A.N.: So, Nemily is endgame for this story. As with all my stories, I like to 'correct' what I don't like about canon, so there will be a focus on Emily's personality, how pretending to be the girl-next-door and what it took to become her has influenced her, that polish and poise she acquired while training to infiltrate the Graysons… There will be Aidily, and I want to show Emily's priorities shifting as she reacts to things happening in her life, namely with Charlotte, actively taking Nolan's advice rather than pursuing her vendetta - revenge is a pretty hollow goal, whereas justice can liberate a great many people.

Oh, and if anyone's seen Lily van der Woodsen's penthouse on Gossip Girl, that's the inspiration for Nolan's Manhattan penthouse.

The Girl with the Infinity Tattoo

02

Companion

March 30th 2005

My own little mermaid,

I wish I could tell you all that I'd like to say to you in a letter, but I'm afraid I wouldn't have the paper to do any of it justice. I wish there had been any way I could protect you from the vile things people will undoubtedly have tried to convince you of about me.

If there is one thing I want you to believe with absolute certainty, it is that my love for you is infinite. This was not the life I had foreseen for myself, and especially not for you. For you I wanted only joy; my deepest regret is that in trusting the wrong people, I have brought you nothing but pain. The betrayal I faced is nothing in comparison to my heartsickness at being forced from you, Amanda. That I was not there to watch you grow up into the kind, strong young-woman your mother and I always hoped we'd raise you to be.

You are my strong, kind-hearted, clever girl, Amanda: no matter what, never forget you are those things first, not what people will judge you to be for being my daughter.

I have asked Nolan to pass my belongings on to you. He is now, apart from yourself, the only person in the world in whom I know I can place my trust absolutely. It is rare to meet anyone as brilliant and as sincere as Nolan: investing in his vision is, after you, my Amanda, one of the moments of greatest pride in my life.

Once upon a time Nolan trusted me to invest in the thing most precious to him: His vision.

Now, I have entrusted Nolan with what has always been most precious to me: You.

Nolan is a man of his word, and I am proud of the young man you will by now have met, and of the work he has committed himself to. It is through Nolan I am finally able to give you the life you deserve, the life ripped away from you because I placed my trust in the wrong people. My greatest regret is that I won't be able to share that life with you.

I have asked Nolan to guide and protect you in your adult life, as I am no longer able to. Listen to his advice, but never be afraid to trust your own instincts. Trust yourself.

Whatever has happened to us, Amanda, you are going to beat this world that has tried its best to swallow you. You are courageous, bright and huge-hearted, and I love you. I want you to promise me that you'll always do what is right. It is far too easy to do the wrong thing; if it feels wrong, don't do it. If it feels easy, don't do it. You are so good, my sweet little mermaid.

I hope my journals will be able to answer some of the questions you will undoubtedly have about how our beautiful life together was shattered. I am not the man they say I am: I did not do the things they have convicted me for.

All I can hope for you is that you will find it in you to do the one thing that has been so hard for me to do: Forgive.

Know that you are the best thing I ever did, and that I love you,

Infinity times infinity,

Daddy

Even bruised and battered, Amanda Clarke was a very pretty girl. It was impossible not to see it. She had riotous strawberry-blonde curls that seemed to have a life of their own, pulled away from her face in a big bun to put her bruises and her bone-structure into greater relief. Pretty cheekbones and a slender throat; incongruously neat eyebrows and elegant hands, she was above-average height and slender. Fine black lashes shielded fierce dark eyes, rich chocolatey-brown; there was little warmth in them, though he'd seen her eyes fill with tears a couple times, once when he'd had to tell her about David, and then when she'd sniffed sharply and stuffed David's letter back into its envelope, slamming the lid of the box shut.

He knew what was in the box, but he hadn't invaded David's privacy by reading his final letter to the daughter he had never seen grow into an adolescent.

