Amara awoke to a strange, heavy silence.
The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall, frosted windows of her new room—if it could even be called hers. She lay stiffly on the enormous bed, its silk sheets foreign against her skin, a stark contrast to the thin, worn blankets she used to know.
Everything about this place screamed luxury—too pristine, too cold. It was a palace, yet she felt like a prisoner.
Her fingers brushed against the thin band on her left hand—the wedding ring Adrian had slipped on her finger without so much as a smile. A shiver ran through her. It wasn't a symbol of love. It was a brand, a reminder that her freedom had been sold for a year's grace.
She sat up slowly, the ache in her chest growing heavier with each passing second. Her father's desperate eyes flashed through her mind. She couldn't afford to fall apart—not now.
Tentatively, Amara moved toward the wardrobe where a simple but elegant dress had been laid out for her. No doubt prepared by Adrian's staff.
She slipped it on, the fabric light and unfamiliar, then gathered her courage before stepping into the long, intimidating hallway beyond her door.
The house was unnervingly silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. She wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go, until she stumbled upon a grand dining room.
There, seated at the head of the table, was Adrian Blake.
He didn't look up as she entered.
A silent servant placed a plate in front of her at the far end of the table—distance between them so vast it felt deliberate. Amara hesitated before sitting, her appetite nonexistent.
Minutes dragged by in uncomfortable silence. She occasionally glanced at Adrian, but he was unreadable, his attention fixed on his phone.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, she spoke.
"Good morning," she said quietly.
Adrian set his phone down and regarded her coolly, as if assessing a contract, not a person.
"Good morning."
Nothing more. No warmth, no familiarity.
Amara fidgeted with her fork, gathering the courage to ask the question burning inside her.
"Are... are there any rules I should know about?"
Adrian leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His gaze was sharp, mechanical. "Rules are simple. Stay out of my personal study. Don't interfere with my business. In public, act like a devoted wife. Smiles, appearances—the works. Behind closed doors, I expect no pretenses."
His voice was cold, every word a blow sharper than the last.
"And if I don't comply?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Adrian's lips twitched into what might have been the ghost of a smirk.
"Then the consequences will be... inconvenient for you."
Amara stiffened but nodded. What choice did she have? This was survival.
She looked down at her untouched food, appetite slipping further away. She summoned another burst of courage, needing to understand him—this man she was bound to for a year.
"Why did you even agree to this marriage?" she whispered, almost hoping he wouldn't hear.
But he did.
Adrian's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped lower, colder.
"Because you were the best solution available. Nothing more."
The words struck harder than any slap. Amara blinked rapidly to hide the tears threatening to spill over.
Without another word, Adrian rose from his chair, adjusted his suit jacket, and left the room, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Amara sat frozen, her heart breaking all over again.
When she finally found the strength to move, she fled the dining room, needing to breathe, needing to feel like herself again. She found refuge in a small, forgotten library tucked away near the back of the mansion. Dusty books lined the shelves, the scent of old paper oddly comforting.
Collapsing onto a faded armchair, she buried her face in her hands and let the tears come freely. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
"I will survive this," she whispered fiercely to herself, wiping her cheeks. "No matter what, I will survive."
The sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in soft, dying light. Amara sat there for what felt like hours, piecing together the fragments of her shattered courage.
That night, after a solitary dinner she barely touched, Amara returned to her room. She changed into simple pajamas, braided her hair loosely, and slipped under the heavy covers.
She was just beginning to drift into a restless sleep when a knock echoed through the room.
Her heart jumped. She sat up slowly, staring at the door.
Another knock. Firmer.
Gathering the little strength she had left, Amara crossed the room and opened the door.
Standing there, tall and imposing in the dim light, was Adrian Blake.
His expression was unreadable, but there was a strange tension in his posture, a stiffness that hadn't been there earlier.
"We
need to talk," he said simply.
And without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside.