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Nolan Ross was 18-years-old the first time he met Amanda Clarke, an MIT drop-out with an idea and no money wearing a suit he borrowed from his grandfather and a horribly knotted tie. When he had gotten the call from David Clarke's office saying he was willing to meet with Nolan but only if he came out to his house in the Hamptons, Nolan immediately agreed despite the fact he had no idea how he was going to get there or how he would afford to make the trip.
Because of how expensive the cabs were, Nolan only made it halfway to the beach house before having to walk the rest; by the time he reached the front steps, he was sweating through his one good shirt, there was sand in his shoes, and Nolan was certain he looked like a well-dress homeless person.
“Are you here to see my dad?” a voice piped up, startling him. Nolan looked down the porch to see a little blonde girl playing with a golden retriever near a porch swing; he estimated her age to be about eight, and Nolan remembered reading how David Clarke's wife had died in a car accident a few years earlier, how he was a single father to a daughter.
“Yeah, is he here?”
“He's in the shower because we just got back from swimming.” Scratching between the dog's ears, the girl offered, “You can sit with me until he's done.”
“Uh...thanks.” Setting his messenger's bag turned briefcase on the porch, he offered, “I'm Nolan.”
“I'm Amanda, and this is Sammy. I got him for my birthday.”
“That's cool.” Awkwardly taking a seat on the swing, Nolan looked out at the ocean, at the sprawling mansions; he could not imagine having so much wealth.
“Your tie's crooked.”
Nolan looked down to confirm what he already knew. “Yeah, I...Not used to ties.”
“Do you want me to fix it for you?” When Nolan said nothing, unsure how to respond, she got to her feet and assured him, “I tie my dad's ties all the time. And you want to look nice when you meet my dad so he'll give you money, right?”
“What makes you think I want money?”
Amanda shrugged, reaching for the knot of his tie without fear. “Because everyone wants my dad to give them money. And he said he had a big meeting with someone today.”
Nolan tried not to preen from the idea he was a “big meeting.”
Nolan was an only child with no cousins; he had never really been around children before, especially not strangely precocious children who played with purebred golden retrievers on the porches of multimillion dollar beach houses and knew how to tie ties. He wasn't sure if it was acceptable to allow a little girl to help you get ready for a meeting which could change your life and provide the kind of venture capital needed to launch something which would revolutionize computers.
You know, in theory.
“There,” Amanda announced, smoothly sliding the knot up with sure hands. “Now you look like a real businessman.”
“What makes you think I'm not a real businessman?”
“You walked here. No one ever walks here.”
Before Nolan could reply, Sammy took off, clamoring down the stairs to greet a boy who looked to be a few years older than Amanda. The boy called Amanda's name, and she immediately took off after the dog to join the boy. As they bounded down the beach, Amanda cried over her shoulder, “Good luck, Nolan! I hope my dad gives you money!”
It was Nolan's last glimpse of the real Amanda Clarke.
* * *
He tried to become her guardian once.
Nolan was the only person who ever visited David Clarke in prison, and every time David pleaded with Nolan to do whatever he could to get Amanda out of the group home. On the day his company went public, making he and Amanda Clarke billionaires, Nolan went to Child Protective Services and requested to foster Amanda Clarke.
It didn't matter that he had a written letter from David Clarke stating he wanted his daughter to live with Nolan Ross, “a friend of the family”; it did not matter that Nolan had more money than God and had already reserved a slot for Amanda in one of the premiere private schools in New York City. None of it mattered because he was a twenty-one-year-old kid who was buddies with the worst domestic terrorist in American history, and terrorists didn't get to appoint guardians to their children when their parental rights were terminated.
The caseworker did allow him a fifteen-minute visit with Amanda, who recently turned eleven. She escorted Nolan to a visiting room with a small table, and there sat Amanda Clarke, her skin as pale as milk, all the life and vigor Nolan recalled drained from her small, sad body.
“Hey, Amanda,” he greeted, trying to sound jovial, trying to act as if he had known Amanda her entire life rather than one brief meeting three years earlier.
She didn't talk; all she did was draw a picture of a familiar beach, a puppy, and a house which was recently purchased by Lydia Davis.
When the time was up, Nolan got to his feet, mumbling a goodbye when Amanda said, “Wait.” She carefully folded her paper, handing it to him like the notes girls had never passed him in school, before staring back down at the table. Nolan tucked it into his pocket without looking, following the caseworker to the exit.
“This is actually for the best, Mr. Ross. Amanda Clarke is a violent, dangerously unstable little girl.”
In his car, Nolan looked at the picture Amanda had drawn, read the message she wrote in neat purple crayon.
I miss you, Daddy. I love you.
It was the last time Nolan was allowed to see Amanda Clarke; someone at the prison told Children's Services David had a drawing from his daughter and Nolan Ross was banned from having contact with Amanda.
* * *
He tried not to think of the angry girl with black hair and empty eyes.
That was Nolan's least favorite of all the Amandas, the Amanda which probably made David turn in his grave.