Amanda had shoved the box into the middle-seat as if it had burned her, folded her hoodie around her as if for protection, hunching in the seat and folding her arms around her, making herself so small, earphones in and listening to music that had lulled her into a light sleep as Bob drove them back to Manhattan.

She had to be exhausted from earning her freedom this morning, from learning about David's death… From not showing how deeply David's letter had affected her. It obviously had. Nolan didn't know this girl, but he knew a little something about subverting his emotions - about wanting to be able to in front of other people. He never had been particularly gifted at that, especially as a kid. She was.

Her emotions had barely flickered across her face as she learned her father was murdered in prison. He was impressed she had maintained such a polite tone when he had obviously been irritating her, pressing her father's innocence, something that seemed to anger her more than anything… It wasn't submissive, because she still had a delicate bite, but her tone was cautious, more respectful than anything.

The research he'd done into Amanda's life since David's arrest…he'd found the videos of Amanda's psychiatric evaluations. Her file with Child Protection Services, her short and bittersweet juvenile record and, considerably longer, her medical history.

To see the Amanda Clarke sat beside him in his SUV, no-one would know what she had survived. Except that Nolan did, and he knew he had no right to know it if Amanda didn't want him to. He had stumbled upon it, been horrified and heartbroken, and had to keep digging. He'd had to know she had survived somehow.

And she had. And she was beautiful. And hesitant, courteous, and bewildered by her new freedom, disguising how much it had affected her to find out her father was dead.

He'd thought there was very little of David in his daughter's face: He had seen photographs of David's late-wife, and Amanda was the spitting-image of her mother, bruises aside. But it was during their conversation outside Allenwood that he had seen it.

Quiet resolution.

David had always been calm, polite, considerate, even in Rikers. Even chained and bound, he had always been courteous. Nolan remembered him warm and welcoming, generous, easy to laugh and encouraging, a relaxed, charismatic personality, sharp as a tack… With business his instincts had been infallible; with people…

Nolan knew he had annoyed Amanda, but she had never raised her voice, never bitten back, never been rude. He had seen the same look on her face when she had decided to climb into his SUV, as he had seen on David's face when he had given Nolan the infinity-box. Steely resolve. David had decided Nolan's efforts to exonerate him were wasted while his little girl languished in a juvenile prison, for having the audacity to survive.

The blistering heat of the city had faded to a hum as they reached Manhattan, the sun setting, and his stomach was rumbling. Amanda hadn't asked for anything particular to eat, had looked startled that he had even asked her. He gently touched Amanda's arm as Bob pulled up outside Nolan's favourite Chinese-Japanese-Thai restaurant, and she started, bleary and disoriented.

"Wake up, Sleeping Bruisey," he said softly. "Time for dinner."

"You need me again tonight, Boss?" Bob asked, and Nolan shook his head.

"Nah. We're good, Bob. Have a good night. Don't do anything I would disapprove of," he said, smirking, and his driver chuckled dryly, as Amanda climbed out of the SUV. He gave Amanda a frown as she climbed out of the SUV, turning her back pointedly on the infinity box. "Uh - forgetting something?"

"I don't want that," Amanda said quietly, giving the box a suspicious look from the corner of her eye. But she carefully wrapped the earphones around her new NolPod and tucked it into her pocket, inside its box, which made him internalise a smile, even as he sighed and grabbed the box David had made and lifted it out of the SUV. He wasn't going to give up. David's infinity box under his arm, Nolan fixed the bruised teenager a look before nodding his head for her to follow.

"Hope you like Asian," he said, and they entered one of his favourite restaurants.

Amanda's lips pursed thoughtfully, and she shrugged a shoulder as she eyed the nondescript exterior. The food was some of the best outside Asia, his favourite mixture of dimsum, fragrant curries, dishes made with noodles made fresh on the premises every day, insane fresh seafood dishes, sushi, sashimi, and it wasn't pretentious or overpriced; it was a hidden gem and he kept the secret to himself. Most of the staff knew him on sight, knew him as a generous tipper with an enthusiasm for their menu. He never ordered the same thing twice.

"Uh - let's get some tea - what would you like to drink, Amanda? - you don't need that," Nolan said, taking the cheap, laminated menu from her hands. She glanced up at the waitress, embarrassed to meet her eye with her own flourishing with a bruise.

"Uh…a Sprite, please," she said uncertainly, flicking her eyes almost embarrassedly at Nolan.

"Anything in particular you want?" he asked, and Amanda flicked her dark eyes at him, again trying to stifle that embarrassed look.

"Order whatever you'd like," she said uncertainly, not looking happy or belligerent, but somewhere in between, bordering bashful, uncomfortable. Nolan gave her a considering look, and turned to smile winningly at the waitress, reeling off dishes he adored, and thought would be an intermediate introduction to Westernised Asian cuisine, including a ramen dish with ginger and mushrooms, buckets of miso soup, dimsum, steamed dumplings, deep-fried oyster and crab omelettes, sushi and wantons, fragrant Thai seafood stew, noodle dishes, salt-and-pepper squid, five-spice belly pork, giant king prawns, seared tuna tataki, one of his favourites, a crab salad, an insane muscles dish with raw chilli. They were little dishes, brought in waves, meant to be shared.

This was a favourite place of his to bring dates: He had eaten alone the majority of the last few times he'd been here. It was…refreshing, and welcome, to have a dinner-companion. Amanda watched him carefully as he took mouthfuls here and there, using his chopsticks, dunking things into different sauces, adding slices of chilli, lime-juice, salt, hot-sauce to different things to suit his taste. She paid attention and cautiously mimicked what she saw him doing, learning from his example. She watched everything, especially him. He realised she hadn't been outside of Allenwood in nearly three years; she had to be a little hypersensitive to the city's everyday chaos going on around her.

"They seem to know you. Do you come here often?"

"As often as I can," Nolan said. "Best Asian food on this continent. I make as many excuses as I can to do business in Hong Kong and Tokyo. They're eating my tech up over there; they love it. And while I'm there I fill up on all I can eat. Try the stuffed squid. It's silky, not slimy, I promise."

"Do you travel a lot?" Amanda asked, frowning in concentration as she used her chopsticks to pick up a ribbon of crosshatched calamari. He got the sense she might actually be interested; she was trying to figure him out. She struck him as the kind of girl who paid attention to the details; her eyes followed his hands as he ate, the waitress as she brought dishes out from the tiny kitchen, other patrons she could observe from her seat.

"More and more every year," Nolan said. "While I can handle the jetlag I go myself. And it's much more courteous to prospective investors and business-partners."

Amanda bit her lip but continued to dig into the spicy muscles, using one shell to pull the flesh out of the others. Quietly, she said, "My dad used to say he hated travelling for business; he never got to see the cities he was flying to."

"That's for sure," Nolan sighed. "Still, lets me hone my bucket-list. I won't always be working eighty-hour weeks."

"Why do you work such long days?"

"I'm the boss."

"Doesn't that just show you have poor time-management?"

"Smart-ass," Nolan said, blinking at her, surprised, as Amanda shrugged a slim shoulder and reached for another coil of squid, getting the hang of her chopsticks. "I started NolCorp out of my dad's garage; I hate relinquishing control."

"It's gonna kill you," Amanda said grimly, flicking a look at him from under her eyelashes. "You need to let someone else look after the baby sometimes…" Nolan chuckled softly. Aunt Carol often said something along the same lines. "Do you like the invention or the business side of things?"

"I like the challenge. Bringing my visions to reality, expanding the scope of the business, venturing into new areas," Nolan said; he was being more candid with Amanda than he had rarely been with any interviewer. He was becoming notorious for being cagey on the details. He told her that.

