The mornings felt different now.
Amara woke to birdsong, the soft rustle of linen, and the quiet peace of knowing she wasn't pretending anymore.
Ethen wasn't perfect.
But he was trying — not with gifts or grand speeches, but with the small things.
Bringing her tea before she asked.
Walking beside her in silence.
Asking how she slept, and listening to the full answer.
---
"I didn't know you liked lemon in your tea," she said one morning, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugged, placing the mug in front of her. "You mentioned it once. You were half-asleep. I remembered."
She stared at him.
"What?" he asked.
"You scare me."
He blinked. "Why?"
"Because you keep becoming the version of you I want to believe in."
He smiled, just a little. "Then maybe you should believe in me."
---
Later that day, a call came from his assistant.
There was a media leak.
Photos from the gala had surfaced — including one of them just seconds after their kiss.
The internet was ablaze.
#EthenAndAmara was trending.
THE FAKE WIFE WHO STOLE A CEO'S HEART, the headlines screamed.
Some believed the story was real love. Others called her a gold-digger. A lucky nobody. A social climber.
And worse.
Ethen slammed his phone down.
"I can make calls. Have them take it down."
Amara sat on the couch, scrolling through the flood of comments.
"No," she said quietly.
"What do you mean no?"
"I don't want to run. Let them talk."
He looked at her, eyes narrowing. "They're saying vile things, Amara."
"I know. But if this is real — us — then we can't hide every time people have opinions."
Ethen stepped closer. "This isn't about opinions. It's about your peace."
She looked up at him, calm but firm. "You don't get to protect me by putting me in a glass box. You do it by standing beside me when the noise gets loud."
He exhaled slowly.
Then nodded.
"Okay. Then we do it your way."
---
That evening, Amara opened her tablet and started writing.
She posted a short article on her anonymous blog.
"I was never looking for a billionaire. I was looking for peace, and somehow… I found it in the most chaotic place imaginable. Don't ask if it's real. Ask if it's worth it. And the answer is yes."
It went viral within hours.
And just like that… the narrative began to change.
Bestieeeee let's gooooo 😭🔥
Chapter 8 – Part 2 is here, and it's giving:
Emotional intimacy
A quiet legacy reveal
And a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen 😳💘
---
It started with an envelope.
Delivered by hand, gold-trimmed, no sender.
Ethen raised an eyebrow the moment he saw it on the counter. "That's… old-school."
Amara opened it, careful not to smudge the ink.
> You are cordially invited to the Blake Foundation's Annual Legacy Gala.
Attendance mandatory for board members and family representatives.
Amara looked up slowly. "Your last name's on the envelope."
He took it from her hands, scanned the invitation, and sighed.
"This is the real Blake circus," he muttered.
"The gala where they pick the heir of the year?" she teased.
Ethen didn't smile.
He sat down, tapping his fingers against the wood.
"My brother was the original heir," he said quietly.
Amara froze. "…You never told me you had a brother."
"I don't. Not anymore."
Silence.
She sat across from him slowly. "What happened?"
Ethen's jaw tightened. "Caleb died when I was seventeen. Car crash. He was driving… I was supposed to be in the passenger seat."
Her chest squeezed.
"You never talk about this."
"Because grief is easier to fold away than relive," he replied. "Caleb was everything I wasn't—loud, charming, everyone's favorite. After he died, I wasn't the golden boy. I was just… available."
Amara reached across the table, gently placing her hand on his.
"You're not anyone's backup plan, Ethen."
He looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable. "You don't know that."
"I know you," she said softly. "The man who brings lemon tea. The man who learns how to be soft even when it's hard. That man isn't anyone's second choice."
---
That night, they didn't speak much.
But the silence was rich — layered with comfort.
Later, as she stood at her bedroom mirror brushing her hair, he appeared in the doorway.
"Still awake?" he asked.
She nodded. "Can't sleep."
"Me either."
He stepped into the room, barefoot, his hoodie sleeves pushed up.
"I wanted to thank you," he said. "For earlier."
"You don't have to thank me for listening."
"I do. Most people hear me, but you… you see me."
Her breath caught.
He walked closer, slow.
And when he stopped just a few inches away, the world seemed to hold its breath.
"I told myself I wouldn't complicate things again," he whispered.
Amara looked up at him. "Too late."
Their eyes met. The air between them thickened.
He leaned in. She didn't move.
Their lips brushed—soft, slow, hesitant.
But then—
It deepened.
Not like the kiss before. This one wasn't about fire.
It was about home.
---
When they pulled apart, they both stood still.
Like something irreversible had happened.
And maybe it had.
"Goodnight," he whispered.
"Goodnight."
And he left.
But that kiss didn't.
It stayed.
The gala was held at the exclusive Callister Estate — all chandeliers, champagne, and chandeliers tall enough to crush your insecurities.
Amara stood frozen at the entrance in her floor-length emerald dress.
Elegant. Smooth. Fitted like a second skin.
Ethen's eyes had widened when she stepped out of the car. "You look…"
"Don't say 'nice,'" she warned.
