggs. She was a tall lady with shoulder length auburn hair, hazel eyes with gold flecks and a devotional spirit to work. She was Emma’s other best friend. But in work like they were in now, she was the Gamma. “How’s our hostage holding up?” Emma asked wearing the pair of gloves that Lincoln handed her in case things got ugly with their prisoner.

I stepped into the lobby with my coat still half on, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, every step reminding me how painfully hard I still was from Liv’s teasing, the leather smell, that last look she gave me… it was all sitting heavy in my blood. I just needed to get upstairs, lock the door, take an ice cold shower, and pass out before I did something stupid. Then I saw her. Amara. Leaning against the mailboxes in a cropped hoodie and grey leggings that looked vacuum sealed to her ass, scrolling her phone like she’d been waiting.

“She’ll be glad to see you, Amara. Truly glad.” A smile touched Amara’s lips, small and fleeting, though her eyes remained shadowed. “That’s good enough for now.” She ended the call slowly, placing the phone down beside the cold tea. For a long moment she sat motionless, her mind weaving around the image of Elira Zogo’s mother sitting frail and waiting in the dim light of the temple chambers. The thought carried both a quiet tenderness and an ache she did not voice.

Could she bear the potential fallout—the disapproval, the judgment, the fear of disappointing the people she loved? A small child ran past her, laughing, and Amara smiled faintly. Life was full of small, fleeting joys, moments that could be savored if one dared to reach for them. Liam had given her such moments, rare and precious, that had illuminated her life in ways she hadn’t known were possible. And yet, the shadow of Darren, ever-present, reminded her that the path of comfort and duty was always easier to navigate than the path of desire and truth. Amara reached into her bag, retrieving a small notebook she had carried with her. She opened it to a blank page and began to write, letting

“Start with this—‘You can lie to him, but you can’t hide from me.’” Kaylee typed swiftly. “And then,” Amara added, eyes glinting, “send her the picture.” Kaylee’s fingers froze above the screen. “The one from the hotel?” Amara’s smile deepened. “Yes. Her and Daniel. Outside the hotel, under the streetlight.” “Done.” The sound of the message sent—a soft ping—seemed to echo in the silence. Amara’s gaze lingered on the window. Beyond the rain, beyond the city, beyond all of it, the game was unfolding exactly as she wanted.

But I nodded anyway. A woman stepped out of a glass office. Early forties, tailored navy pantsuit, dark braids pulled into a clean twist. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind. “Mrs Houston? I’m Amara Wells. Please, come in.” Her office was neat, understated. No clutter. No chaos. Just the steady presence of someone who’d won more battles than she’d lost. I sat on the leather chair across from her, Camille beside me. Xavier stood by the window, quiet for once.

Her nervous face seemed relieved. After seeing it, I started eating again. While chewing the juicy steak in my mouth, I suddenly remembered the girl with a mask. The one and only Magda. I stopped eating and leaned my back on my seat. I remembered that Magda is living in the village where Angela lives. The village is small so it's possible she knew the mystery woman. "Angela..." I called out. She looked at me and stopped eating. "Yes, Clark?" she asked. I took a deep breath and released it slowly.

I kicked off Selene’s heels and padded to the balcony. Grandma wants a baby machine. Cassian wants a mannequin. Marcella wants a library sold for scrap. But out here, with salt on my skin and Clarisse’s napkin in my pocket? I am Amara Veyron. Five years old, building blanket forts. Fifteen years old, tracing scars in library dust. Twenty years old, surviving caviar blinis and rhino horns. And I will not be fattened into silence.

Just a clear offer—direct and confident. Almost like the sender knew she would hesitate. Almost like they were waiting. Amara exhaled softly, tapping her fingers against her arm. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. And yet… she didn’t close the email. Instead, she opened it again. Read it again. And again. Her practical side told her to ignore it. Delete it. Move on with her work and stop entertaining fantasies that never led anywhere good. But another part of her—the quieter, more curious part—refused to let it go.

Amira gently picked her robe and dressed up and gently sneaked out of his chambers back to hers. She got undressed and took her bathe which Selina must have drawn for her a long time ago because it was now cold. After having a cold bathe she quietly laid on her bed and allowed the thoughts of what she and Amir had done to flow back, she didn't want these to be just memories, she wanted more but she was scared Amir was done. She was lost in her thoughts until she eventually dozed off.