"The less you show, the more they'll wonder," Amanda said, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face like candlelight. Genuine amusement transformed her whole face, warmth radiating from those dark eyes that seemed so fathomless. And he couldn't help feel that little nugget was very telling about Amanda's personality.

"Besides, anything I say can and will be used against me, out of context, to suit reporters' purposes," Nolan sighed. "With social media you can't say anything today without there being hideous backlash, and I'd rather my legal team work on copyrighting the work than suing for libel against the CEO."

"Better to stay silent?"

"Better to let the work speak for itself. My personal life has very little influence on my ideas; they're constant. Relationships aren't," Nolan said, shrugging.

"Are you a workaholic?"

"I'm committed to NolCorp. If I wasn't, it wouldn't exist. Having an intense work-ethic isn't always a bad thing… I have the same rules for running my company as I do for being in a relationship," Nolan shrugged.

"And what are they?" Amanda asked curiously.

Nolan's lips twitched. "Be committed; be loyal; be unpredictable and daring; pay attention to the details. That's important." As his business had grown, he had sought out and nurtured those who had impressed him with their vigilance, their daring, their talent. He liked to be the first person in the office and the last to leave: he saw those truly passionate about their roles, had often startled employees who didn't realise he knew their names by sitting down with them to talk over their work, or save their work, unplug them and send them home, impressed. "Besides…it's not just me anymore. I'm responsible for a lot of people's livelihoods."

"That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself," Amanda observed succinctly.

"It's humbling, actually," Nolan sighed lightly, shrugging. "I've always been the smartest in the room; walking into NolCorp HQ reminds me that I'm not the only one in the room… I think you have some experience with that…"

Amanda glanced up at him, her dark, hooded eyes almost dangerous. They softened, as she thoughtfully chewed her food, and gave an awkward, acknowledging nod.

"How did you know?" she asked, after taking a sip of her soda and carefully setting the sweating glass down.

"Know what?"

She worried her lip for a second, before fixing Nolan with the sudden, intense eye-contact he thought she used as much as a weapon as he did his irreverent smirk. "That I'm Amanda Clarke…"

"You mean, considering you were in lockup under the name Callie Chace?" Nolan said, pulling a face. He smirked, raising his eyebrows, and shrugged. "You're talking to the former child-genius prodigy and hacker who founded a global tech company… Whose idea was it to change your name?"

"My name's been changed many times," Amanda said quietly, giving him a dangerous look through her dark lashes. She squinted at him, seeming to decide something; resting her forearms on the table, she leaned forward, her look challenging. "When I went into foster-care the psychiatrist who had me institutionalised in group-homes recommended my name be changed to protect my identity. No-one wanted to foster the devil's daughter…but she also did it to punish me."

"How so?"

"Your name is tied intrinsically to your sense of self…" Amanda licked her lips, cupping her slender fingers around the small cup of miso soup, suddenly almost…abashed…and glanced up at Nolan through her lashes. He was astonished by the sense of gravity in her, but not surprised: She had endured too much not to be world-weary, mature. He hadn't expected her to be philosophical. "When I first went into foster-care I refused to believe my father was guilty; the psychiatrist…worked hard to try and convince me that David Clarke was evil. That I was evil…that I was only pretending to be a good girl, like he had pretended to be a good man. She stripped away my name, and stripped away the last connection I had to my father. That's when Amanda became Theresa…after that, every new family, they changed my name… Amanda became Theresa, who became Candace, who became Beth, who became Callie…"

"You're eighteen now," Nolan said quietly, his thoughts lingering on Amanda's philosophical answer, her name and her sense of self. "What name will you choose to go by?" Her eyes lingered on the infinity box resting on the chair beside Nolan.

"I'm not sure yet," Amanda said, glancing up at Nolan. Something haunted flickered across her face, and Nolan furrowed his brow, worrying his lip, startled when the waitress brought the last wave of dishes over, a pot of Shincha tea and exquisite handmade Japanese sweets almost too pretty to eat, and with them, something he had organised through the restaurant for Amanda.

