The moment Amelia closed the door to her bedroom, her legs gave out beneath her.
She sank to the polished marble floor, her back against the wall, the folder clutched tightly to her chest. The pages inside trembled with every breath she took, but it wasn't the cold air that made her shiver—it was what she had seen.
Andrew had destroyed her family.
Months before her father's empire crumbled, he had already laid the trap. Every deal, every share, every shell company—it was all his.
And now she was his.
Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now. She had cried enough.
Instead, she stood on shaking legs and moved to the desk in the corner of her room. She opened a drawer, slipped the file inside, and locked it with the tiny key still in her jewelry box from her old home. Her only home.
She'd figure out what to do with the information later.
Right now, she needed to survive another day in the lion's den.
She washed the blood from her palm—cut from the shattered paperweight—and changed out of her suffocating satin gown. In the mirror, her reflection looked like a stranger: pale, hollow-eyed, and furious.
She climbed into the massive bed and lay still, staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts raced.
Why would Andrew destroy her family's business only to offer her father a lifeline?
What was the endgame?
And more terrifying—what else didn't she know?
A soft knock echoed on the door just as her eyes began to close.
She sat up quickly, pulse leaping. "Who is it?"
No answer.
She stepped toward the door cautiously, heart hammering. She opened it just a crack.
It wasn't a servant.
It was him.
Andrew leaned against the doorframe in a dark t-shirt and black slacks, casual but no less intimidating.
He looked at her with unreadable eyes. "We need to talk."
Amelia considered slamming the door in his face, but something in his expression stopped her.
He looked… different.
Not softer, exactly. But less guarded.
Still, she didn't move. "About what? My 'performance' today? Or how well I played the trophy wife?"
His jaw flexed. "About rules. Expectations. Boundaries."
Of course. Always business.
"Fine," she said coldly, stepping aside.
He entered, hands in his pockets, surveying her room as if taking inventory. "You're not a prisoner, Amelia. You can come and go as you please. Just not into places that don't belong to you."
Her stomach twisted. He knew.
"You mean your study," she said evenly.
He glanced at her, one brow raised. "That, and anything else sealed. Don't mistake this arrangement for trust."
She crossed her arms. "Funny. I didn't realize there was anything left to trust."
He stepped closer, invading her space without touching her. "This marriage may not be real in the emotional sense, but it's real on paper. You're a Reynolds now. That comes with responsibility. And scrutiny."
"Scrutiny?" she echoed.
"You'll be photographed. Watched. Everyone wants to see if the poor, fallen heiress will crumble."
She stiffened. "Why would they care?"
"Because everyone in our world feeds on scandal," he said simply. "Especially when it's served on a silver platter."
His voice had that same edge—controlled, commanding—but there was something else beneath it tonight. A flicker of something she couldn't name.
"I won't embarrass you, Andrew," she said coolly. "You've done more than enough of that for the both of us."
His gaze darkened. "Don't test me, Amelia."
She took a step closer. "Or what? You'll forge more signatures? Buy more families? Ruin someone else's life because you're bored?"
He froze.
Just for a second. But it was enough.
She saw the truth in his eyes.
He knew she'd seen the file.
But instead of rage, he stepped back.
"You're tired," he said, his voice lower now. "This conversation can wait."
"No," she said. "It can't. Why did you do it? Why target my father?"
Andrew's expression turned to stone.
"Because he wasn't who you think he is," he said flatly. "And because he made a mistake he thought no one would ever catch."
Her breath caught. "What mistake?"
But Andrew turned, already heading for the door.
Before she could speak again, he looked back at her.
"Don't go looking for answers you're not ready to hear."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, but his words echoed in her mind long after he left.
The next morning came far too soon.
Amelia awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing. She hadn't seen it in days—someone must've placed it back on her nightstand while she slept.
A single message glowed on the screen, unsigned:
You looked beautiful yesterday. Too bad it was all a lie.
Her blood ran cold.
There was no name. No number.
She scanned the screen again, fingers trembling.
Who sent this?
And more importantly—who else knew the truth?
Later that day, she found herself walking into the breakfast conservatory—a sun-drenched glass room on the east side of the estate. A small round table was already set. Silver teapot. Fresh scones. A single plate.
Only one.
So much for "sharing space."
She sat slowly and reached for a croissant. The moment she touched it, a voice startled her.
"Morning."
She turned.
Andrew stood in the doorway, reading glasses on, a folder in his hand. He looked freshly showered, scentless but sharp in his crisp white shirt and slacks.
"What do you want?" she asked quietly.
He stepped into the room and sat opposite her without invitation. "A conversation. Civil. No shouting this time."
She narrowed her eyes. "Fine."
He opened the folder.
"This is your schedule," he said, handing her a printed itinerary. "You'll attend charity dinners, networking events, and two magazine interviews. The press needs to believe in this marriage."
She skimmed the pages. Her stomach turned. "This is a full-time job."
"Correct."
"I never agreed to—"
"You agreed to save your father," he interrupted. "This is the price."
She looked at him, and for a second, something shifted.
There was steel in his voice. But under that—was it weariness?
Or guilt?
"You really think this is normal?" she asked softly. "Forcing someone into a marriage and then parading them like a trophy?"
His eyes met hers. "You weren't forced. You signed."
"With a gun to my family's head."
Silence fell.
Andrew didn't argue.
Didn't defend.
He stood slowly, folding the folder shut. "Your first event is tonight. Black tie. Wear something appropriate."
She didn't respond.
He walked to the door, then paused.
"You're smarter than you look, Amelia," he said. "But don't make the mistake of thinking intelligence makes you untouchable."
The door closed behind him.
That night, Amelia stood in front of the mirror, dressed in a sleek black gown that clung to her body like silk and shadows.
Her makeup was perfect.
Her hair pinned high.
But inside, she was unraveling.
She checked her phone again.
Another message had appeared just moments before:
Careful, Mrs. Reynolds. Not all cages have locks. Some just wait for you to try escaping.
No number.
No trace.
Her fingers went numb.
Who was watching her?
And how much did they know?
As the car pulled up to the gala, Amelia stepped out, cameras flashing, people murmuring her name like she was a celebrity or a cautionary tale.
Andrew stood beside her, his hand on her lower back, the perfect image of a loving husband.
But as they smiled for the cameras, Amelia leaned in, lips barely moving.
"There's someone watching us. Someone who knows."
Andrew didn't react.
But his fingers tightened on her waist.
Just enough to bruise.
"I know," he whispered.
And that was when she realized—
He wasn't just protecting secrets.
He was protecting himself.
From her.
And maybe… from someone else.