Amara awoke the next morning feeling as though she'd been transported into someone else's dream. The enormous bed beneath her was softer than any mattress she'd ever laid on, the sheets were spun from a fabric so fine it felt like clouds against her skin, and the quiet hum of the penthouse's climate control system filled the space where morning birdsong used to be.
She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, blinking away sleep, trying to remember who she was now. Yesterday she had signed a contract to become someone's wife a stranger's wife. Today, she was officially Mrs. Ethan Blackwood, wife to a man known more for crushing rival corporations than comforting a spouse.
Rolling out of bed, Amara crossed the room and opened the balcony doors. The scent of the city below distant rain, petrol, and a tinge of ozone rose to meet her. The skyline stretched far into the distance, majestic and unreachable. She leaned against the railing, arms wrapped around herself.
There was no turning back.
By the time she dressed in a comfortable cream turtleneck and tailored slacks, Mrs. Whitcomb was waiting outside her door with her morning itinerary.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood," the older woman said in a tone that was polite but clipped. "You have a wardrobe fitting with Ms. Vale at 10:00 a.m. Mr. Blackwood has scheduled lunch with Mr. Navarro at noon he expects your attendance."
Amara blinked. "Who's Navarro?"
"Eduardo Navarro. South American shipping magnate. A potential logistics partner."
"I see."
Mrs. Whitcomb handed her a slim digital tablet. "Today's schedule, wardrobe options, and the talking points Ethan has curated. He advises that you avoid politics, ask no personal questions, and focus on appearing supportive."
Amara bit back a sigh. "I guess I'm not expected to have thoughts of my own?"
Mrs. Whitcomb smiled faintly. "Not unless they align with Mr. Blackwood's objectives."
Amara met Sienna in the wardrobe room, where racks of new designer dresses had arrived overnight.
"Today, you're going full modern elegance," Sienna announced, already sifting through a collection of structured blazers, silk blouses, and pencil skirts. "You need to look competent, polished, and like you belong at a lunch with millionaires."
"I belong nowhere near a lunch with millionaires," Amara muttered.
Sienna grinned. "Well, fake it until you feel it."
She selected a dove-gray silk blouse with a subtle bow at the collar and a fitted black skirt that hit just below the knee. Paired with heels, light makeup, and a delicate diamond necklace, Amara looked in the mirror and almost didn't recognize herself.
"You look expensive," Sienna said with a wink. "Now go convince the world you're priceless."
The restaurant Ethan chose for the Navarro meeting was private and upscale. It was the kind of place with no visible menus, where reservations had to be made months in advance or instantly if your last name was Blackwood.
Amara and Ethan sat at a curved corner booth, the table set with crystal stemware and gold-lined plates. Eduardo Navarro arrived five minutes late, flanked by two bodyguards and wearing a tailored navy suit and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mr. Blackwood," Navarro said, extending a hand. "And this must be your new wife."
Ethan stood to shake hands. "Eduardo. This is Amara."
Navarro leaned in to kiss her hand. "Enchanté."
Amara forced a polite smile. "A pleasure, Mr. Navarro."
Over the next hour, the conversation alternated between business and subtle personal probes. Navarro was smooth, intelligent, and clearly testing Ethan's boundaries and Amara's.
"So, Mrs. Blackwood," he asked at one point, "what is it like being married to the most feared CEO in the northern hemisphere?"
Amara met his gaze. "Like learning to dance in a thunderstorm. If you hesitate, you get struck."
Navarro laughed loudly, but Ethan's mouth twitched in the smallest smile.
"Spirited," Navarro said. "I like her."
"She's not for sale," Ethan said, tone neutral but eyes sharp.
"Of course not."
By the end of the lunch, contracts had been preliminarily discussed, terms sketched on linen napkins, and Eduardo Navarro seemed thoroughly charmed by both Ethan's business acumen and Amara's poise.
In the car ride back to the penthouse, Ethan said nothing for a long time. Amara stared out the window until he finally spoke.
"You handled yourself well."
She glanced at him. "Thanks. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be a trophy or a mouthpiece."
"You were neither. You were smart. And you kept him off balance. That helps me."
She looked at him closely. "Is that a compliment?"
He turned to her with a slow, calculated smile. "Don't get used to it."
Back at the penthouse, Amara returned to her room and changed into comfortable clothes. Her feet ached, her brain buzzed, and her body longed for a nap. But she knew she had something more important to do first.
She asked Mrs. Whitcomb to arrange a car to visit Leo. It arrived promptly. The driver silent and professional took her to the hospital's private wing. There, Leo was sitting up in bed, playing chess against a nurse.
"Hey!" he lit up. "Big Sis in the house!"
Amara laughed. "Still undefeated?"
"Obviously. Even cancer can't beat me."
They talked for an hour. She read to him, combed his hair, and snuck in his favorite ginger candies. He was improving. She could see it color returning to his face, spark in his eyes.
When he dozed off, Amara walked out into the hospital courtyard and called her best friend, Layla.
Layla answered on the first ring. "You're alive!"
"I am. Barely."
"So how is the Devil Husband?"
"He's… complicated."
"Complicated how? Like villain-with-a-heart or serial-killer-with-a-smile?"
Amara chuckled. "Neither. Or both. I don't know. He's cold, calculated, and somehow... not completely heartless."
"Girl, don't fall for the suit. Rich men with trauma are still rich men."
"I won't," Amara said.
But as she ended the call and watched the sun begin to set behind the hospital's modern glass facade, she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince Layla or herself.
That evening, she returned to the penthouse, exhausted but relieved. She made her way to the music room instead of her suite. She needed to let the day fall away.
She sat at the grand piano, touched the keys, and began to play. A soft melody haunting, beautiful, bittersweet.
Halfway through, she sensed someone behind her.
"You play well," Ethan said.
She turned. He was leaning against the doorframe, jacket removed, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.
"I started when I was seven. My mom taught me."
He nodded. "I used to play. A long time ago."
She looked at him with interest. "Why did you stop?"
His expression shuttered. "Because I lost the person I played for."
She didn't press.
Instead, she slid over on the bench. "Sit. Play something."
He hesitated, then walked forward and sat beside her. His fingers hovered over the keys, then pressed into a chord low, somber. Another. And then a third. The notes he produced were simple, but full of sorrow.
"You still have it," she whispered.
He didn't answer. But he didn't stop playing either.
They played together for a while awkwardly at first, then more smoothly. His strength met her softness, his shadows mingled with her light.
When they stopped, silence settled between them.
She turned to him, and for the first time, he wasn't Ethan Blackwood the tycoon, or the contract husband.
He was a man. Flawed. Broken. Human.
He stood. "Goodnight, Amara."
She watched him go, wondering how a man who lived in such brilliance could carry so much darkness inside.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, a dangerous flicker began to burn.