The waitress smiled, bringing over a small dish on which was placed a cupcake. A vanilla cupcake interspersed with little pieces of fresh strawberry, a swirl of pale-pink strawberry frosting on top, a tiny strawberry on top with a single pink candle, glowing as the plate was set down in front of Amanda. He'd asked the wait-staff not to sing, conscious that Amanda might not like the attention.

But it was one of her mother's special-occasion cupcakes, on her eighteenth birthday, on the day of her liberation.

"Happy birthday, Amanda," he said softly, and Amanda's dark eyes glittered with tears. The waitress called gently for their attention, and surprised them by taking their photograph on the small digital camera Nolan had handed her earlier. He wondered how the picture would turn out, thanking the waitress as she handed the camera back, bid Amanda a happy birthday, and withdrew to print off their bill.

Amanda cleared her throat, wiped her eyes, and sniffed delicately.

"Will…will you share it with me?" she asked, and Nolan smiled, touched by her unselfishness.

"Sure," he agreed, and Amanda cut the cupcake in half, offering him the choice of which half he wanted. He chose the smaller, without the little strawberry, and finished off his tea as he watched Amanda savour her half of the cupcake in two bites, slowly chewing, licking frosting delicately from her fingertip, her lips.

"Why didn't you tell me they were going to take a photograph?" she asked bashfully, as their waitress returned with the bill and after-dinner mints.

"I wanted it to be candid," Nolan shrugged. She looked uncomfortable as Nolan settled the bill. He shrugged, as her dark eyes flicked shame-facedly from the bill to his face, "Don't worry about it."

"I don't like being indebted to anyone," Amanda said quietly.

"You don't like asking for favours?"

"Something like that," Amanda murmured, her hands in the pockets of her hoodie as Nolan unfolded from his chair, considerably taller than Amanda, even though she was above-average height herself.

"Hope you don't mind walking back. Feel like I need to walk off all that food; my belt's feeling a little bit tight," Nolan said, and he caught Amanda's sceptical eyebrow-tweak as she flicked her dark eyes at his waistline.

"Nolan. If you turn sideways and stick out your tongue, people might mistake you for a human zipper," Amanda said candidly, and Nolan chuckled; her smile faltered as he gathered the infinity-box under his arm.

"C'mon," he said, stifling a yawn into his shoulder, his hands full.

"Are you suffering jetlag?"

"Seeking you out's actually done wonders for fighting off the symptoms," Nolan said. "But I've been fed…it's warm…" He widened his eyes, blinking, and sighed as they wandered out into the balmy evening air. The city was still as vibrant as when they had entered the restaurant; the night noises were different, though, and the entire city seemed to be exhaling in relief as the sun set.

His long legs eating up the sidewalk, Nolan set the pace and led the way to his building, finding it interesting to watch Amanda. During dinner, he had noticed her table-manners; she had been raised well, with manners and courtesy, her slender hands slow and meticulous with each movement she made. She had shared even the dishes he had noticed she really enjoyed, never took the last dumpling, and actively prevented herself from gazing covetously at the sweets after she had indulged in savouring one. She had shared her birthday cupcake, a treat he knew had significant emotional meaning for her. Walking the Manhattan streets, she held her head high but didn't stare, though she still appeared flushed when people made eye-contact.

"They're not staring because of the bruises," Nolan told her in an undertone, falling back as Amanda dawdled uncertainly. He wondered if people mistook them for siblings, tall, slender and blondish, loping beside each other in casual attire. "You can hardly see them in this light… They do a double-take because you're pretty." She gave him a dubious, startled frown from under her lashes, but Nolan shrugged. She was very pretty, and it was natural prettiness, not a speck of makeup on her clean face. There was a dusting of light freckles over her nose, and curiously, under the outer-corners of her cheekbones, and long after the bruises faded they would continue to beguile.

