The silence in the penthouse was as sharp as a scalpel. Amara walked through the marble-floored corridor, the faint clicking of her heels echoing back at her. Zayn hadn't returned from the office since last night. Not that she was expecting him to. After the cutting words exchanged the night before, she doubted he wanted to breathe the same air as her. But even in his absence, his presence was everywhere—in the coldness of the space, the rigid rules he left behind, and the way the staff avoided looking her directly in the eyes.
She entered the dining room, where a steaming breakfast was already laid out. She sat down quietly, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate. Her appetite had vanished along with any sense of normalcy. Every day in this place felt like a new performance, a new test of how well she could keep up appearances. She was no longer just Amara; she was now Mrs. Zayn Khalid, the supposed woman who had tamed the cold-hearted CEO. If only the world knew the truth.
The phone beside her buzzed. She glanced at it, expecting perhaps a message from her sister, or a staff alert. But it was from Zayn.
Wear something suitable. We have a business dinner at 7. Don't embarrass me.
Short. Blunt. Icy.
Amara's chest tightened. She hadn't seen him since yesterday, and now he wanted her to play trophy wife at some corporate event. Typical. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the frustration ebb before replying.
Noted. What's the dress code?
His reply was almost immediate.
Elegant. Black. Minimal jewelry. You'll be seated beside me.
Of course she would. He needed the image. The illusion of a perfect, composed wife who matched his polished exterior. Amara's fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. She had agreed to this, hadn't she? A year of this charade in exchange for stability. But some days, it felt like she had signed away more than just her name.
By 6 p.m., she stood before the full-length mirror in her dressing room. The black satin gown clung to her body like second skin. It dipped at the back and had a modest V-neckline. She looked composed, elegant, expensive. But the woman staring back at her felt nothing like herself.
Zayn entered without knocking. His eyes swept over her, slow and calculating. He didn't compliment her. He didn't smile. He only nodded once. "That'll do."
Amara's mouth tightened. "You look… as expected," she said, glancing at his charcoal suit, perfectly tailored, every line sharp.
He didn't react. "Let's go."
The car ride was quiet. Not tense, but cold. Like two strangers forced to sit together in a long, uncomfortable silence. Amara stared out the window at the city lights, her mind drifting to simpler times—when her biggest worry had been late rent or overcooked rice.
At the venue, the grand ballroom glittered with chandeliers and laughter. Cameras flashed as soon as they stepped out. Zayn's hand slipped around her waist, firm and performative. He leaned close and murmured through clenched teeth, "Smile."
Amara forced one. Her cheeks burned, but she kept it. They walked in, the perfect couple. People turned. Heads tilted. Whispers flitted across tables. Zayn Khalid, the man who never dated publicly, never smiled at events, now had a beautiful wife on his arm. It was news. It was spectacle.
They were led to a table near the front. Amara sat beside Zayn as instructed, her posture poised, her expression neutral. Throughout the dinner, Zayn shifted seamlessly between charming businessman and aloof tycoon. She noticed how easily he smiled when networking, how his eyes crinkled slightly when speaking to investors, and how they turned cold again when they landed on her.
The dinner dragged on. Toasts were made. Laughter rose in waves. Amara sipped her wine sparingly, her thoughts spinning. Halfway through the evening, a woman approached—tall, striking, with a gown that shimmered like water. She leaned over and kissed Zayn's cheek, lingering a second too long.
"Zayn. You look incredible," she purred.
Zayn stood. "Camille."
Amara blinked. The name rang somewhere distant in her memory. Camille. His ex? Business partner? The woman who once held his attention longer than a contract?
Camille's eyes drifted to Amara with a sharp, assessing gaze. "And this must be the wife. You're prettier than the papers suggested."
Amara smiled politely. "Thank you. And you are?"
"Someone Zayn used to know very well." Camille smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
Zayn stepped in smoothly. "Camille's firm handled one of our earlier European branches. She's based in Paris now."
"Paris," Amara echoed. "That explains the silk and arrogance."
Camille chuckled, not amused. "Touché. You've got bite."
Zayn's expression didn't change, but his fingers drummed once against his glass.
Camille lingered another moment before turning. "We'll catch up later, Zayn." She walked off, hips swaying, eyes burning.
Amara leaned toward him slightly. "She's charming. In a venomous snake sort of way."
"She's irrelevant," Zayn muttered. "Ignore her."
"I would if you hadn't looked like a statue during that whole exchange."
Zayn turned to her, voice low and clipped. "This dinner is important. Stay focused."
Amara's mouth thinned. "Don't worry. I won't embarrass you."
He didn't respond.
The rest of the evening passed in stilted conversation and forced small talk. When they returned home past midnight, Amara kicked off her heels before they'd even reached the elevator. Zayn walked ahead, loosening his tie.
"Is Camille going to be a problem?" Amara asked once they were inside the penthouse.
He paused near the bar. "Camille is always a problem. But not one you need to worry about."
"Shouldn't I, though? I'm your wife. At least in public."
He turned to her, eyes cool. "Exactly. In public. That's where your role begins and ends."
Something cracked in her chest at his words. But she kept her voice steady. "Understood."
He poured himself a drink. The silence stretched.
"You handled yourself well tonight," he said suddenly, not looking at her. "Camille can be… difficult."
Amara folded her arms. "You're welcome."
Zayn finally met her eyes. "Don't get too comfortable, Amara. This world will chew you up if you let it."
She walked past him, her voice low and firm. "Maybe I'm not as fragile as you think."
Zayn watched her go, something unreadable flickering across his features. She was supposed to be a placeholder. A name on a contract. But tonight, she had stood beside him with fire in her spine. And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.