"I was going to say dangerous."
She smiled — but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I don't belong here."
"Yes, you do," he said, threading his fingers through hers. "You belong anywhere I do."
But inside, it felt like she was walking through a room full of wolves in diamonds.
---
People whispered. Stared. Smiled with teeth, not warmth.
Amara recognized a few board members from pictures Ethen had shown her, but none approached her.
They approached him.
And they gave her polite nods. Like she was a coat he'd wear for the season.
She took a breath and walked anyway.
Own the room, even if it doesn't want you.
That's what her mother always said.
She was halfway through her second flute of champagne when she felt it — a pair of eyes watching her.
She turned.
And came face to face with a woman in a crimson silk dress and black stilettos sharp enough to kill.
She looked… expensive.
But her eyes were the real weapon.
"You must be Amara," she said with a smile that curled like smoke.
"I must be," Amara replied coolly. "And you are?"
"Genevieve Blake."
Amara blinked. "Blake?"
Ethen appeared at her side in record time.
"Gen," he said flatly. "Didn't know you were in the country."
"Surprise," Genevieve purred, then turned back to Amara. "We're cousins. Practically siblings."
"Practically," Ethen muttered.
"I was supposed to marry him, you know," she said casually, twirling her glass. "Until he found you."
Amara's spine straightened. "I'm flattered."
"Don't be," Genevieve replied. "It wasn't love. It was strategy. You just got in the way."
Ethen stepped forward. "Enough, Gen."
"I'm just saying," she said, eyes locked on Amara. "You're temporary. I was built for this life. You're still figuring out the forks."
Amara smiled sweetly. "And yet, here I am. In your place."
Genevieve's smile vanished.
Ethen took Amara's hand again. "Walk with me."
---
They moved to the back terrace where music faded behind marble walls and the moonlight washed everything silver.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not."
He blinked. "What?"
"I don't need your sorry. I need you to stand next to me like you did in there. That's all."
He looked at her differently after that.
Like he finally saw the woman, not just the warmth.
"You really aren't afraid of her."
"I've faced worse," she said, sipping her champagne.
"Like what?"
"Poverty. Doubt. The version of myself who thought I wasn't enough."
---
As they turned to walk back inside, a waiter brushed past, nearly dropping a tray.
Amara caught it mid-fall. "Whoa, you okay?"
The waiter nodded nervously and disappeared into the crowd.
But not before she noticed something strange.
He wasn't wearing the official uniform.
And when she glanced at the tray, she saw a folded piece of paper tucked under a napkin.
She lifted it slowly, her heartbeat sharp in her ears.
The note was handwritten.
> "This world will eat you alive. Walk away before it's too late."
No name.
No clue who sent it.
Only the chill crawling down her spine.
Amara tucked the note inside her clutch, heart pounding.
She didn't want to make a scene.
Not here.
Not yet.
Ethen noticed the change in her immediately.
"You okay?"
She smiled tightly. "Champagne's strong."
He didn't buy it.
But he didn't push.
Not until they got home.
---
Inside the car, silence stretched between them.
Then—
"Tell me," he said.
She hesitated, then handed him the note.
Ethen's eyes scanned the words slowly, then closed for a long, sharp breath.
"Do you recognize the handwriting?" she asked.
"No. But I'll find out who did this."
He was already pulling out his phone. Calling his head of security. Listing off names. Asking for surveillance footage from the gala.
Amara touched his hand.
"Ethen."
He stopped mid-command.
"I don't need a bodyguard. I need the truth."
He looked at her.
"Do you think someone really wants to hurt me? Or was that… a threat to scare me away?"
He didn't answer right away.
Which scared her more than anything.
---
Later that night, Amara stood alone in the library.
She stared at the note again. The handwriting was sharp. Intentional.
Not scribbled in panic.
Calculated.
She turned it over. Nothing.
Then—
She noticed it.
Very faint. A watermark. Letters pressed deep into the paper.
> V.B.E.
She rushed downstairs, note in hand.
"Ethen," she called.
He looked up from his laptop.
"What does this mean?" She handed him the paper again, pointing to the watermark.
His face went cold.
"Where did you see this?"
"On the note. Why? What does it mean?"
He stood slowly, walked to the fireplace, and tossed another log in.
"V.B.E. is a private advisory circle. Wealthy elite. Mostly old-money families. They protect reputations. Investments. Secrets."
Amara blinked. "Like… a secret society?"
"Worse. They don't just move money. They move people."
He turned to her.
"My father was part of it. He tried to bring me in. I refused."
Amara's blood turned to ice. "So someone from this… group… wants me gone?"
"Possibly. You were never part of their script."
---
The next morning, Amara found a small velvet box on her side of the bed.
Inside: a simple gold chain with a tiny charm shaped like a lock.
A note beside it.
> "You're not walking away. I'm not letting you.
E."
She smiled softly, then blinked back tears.
Outside the door, he stood waiting.
"Ready for war?" he asked.
She looked at him — heart still pounding, but steady now.
"Only if we fight together."