"Are you a foodie?" Amanda asked, diverting his thoughts.

"I enjoy things other people put their passion into," Nolan answered thoughtfully. "Music, fashion, literature, architecture, design, food… When someone's put care and effort into something, you can taste it. The same principle they cook by, I live by, run my company by. Our company. Here. This is my building. Thirty-third floor; bought it for the view, it's insane. C'mon…"

Amanda smiled tightly at the doorman, whom Nolan tipped generously - he always did, and was probably the only person in the building who knew who the guy was, what his kids' names were and that he was diabetic - and following him into the crisp foyer, which was spacious and cool. Summoning an elevator, he took his special deliveries from the concierge, and Amanda, without having to be asked, helped him carry everything. She seemed to be getting anxious, observing everything with those sharp dark eyes, but she had learned how to mask her agitation, to present a cool unflappable exterior that was not easily intimidated.

"Welcome to Casa Nolan," he sighed, as the elevator doors opened to his foyer, revealing his newest acquisition.

"Is that…a Grayson Perry?" Amanda asked, and Nolan turned to her, startled. She was gazing at the tapestry.

"Mm-hmm. 'Recipe for Humanity' it's called," Nolan said softly, gazing at the peculiar, almost grotesque imagery created in embroidery. Softly, thoughtfully, Amanda read aloud the words embroidered beneath the image:

"'You will die, you are alone

There is no god upon his throne

Impose thy will upon earth's mess

Else your life is meaningless

No hell below, no heaven above

Live life now and act with love'."

Amanda turned her dark eyes on Nolan. "Struck a chord with you, did it?"

"Perhaps," Nolan shrugged, sauntering into his penthouse. Of all the property he now owned, he was proud of the penthouse, considered it home. After a two-year renovation and the consultation of numerous designers, interior architects, he was happy with how it was coming together. He was a perfectionist: Everything was about the details. Everything was immaculate. The colours, how textures worked together, the separation of different areas of the open penthouse with unique flooring, pulling in classic pieces like an Eames armchair, modern art pieces like Grayson Perry tapestries, steam-bent wood firewood baskets beside an ultra-modern fireplace, the pristine kitchen with indigo sliding doors, crocodile-skin trinket boxes, unique lighting fixtures, ghost chairs, the original 1977 'Walking Torso' Andy Warhol in his bedroom. He was a champion of up-and-coming talent, prowling art institutes all over the world, curating his own private collection of mixed-media artwork, furniture, ceramics, glassware, textiles, from extraordinary talents.

"This is where you live?" Amanda said softly, and he gazed around proudly, seeing the place through Amanda's eyes. The ultra-modern glass banister, the indigo kitchen, the chic, modern vibe tempered by touches of subtle luxury like the handwoven angora blankets, hidden tech controlling the lighting by their movements, and the unique trinkets that indicated this place was a private, and personal home.

"Most of the time," Nolan shrugged. "The renovation's been a labour of love. Previous owner was all gaudy, all new-money faux-baroque, very…American-heiress-redecorates-Blenheim Palace… Glad you get to see the finished product. I'll have a housewarming after Labour Day, when they all start swarming back to the city from their favourite playgrounds. Until then, mi casa…" He smiled, shrugging, and set the infinity-box on the narrow table set adjacent to his chic sofa, filled with glossy books on art, philosophy, history and science. Pouring himself a nightcap, Amanda dawdled around, her lips parting as she gazed, entranced, by one of the pieces of his art collection.

"Is that a Cecily Brown?" she asked, never taking her eyes from it. Hand in his pocket, the other curled around his glass, Nolan sighed and smiled, staring at the painting. It was voyeuristic, overtly sexual, suggestive, it made his breathing shallow, reminded him of intoxicating nights locked away in the vault of his memory, prickled his skin like the excitement of new infatuations. It was an exciting piece, in many senses of the word.

