Amara woke earlier than usual, disturbed by a dream she couldn't quite remember. She sat up, sheets tangled around her legs, breathing hard. The sky outside the massive windows of the penthouse was still dark, painted in hues of navy and violet. For a moment, she didn't move. The stillness was too complete, too artificial nothing like the comforting chaos of the small house she'd once shared with her family.
She rose quietly, her bare feet touching the chilled marble floor, and wrapped herself in a robe. Padding toward the balcony, she opened the doors to let the cold air sweep through the room. It hit her like a reset button. She stood there, watching the city prepare for a new day, lights flickering on like nervous stars.
There were moments quiet, aching moments like this when she wondered if she'd made the right decision. Trading her freedom for Leo's health, her quiet life for a spotlight that never dimmed. Yet, she always came back to the same answer: she would do it again. A thousand times over.
The sound of soft footsteps behind her startled her. She turned to find Ethan, shirtless in pajama pants, holding two mugs of coffee.
"You're up early," he said, holding one out.
She accepted it, surprised. "Thanks."
"I couldn't sleep."
They stood side by side for a few silent moments, sipping from their mugs and watching dawn break over the skyline.
"Does it get easier?" she asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Living like this. With everyone watching. With no privacy. No room to be... human."
He gave a wry smile. "You adapt. Then you forget what it was like before."
"That sounds sad."
He didn't reply, but the look in his eyes said enough.
After breakfast, Amara received a notification from Mrs. Whitcomb: Charity Gala Tonight – 7 PM – Blackwood Foundation Annual Fundraiser.
Ethan's personal stylist, a stern woman named Mila, arrived just before noon with a team of assistants and three racks of designer gowns.
"Tonight, you're not just Ethan Blackwood's wife," Mila said as she circled Amara like a hawk. "You're the crown jewel. Every woman will want to be you. Every man will want to be near you. You must be unforgettable."
Amara raised an eyebrow. "No pressure then."
They chose a midnight-blue satin gown with a plunging neckline and a slit that revealed just enough leg to be daring without scandal. Diamond earrings, a matching bracelet, and silver stilettos completed the look. Mila styled her hair in soft waves, letting them cascade down her shoulders.
"You look like money," Mila said. "Now walk like it."
The Blackwood Foundation Gala was held at the Crystal Atrium, a venue known for its towering glass walls and cascading crystal chandeliers. Red carpets stretched from the parking area to the grand entrance. Paparazzi swarmed like vultures.
Ethan met Amara at the base of the penthouse's private elevator. He wore a custom tuxedo, his hair immaculately styled, his expression calm and unreadable.
He paused when he saw her. For the first time since they met, his eyes actually widened.
"You clean up exceptionally well," he said.
She offered a small smile. "So do you."
They rode down together in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken things.
Outside, flashbulbs exploded like fireworks. As they stepped out of the limo, Ethan offered his arm.
She took it.
"Smile," he murmured through his teeth. "The world is watching."
Inside, the atrium was breathtaking. Every corner gleamed. Waiters floated by with champagne flutes, guests in designer gowns mingled and gossiped, and a string quartet played soft music from a dais near the marble staircase.
"Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood," the emcee announced.
A wave of attention descended upon them like a spotlight.
Ethan's grip on her arm tightened slightly as he leaned in. "Let's dance."
"What?"
"It's expected."
He led her to the dance floor, pulling her into a waltz with practiced ease. Amara followed, barely keeping up.
"You've done this before," she said breathlessly.
"Boardroom, ballroom it's all choreography."
She almost laughed. Almost.
"You're not like I expected," she said softly.
"What did you expect?"
"A monster. A tyrant. A heartless machine."
"And what am I?"
She looked up into his storm-gray eyes. "Still deciding."
Their dance slowed, and as they turned, Amara caught sight of a tall, elegant woman standing near the champagne fountain. Platinum blonde, striking red dress, eyes locked on Ethan.
"Who's that?" she asked.
Ethan followed her gaze. His jaw tightened.
"Genevieve Laroche. My ex-fiancée."
Ah.
Genevieve crossed the floor gracefully, a smug smile playing on her lips.
"Ethan," she purred. "You've upgraded."
Amara stiffened, but Ethan pulled her closer.
"Genevieve," he said with cool civility. "This is Amara, my wife."
Genevieve's smile didn't falter. "Of course. The press release was... dramatic."
Amara stepped in before the tension could thicken.
"And your dress is lovely. Valentino?"
Genevieve blinked, thrown off. "Yes."
Amara smiled sweetly. "Thought so. I tried it on, but it didn't sit right with my hips. You wear it well though. It's good to see it finally found a home."
Ethan nearly choked on his drink.
Genevieve's eyes narrowed. "Charming."
With a polite nod, she turned and walked away.
Ethan looked at Amara, surprised. "You have claws."
"I don't like being tested," she said. "Especially not by exes."
He offered her his glass. "You've earned this."
Later that evening, Amara stepped out for air. The rooftop garden was quiet, lit by fairy lights and the soft hum of city life below. She leaned against the railing, catching her breath.
A voice spoke behind her. "You did well tonight."
She turned. Ethan was watching her, hands in his pockets.
"She came here to rattle you," Amara said. "Genevieve."
"She always does."
"Why did it end?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "She wanted more. I wanted... control. She didn't appreciate my terms."
"She wanted love?"
"She wanted ownership."
Amara nodded slowly. "And you won't be owned."
"No."
"Then what do you want, Ethan?"
He walked closer, gaze steady. "Peace. Power. And maybe one day... freedom from the past."
She looked up at him. "You can't buy that with money."
"No," he agreed. "But maybe I can build it with the right person."
They stood like that for a moment two strangers tethered by convenience, drawn together by something neither dared to name.
She reached for the door. "Goodnight, Ethan."
He caught her hand. "You don't have to run every time things get real."
She turned. "And you don't have to pretend you're made of stone."
Their eyes locked.
Then she pulled away.
And as she disappeared down the stairs, Ethan stood in the garden alone, moonlight painting silver across the tension in his shoulders.
He hadn't expected her to matter.
He hadn't expected... anything at all.
But now he wasn't so sure.