Amara adjusted the neckline of her simple blue dress, glancing at her reflection in the long mirror by the window. It was the first morning Zayn had agreed to have breakfast with her. Normally, he disappeared before sunrise and returned well past dinner. But today was different. She didn't know why, and she wasn't foolish enough to think it meant something. Still, she couldn't stop the flutter of anticipation in her chest.
She stepped into the dining area to find him already seated, flipping through a tablet while sipping black coffee. He didn't look up as she approached, his brows furrowed, focused on some business report. She took her seat across from him and offered a quiet greeting.
"Good morning."
He murmured something indistinct without lifting his eyes.
The table was set immaculately. Fresh croissants, sliced fruits, poached eggs, and orange juice gleamed under the soft lighting. She reached for the jug of juice, pouring herself a glass, trying to mask her awkwardness. He wasn't rude—just distant, as if she were an employee instead of his wife.
"I noticed you left a sketchbook for me yesterday," she said carefully, breaking the silence.
He finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "You said you were serious about fashion. I figured you needed better tools."
Amara smiled faintly. "It meant a lot. Thank you."
He shrugged. "You don't need to thank me for that."
"I do," she replied gently. "Kindness is rare in this arrangement."
Zayn's jaw tightened, and he returned his attention to the tablet. "This isn't a real marriage, Amara. We agreed on that from the start. You don't owe me affection, and I don't owe you intimacy."
"I know," she said, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. "But we're still human, Zayn. Even contracts can't strip away basic decency."
He didn't respond, but she noticed the way his grip on the tablet loosened slightly. She took another bite of croissant, chewing slowly to fill the silence that grew between them again.
Minutes passed in strained quiet. Amara decided not to push further. Whatever walls Zayn had built around himself, they wouldn't crumble overnight.
That afternoon, she returned to her sketches, pouring her heart into the curves of pencil lines and the whisper of fabrics she imagined. Her boutique dream had become her sanctuary—a small hope in a situation where so much was out of her control. She designed gowns for women she didn't know, picturing strong, elegant figures draped in soft silks and flowing satins. In her mind, they walked confidently, unlike the girl who had signed her life away for her mother's hospital bills.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to find Clara, one of the maids, standing at the door.
"Ma'am, Mr. Zayn asked me to inform you there's a dinner tonight. Corporate function. He wants you to attend."
Amara blinked. "He does?"
Clara nodded. "He said you should be dressed by six. Formal attire."
After the maid left, Amara stared at her reflection in the mirrored closet. She hadn't stepped into Zayn's world since the wedding. Now he was summoning her into it like a pawn. She opened her wardrobe, running her hands across the expensive dresses she hadn't dared wear. She chose a deep emerald gown that flattered her curves without screaming for attention. She paired it with modest heels and gathered her curls into a sleek updo.
When Zayn saw her in the foyer, his eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual. He wore a tailored black suit with a dark grey tie. If cold beauty had a face, it was him—polished, commanding, unreadable.
"You clean up well," he said, his voice low.
"So do you," she replied, equally composed.
They drove in silence to the venue, a towering hotel bathed in gold light. Inside, the ballroom buzzed with men in sharp suits and women in glittering gowns. Zayn's arm slipped around her waist as they stepped in, a move so unexpected it made her heart skip.
"Remember," he murmured under his breath, "you're my wife tonight. Smile. Say little."
She nodded, though his words stung. Be quiet. Look pretty. Play the part.
They made their way through the crowd, greeted by executives, partners, investors. Everyone seemed enamored by Zayn—the elusive, brilliant CEO who had made millions before thirty. Amara smiled politely, answering questions with grace, though she could feel eyes studying her like a curiosity.
"How long have you two been married?" one woman asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.
Zayn answered before Amara could. "Newlyweds."
"How sweet," the woman said. "I never thought Zayn would settle down."
Amara chuckled softly, masking the irony. "Life is full of surprises."
As the evening wore on, Zayn remained glued to his business conversations. Amara excused herself and wandered toward the balcony for air. The city shimmered beneath the night sky. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to slow the ache building in her chest. The noise, the performance—it was suffocating.
"You handled yourself well tonight."
She turned, startled to find Zayn behind her. He leaned casually against the railing, his jacket slung over one shoulder.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "It wasn't easy."
"I know."
That surprised her.
He looked at her then, the hardness in his eyes slightly dulled. "This world isn't kind. People smile at your face and sharpen knives behind your back. You held your ground. Most wouldn't."
She hesitated. "Do you always live like this? With walls up all the time?"
"I have to," he replied simply. "The moment you show weakness, they devour you."
Amara stepped closer, her voice soft. "That sounds lonely."
He didn't answer, but his silence said enough.
They stood there in silence for a while, the wind tugging gently at her dress. For the first time, she felt they weren't strangers playing roles—but two people lost in the same maze of expectations and fears.
Back at the penthouse, Amara slipped off her heels and made her way to her room. But before she entered, she turned back.
"Thank you for tonight," she said. "For trusting me to represent you."
Zayn met her gaze, his voice quieter than usual. "You didn't disappoint."
Something shifted then—small, almost invisible—but she felt it. A thawing. A pause in his detachment.
She entered her room and closed the door softly, her heart conflicted. She reminded herself again that this was temporary. A year. Twelve months of living in a cage that sometimes felt too golden to escape. But as she lay in bed, her hand resting on the sketchbook he'd given her, one truth refused to go away.
She was beginning to care.
And that terrified her more than anything else.