Amara sat across the glass desk, her fingers clenched tightly in her lap. The room was far too cold, or maybe it was the man before her that made it feel like winter lived within the walls. Zayn Callahan didn't look up immediately. His attention was still on the paper he had just signed—one that bore both their names at the bottom. A marriage contract. A farce wrapped in legal binding.
She swallowed hard. Was this really her life now?
"You'll move into the penthouse by tomorrow morning," he said finally, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth.
"And my mother?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
He looked up, his grey eyes narrowing. "She'll be taken care of. A private nurse will be assigned to her immediately. You can visit as often as you need, but for now, appearances matter. We need to be seen together."
Amara nodded. That was the deal. Her mother's treatments in exchange for a year of pretending to be the wife of a man who couldn't care less about love.
Zayn stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "We'll have our first public appearance at the Bennett Gala this Saturday. Dress appropriately. I'll have someone send you options."
He was all business, every word transactional.
"And after the gala?" she asked.
He paused, as if surprised by the question. "We return together. We sleep in the same residence. But we don't have to act outside of public expectations."
Amara wanted to ask what he meant by act, but the way he looked at her silenced her. There would be no real intimacy here. No soft kisses or shared laughter. Just duties.
She stood as well, squaring her shoulders. "Then I'll see you Saturday."
He nodded once. "Liam will handle the move. Be ready by eight."
With that, she turned to leave. But before she could reach the door, he spoke again, softer this time. "Miss Rivers… don't get emotionally involved. This is business."
She looked over her shoulder. "You don't have to worry about that, Mr. Callahan. I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago."
The penthouse was the kind of place that belonged in magazines—sleek marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline, and furniture that looked too expensive to touch. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a showroom.
Amara walked slowly through the living room, her small suitcase wheeling behind her. A uniformed housekeeper approached politely and took it from her, nodding in silent understanding. She didn't ask Amara who she was. Clearly, she already knew.
Zayn wasn't there.
A note waited on the kitchen island.
"Meeting with the board. Make yourself comfortable. Z."
So that was how it would be. Notes. Instructions. Distance.
She sighed and walked toward the guest room, only to stop when she opened the door and found it empty. The sheets were still wrapped in plastic, untouched.
"Mr. Callahan instructed that you'll be staying in the master bedroom," the housekeeper said from behind her.
Amara turned sharply. "But isn't that his?"
"Yes, ma'am. You're his wife now."
The words rang oddly in the quiet. His wife. But she wasn't. Not really.
The master bedroom was another level of luxury—deep charcoal walls, a silver-framed bed, more glass and metal than comfort. But the closet was already half-cleared, and elegant gowns now hung neatly on the right side. Lingerie sets she hadn't bought. Jewelry too expensive to wear casually.
Everything was already arranged.
She touched the soft satin of a red dress. So this was her new role.
On the night of the gala, Amara stood before the mirror in one of those very dresses—fitted, daring, and nothing like what she usually wore. Her makeup was flawless, her hair swept into soft curls over one shoulder. She barely recognized herself.
Zayn entered without knocking.
She turned quickly, startled. "I thought you'd meet me downstairs."
His eyes scanned her figure, expression unreadable. "You clean up well."
"Thanks," she said, though his compliment felt more like an observation.
He stepped inside, adjusting his cufflinks. He wore a black tuxedo, sharp lines and cold elegance. "Remember, Amara, tonight you are Mrs. Callahan. Stay close, smile occasionally, and don't talk about the contract. We're supposed to be madly in love."
"Got it," she said dryly. "Smile and lie."
He smirked slightly, the first flicker of something human. "You'll fit in just fine."
The gala was held in a glass-domed hall lit by thousands of tiny golden lights. Amara walked in on Zayn's arm, and suddenly all eyes were on them. Whispers followed them like shadows.
"That's her? The new wife?"
"She's beautiful… but so ordinary."
"I heard it's a business marriage."
Amara kept her posture straight, her chin high. She had grown up learning how to survive judgment. This wasn't new.
Zayn leaned down slightly. "Ignore them."
She didn't reply.
They stopped in front of a group of older men in suits and a few heavily jeweled women. Zayn introduced her with ease.
"This is my wife, Amara."
She smiled, nodded, responded gracefully. Zayn held her hand tightly the whole time—his grip was warm, but firm. Possessive, almost. A performance.
One of the women leaned in. "So, Mrs. Callahan, what's it like being married to the most stoic man in New York?"
Amara blinked. Then smiled. "I'm still thawing him out."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even Zayn looked momentarily stunned.
But he didn't correct her.
He simply looked down at her, eyes unreadable.
They danced. That, too, was part of the performance. Under the soft lights and murmuring music, Zayn's hand rested at the small of her back, his other holding hers in perfect rhythm.
"You're handling this well," he said quietly.
"I was taught to adapt."
"You surprise me."
"I surprise myself."
For a brief moment, their eyes met. The distance between them didn't feel so wide. But then the song ended, and the illusion broke.
They returned to the penthouse late, silence riding the elevator with them. When the doors opened, Amara stepped out first.
"Good job tonight," Zayn said behind her. "You played your part."
She turned, arms crossed. "So did you."
He looked at her for a long moment, then walked past her to the kitchen. Poured himself a drink.
"You didn't have to joke about thawing me out."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you offended someone made light of your icy demeanor?"
He looked at her over the rim of his glass. "No. Just not used to being handled."
She smiled faintly. "Get used to it."
For a second, something like amusement flickered in his expression. But he said nothing more.
She turned and walked toward the bedroom, her heels clicking softly on the floor. When she closed the door behind her, she let herself breathe again.
One day down. How many more to go?
She sank onto the bed, the satin dress pooling around her. Outside the massive window, the city glowed like fireflies in a bottle.
She had sold a piece of herself tonight. But she hadn't broken.
Not yet.
And if Zayn Callahan thought she would simply bend to his rules—he didn't know her at all.