"'Hard, Fast and Beautiful'," he sighed, gazing warmly at the painting, and Amanda's dark eyes flickered to his face, a gentle blush rising in her cheeks.

"It's…extraordinary," she said softly.

"It's very evocative," Nolan agreed, still smiling. "If you're not moved by it, you're not human." He sipped his drink, and glanced at Amanda, who seemed utterly captivated by the painting, entranced and almost horrified at the same time.

Remembering what he knew about her medical history, the painting had to evoke all kinds of trauma. But she stared at the painting, almost in wonder, her eyes glittering with tears that did not fall, a flush to her cheeks almost of innocence, shy about staring in front of him.

Amanda turned to him, as he sipped his drink. "Why are you giving me half your company?"

"Forty-nine percent," Nolan corrected idly. He glanced at Amanda, who was frowning at him as if trying to make out what he was in an extremely odd science experiment: He was used to that look. "Because it's right."

"How often did you visit David Clarke?"

"Above forty times," Nolan admitted.

"Why would you risk your company's reputation by claiming any association with him?" Amanda asked.

"My work speaks for itself; my company is all about transparency," Nolan said, shrugging idly.

"Our company," Amanda echoed what he'd said earlier. She frowned at the infinity-box.

"You can take it," Nolan said, glancing at the box too. "Guest bedroom I picked for you's down the hall, take a right. There's a pretty stunning Anne-Sophie Tschiegg abstract. And some gifts for you."

"Why do you keep pushing that?" she sighed, glancing from the box to Nolan.

"Because you have to read David's journals!" Nolan blurted earnestly.

"It won't change anything," Amanda said quietly. "Nameless or not, I had to learn who I am on my own, in spite of David Clarke."

"It's not about changing anything, Amanda," Nolan said. "It's about - it's about knowing that you were loved."

"Say you're right, and there was a conspiracy. How is it any better to know that I was loved by a guy who was set up as a patsy, who was innocent this whole time and was killed in prison, still innocent, his entire life ripped away from him unjustly, someone I hated and had no respect for, than to accept that my dad was a liar responsible for laundering money for terrorists and destroying hundreds of lives?" Amanda said, scowling. Nolan bit his lip; she was too clever. He obviously wasn't the first person she had had this argument with, not the first to float the conspiracy idea to absolve her father of guilt. The only thing he could think of was what David had wanted for his daughter.

"At least you'd know your memories of your dad weren't a lie," Nolan said quietly. "Read the journals." He picked up the box, and forced her to take it from him or risk dropping it on their toes. He was impressed with her composure, her jaw working with the effort to stifle her annoyed expression. He gave her a jaunty smile. "I have a six a.m. conference call and meetings all day tomorrow, pretty much until the weekend, actually. There's paperwork in your room; we can go over it later, oh, and a credit-card to get you started. Sleep well."

"You -" He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "You want me to stay here?"

"Unless you've had any other offers," Nolan shrugged, and Amanda flushed, embarrassed. "Until you decide what you want to do, consider my home your safe place to land. Oh - Hands off the Star Wars memorabilia." He turned and set off toward the stairs.

"Nolan?" Once more, he glanced over his shoulder. Amanda raised her dark eyes to his. "Thank you for today. Dinner was delicious."

Nolan smiled softly. "Happy birthday, Amanda." He traipsed off, stopping to gaze affectionately at the exquisite hand-embroidered Japanese quilt - entitled 'Sun Rising' - hanging over the stairs, before sidling to his bedroom, tapping the desktop into life, plugging in his digital camera to download the photograph taken at the restaurant, and bringing up his live-feed security cameras, carefully watching Amanda in the living-room, staring down at the infinity-box in her arms, around the penthouse, making her mind up. She made her way uncertainly over to the Cecily Brown, peering closer, taking in the details, stepping back to observe the piece in its entirety.

