Amara was starting to forget she'd ever lived in silence.
Each morning in the Blake estate started with quiet piano notes or Ethen's gentle voice calling her name through the door. It was soft, warm… dangerously comforting. Too comforting.
But in the stillness of the evening, when the music stopped and the shadows of chandeliers danced on the walls, doubt crept in.
Why did Ethen Blake—a man with the world at his feet—want her?
And why did her heart flutter whenever he touched her back or held her gaze too long?
Amara stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the navy dress Ethen's assistant had left for her. Off-shoulder, fitted bodice, and a slit that made her question her life choices. She looked like someone else. Someone powerful. Someone desired.
"You don't have to come," Ethen had said that morning, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"I want to," she had replied before she could stop herself.
And now here she was — dressed like a wife, walking into a room filled with whispers and million-dollar smiles.
The gala was held in a historic glass building in the heart of the city. Crystal chandeliers sparkled like stars above a sea of gowns and tuxedos. Classical music played in the background, but the real orchestra was the chatter of business tycoons, journalists, and socialites swirling around in practiced grace.
Ethen stepped out of the car first, then turned to her, offering his hand. "Ready?"
"Define ready."
He smiled and helped her out. Cameras flashed, and Amara flinched.
"Just breathe," he whispered as they walked inside, his hand secure on the small of her back.
It wasn't the cameras that made her nervous. It was them—being seen together. Being studied.
Inside, eyes turned. Some curious, others calculating.
One woman in a sleek silver gown walked straight toward them, red lips curved in a knowing smile.
"Ethen," she said smoothly. "And… you must be Amara."
Amara smiled politely. "Yes. And you are?"
"Celeste Donovan," the woman replied, extending her hand. "Ethen's former fiancée."
The moment stiffened.
Amara kept her face neutral. "Lovely to meet you."
Celeste turned to Ethen. "You always did like surprises."
"Celeste," Ethen said evenly, "we were over long before this started."
"Of course," Celeste replied, smile sharp. "Still, it's good to see you back in the spotlight. It suits you."
As she walked away, Amara let out a breath. "Ex-fiancée?"
Ethen glanced down at her. "A very long time ago."
"Define long."
"Before I ever knew you existed."
That made her pause. "So now I exist?"
"You more than exist," he said softly. "You live in the corners of my thoughts."
Her cheeks flushed, but she turned her face away.
He was too smooth.
Too honest.
It was starting to scare her.
Back at the estate, Amara sat on the edge of her bed, her shoes discarded, her hair slightly loose from the wind. Ethen leaned against the doorway of her room.
"You handled tonight better than most born into that world," he said.
"Is that a compliment or a warning?"
"Both."
She smiled. "Celeste was intense."
"She wanted power. Not partnership."
"And I'm what? A temporary fix?"
He looked at her, long and hard. Then stepped closer.
"No, Amara. You're the calm in the storm. The truth in the noise."
Silence stretched.
Then he added quietly, "Stay."
Her breath caught. "Here?"
"With me. Just tonight. No expectations."
She hesitated.
And then… she nodded.
The guest room was massive. Bigger than her old apartment. But that night, it felt too quiet.
So when Ethen offered for her to stay in his room, just for the night, she expected tension.
But the moment she stepped in…
There was only stillness. And a view of the midnight sky.
"You can take the bed," he said, removing his watch and setting it gently on a velvet tray. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"Ethen—"
"I'm not asking," he cut in gently. "I just want you to feel safe."
And strangely, she did.
Not because of the room. Not because of the security detail outside the estate.
But because of him.
Amara sank into the bed, fingers brushing the silk covers, while Ethen dimmed the lights and settled on the couch across the room. She could still see the outline of his silhouette against the moonlit wall.
After a long pause, she whispered, "Do you ever regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Living this life. The money. The media. All of it."
Ethen didn't answer right away.
Then, "Sometimes. When I can't tell who's real and who's rehearsed. When people treat my name like currency."
She turned toward him. "And me? Am I real?"
He stood and walked toward her slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed—but not touching her.
"You're the only real thing in a long time."
She held his gaze.
Then, without planning to, she reached up and touched the side of his face—just a soft brush of fingers.
"I don't know what we're doing," she said.
"Neither do I."
And somehow, that made it safer.
He leaned in slowly, pausing just before their lips met.
If I kiss you now," he said, "it won't be for the contract. Or the story. It'll be because I want you."
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But her hand slid to the back of his neck and pulled him closer.
The kiss was slow.
Deep.
Full of every word they hadn't said.
When they broke apart, breathless, she whispered, "You make it very hard to remember this isn't real."
"It feels real to me."
Later, they lay side by side on the massive bed, not touching, but so very aware of each other.
"Why did you really marry me?" she asked into the silence.
The guest room was massive. Bigger than her old apartment. But that night, it felt too quiet.
So when Ethen offered for her to stay in his room, just for the night, she expected tension.
But the moment she stepped in…
There was only stillness. And a view of the midnight sky.
"You can take the bed," he said, removing his watch and setting it gently on a velvet tray. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"Ethen—"
"I'm not asking," he cut in gently. "I just want you to feel safe."
And strangely, she did.
Not because of the room. Not because of the security detail outside the estate.
But because of him.
Amara sank into the bed, fingers brushing the silk covers, while Ethen dimmed the lights and settled on the couch across the room. She could still see the outline of his silhouette against the moonlit wall.
After a long pause, she whispered, "Do you ever regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Living this life. The money. The media. All of it."
Ethen didn't answer right away.
Then, "Sometimes. When I can't tell who's real and who's rehearsed. When people treat my name like currency."
She turned toward him. "And me? Am I real?"
He stood and walked toward her slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed—but not touching her.
"You're the only real thing in a long time."
She held his gaze.
Then, without planning to, she reached up and touched the side of his face—just a soft brush of fingers.
"I don't know what we're doing," she said.
"Neither do I."
And somehow, that made it safer.
He leaned in slowly, pausing just before their lips met.
"If I kiss you now," he said, "it won't be for the contract. Or the story. It'll be because I want you."
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But her hand slid to the back of his neck and pulled him closer.
The kiss was slow.
Deep.
Full of every word they hadn't said.
When they broke apart, breathless, she whispered, "You make it very hard to remember this isn't real."
"It feels real to me."
Later, they lay side by side on the massive bed, not touching, but so very aware of each other.
"Why did you really marry me?" she asked into the silence.
He turned his head. "At first? Strategy. I won't lie."
"And now?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then said, "Now… I think I married the one woman who could ruin every plan I ever made—and I'm not even mad about it."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm yours."
She rolled her eyes.
But she smiled.