That is, if the prison hadn't cremated him. Nolan was the one to collect his ashes, to pay for the urn, to have him buried beside his wife, his name added to the headstone, and it was Nolan who paid every time the headstone was defaced.
The last time Nolan ever saw Amanda Clarke was in that parking lot outside juvenile hall, and it was the last time he believed in fresh starts.
* * *
She asked him a dozen times how he knew it was her at that first party, and every time he gave her a different answer.
”I have an eidetic memory. I literally can't forget a face.”
”No amount of bad hair dye changes a person's appearance that much.”
”You think I haven't been tracking you from the moment you changed your name?”
He would never tell her how, for seven years, he studied every woman's face looking for hers, trying to divine the girl lost amongst the ruins of her father's imaginary sins, hoping to find proof there was happiness in Amanda Clarke's future.
When Nolan discovered what she was doing, he automatically volunteered his services because, for once, he can actually help her.
It took practice not to choke every time he introduced her as Emily Thorne.
* * *
The sight of her with Daniel Grayson never failed to make Nolan's stomach churn with disgust.
It wasn't personal in regards to Daniel; Nolan knew he was a party boy douche, the Harvard boy who coasted on his good looks, parents' money, and easy charm, but if Nolan hated everyone who met those credentials, he'd have to hate everyone in the Hamptons.
Come to think of it, he did hate everyone in the Hamptons.
No, the reason he hated Daniel was because, every time Nolan saw Amanda with him, he knew she didn't want to be with the golden boy. She allowed his hands to settle on her waist, his lips to brush against her skin, his tongue to slip into her mouth because it was part of the bigger picture, the ultimate scheme Nolan was not privy to; Daniel Grayson and her relationship with him was a pawn in her advance on Victoria Grayson, and it made Nolan sick to think of people reduced down to pieces in a game they weren't even aware they were playing.
Then he remembered David dying in a cell, a homemade knife ending a life which should have expired decades later surrounded by grandchildren, and Nolan managed to live with it.
But when Amanda answered the door, shushing him because Daniel was asleep in her bed, Nolan wondered how a person could divorce themselves so entirely from the things they did to further a goal.
* * *
Worse men than Tyler have shared his bed. The combination of Nolan's lack of people skills coupled with his gigantic net worth have made him the marks of many ambitious gold diggers, male and female. And Nolan didn't kid himself into believing attractive people wanted to share his bed because he was amazing in bed or they felt anything for him. In the beginning, Nolan had made the mistake of confusing sex with emotion, and he learned to gain pleasure where it was available while guarding his heart.
Tyler was the first person who was honest about being a conman, and Nolan found that honesty intriguing. Letting Tyler suck his dick wasn't about anything more than getting the video which will provide Amanda with the best kind of blackmail for when the time comes. Nolan didn't care what con Tyler was trying to run on the Graysons, but he wasn't going to let Tyler fuck with Amanda anymore.
As he came in Tyler's mouth, Nolan's brain screamed, “Hypocrite!”
It was the first time Nolan ever felt like he had some Emily Thorne in him.
* * *
Nolan genuinely liked Jack Porter. He was a good guy, the type of guy who would literally give you the shirt off of his back, who would let you hang around even if you annoy the shit out of him, who would say in one breath you weren't friends but who would then do something to prove just how untrue his words were. Nolan didn't have many (any) friends, not since David died, and Nolan wanted Jack to be his friend.
But that wasn't the reason he forcibly befriended Jack Porter.
No, Nolan wanted to be Jack's friend because he named his boat The Amanda, because he took care of Sammy for seventeen years, because he treated Emily Thorne as if she walked on water and asked for nothing in return.
But, best of all, when Jack Porter smiled at Emily Thorne, it was the real Amanda Clarke who smiled back.
Jack Porter was the only person in the Hamptons who missed Amanda Clarke, and it was the only thing which kept him safe from her wrath.
* * *
Nolan found her on the swing one night, staring absently up at the swollen moon. He said her (fake) name a few times before softly saying, “Amanda.”
She looked up immediately, a softness to her features Nolan didn't recognize, and he felt like a bumbling teenager again, his breath taken by a beautiful woman in an oversized sweatshirt, her hair hanging loosely around her face.
“Don't call me that.”
“Didn't want to make things confusing, what with the real Emily Thorne hanging around.” Nolan dropped onto the swing beside her, staring up at the night sky. “That's going to be a problem.”
“I know.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Not yet, but I will.” Letting her gaze wander back to the sky, she added, “I always do.”
They were quiet for a beat before Nolan blurted out, “How far are you going to take this thing with Daniel?”
“As far as I need to.”
“And who cares if some innocent guy gets caught in the crossfire?” Nolan scoffed. “How is that any different from what they did to your dad?”
Her eyes cut him as deep as a blade. “Daniel will walk away with his life.” Brushing past him, she ordered, “Get off my porch, Nolan.”
As he obeyed, Nolan could not help but run his fingers over the double infinity symbol carved into the wood, Emily's touchstone, now his.
Emily Thorne and her vengeance would not last forever.
Maybe when this was all over, Nolan could finally get to know Amanda Clarke.
Or, at least, what was left of her.