She made her way slowly down the corridor to the guest-bedrooms, the powder-room, media room and full guest bath, peeking around the corner, identifying the bedroom he had designated for her. The light settings were triggered by her trying to find the light-switch; the room illuminated softly, revealing the spacious bed, the panoramic window overlooking the city, the abstract artwork on the wall above a mid-century sideboard cabinet on which Star Wars collectibles were arranged, a sleek modern white desk, frosted-glass sliding closet doors, a restored mid-century telephone-chair. For a half-hour, he watched her, frowning in disappointment, but not at all surprised given her reluctance to even entertain the idea of the infinity-box, as Amanda set aside David's gift to sit at the desk, carefully reading through paperwork.

It was the artwork she noticed first, illuminated by the soft amber lighting that diffused throughout the elegant room as she entered it, contrasting chic minimalism with luxurious details and flourishes of Nolan's character. Odd little personal things, like a small framed cross-stitch that read 'Bless This Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy' embroidered with a Star Wars skyline, a poster of The Iron Giant and the little red robot on the bedside cabinet, a small framed tarot card 'The Magician'. It was evident that Nolan was a highly-educated, cultured, very quirky young man.

Over the course of the day, Nolan had shown himself to be eccentric, easily confident, bashful, sweet, feisty, hyper-intelligent, and deeply compassionate. A little socially-awkward…and… sexy.

She was a lot of things, and blind was definitely not one of them. Tall and slender like a cello bow, he was also probably the most handsome man she had ever met, with that long face, his mercurial eyes, those pretty lips.

A pretty man with a beautiful heart was not something she was accustomed to.

She set the infinity box down on the sideboard cabinet beside the Star Wars toys, gazing at the abstract art on the wall, then turned and peered down at the desk.

Someone had neatly laid out several things on the desk: A pile of ring-binders and manila folders, and a small birthday card - her first in nine years. Signed from Nolan.

Nolan.

She pressed her fingertips to her lips, her eyes burning. It was too much. To be told the day of her release from Hell that her father was dead, by his protégé and only loyal friend was one thing; to find that young man was so deeply compassionate, kind…considerate and thoughtful… That was quite another. She could still taste the strawberries from the cupcake he had obviously thought to have the waitress present to her. Her mother's special-occasion cupcakes. He remembered the afternoon he had cut his finger open helping her try to make those cupcakes…for the afternoon her father had invested in Nolan's vision, helping him to start his company.

NolCorp.

She was now forty-nine percent owner of one of the most powerful companies in the world.

She bit her lip, sniffed back her tears, jarred by her sense of hyper-reality, unused to so many colours, textures, exquisite details, freedom…

She had been released from Allenwood but mentally, for a long time, she would probably remain there.

You have to read those journals, Nolan had told her, with such urgent sincerity, she couldn't help be…curious.

Her dad was dead. Whatever she found in that box…did it matter?

After collecting her from Allenwood, bringing her to the city, feeding her, putting her up in his gorgeous penthouse…she owed it to Nolan to at least look inside the box. She set the NolPod he had gifted her on top of her father's infinity-box, eyeing both intensely.

Tomorrow. She'd look at it tomorrow. Tonight she was exhausted; as Nolan had said, she was fed, she was tired, the room was pleasantly cool… She found the remote-controller to turn off the lights, and sidled up to the huge bed, stripping off her hoodie, stifling a shy smile.

He had even thought to leave her a pair of pyjamas, soft dove-grey cotton, and a delicate silvery kimono-style robe lightly embroidered with chrysanthemums in lilac, shell-pink and sky-blue tones.

The sheets were the softest she had ever felt, the scent crisp, almost floral; the mattress was one of those expensive memory-foam ones she had heard of.

She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

A.N.: What do you think? Meticulous as Nolan is, there's no way he wouldn't remember the tiny details David might have told him about Amanda, and he's such a sweetheart he'd try to do something special, even if she is a juvenile delinquent, and a stranger.