Amara woke up before dawn, her body still tense from the night before. Her room, though luxurious, felt more like a beautifully decorated prison. She sat up slowly, the coldness of the sheets a reminder that this bed, this room, this life, wasn't hers in truth. Her fingers lingered on the ring Zayn had slid onto her finger weeks ago. It glittered with expensive deception, heavy with promises never meant to be kept.
She didn't hear Zayn come in until she walked into the living room and saw him there, shirtless, barefoot, with a glass of water in hand. The muscles across his back were taut, his posture tense. He didn't turn when she entered, just spoke into the quiet.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She stopped a few feet away. "You either."
"I didn't say I couldn't sleep," he replied, voice cold. "I just chose not to."
"You make that choice a lot."
Zayn turned then, eyes unreadable. "Why are you talking to me this early, Amara? You need a reason?"
"I live here. I figured that allows conversation."
"Not this kind."
Amara's lips curved into a bitter smile. "What kind? The human kind?"
He drained his glass and set it down hard on the marble counter. "What do you want, Amara?"
"I want to know who I'm really married to." She crossed her arms. "You're not just cold, Zayn. You're empty. Is that what years of business turned you into? A machine in a suit?"
His expression didn't flicker. "And you think I should open up? Share my past? My pain? That's not how this works."
"I'm not asking you to love me," she said, her voice softer now. "But you married me. Whether it was for appearances or convenience, we're in this together. You can at least stop treating me like a stranger who wandered into your mansion."
For a long moment, Zayn just stared at her. His jaw tightened. Then he walked past her, brushing her shoulder lightly with his arm. "If you want comfort, get a dog. I'm not your friend. I'm not your savior. I'm your contract. That's all."
Amara didn't turn as he walked away. She stood frozen, not because his words hurt—though they did—but because somewhere beneath the bitterness, she saw it. A flicker. A crack in his icy armor.
By mid-morning, the penthouse felt less like a battlefield and more like a ghost town. Zayn had left for his office. She had nowhere to go. No job. No friends in this city. No name except the one attached to his.
She wandered into the sunroom, a space she hadn't explored much. It was filled with plants she didn't recognize and books that looked untouched. One leather-bound volume caught her attention. It was thick, dusty, and wedged between two crystal sculptures. Curious, she pulled it out.
Inside were photos. Dozens of them. Mostly of a younger Zayn—smiling, wild-eyed, alive. There was a picture of him with an older man, both in suits, arms around each other. There was another of Zayn on a beach, barefoot, holding a surfboard. And then, toward the end, one photo made her freeze.
A woman. Brunette. Laughter caught mid-motion. She stood beside Zayn, her hand on his chest. They looked happy. Too happy.
There was no label, no date. But something about the photo told Amara this woman had once mattered. Deeply.
Before she could process it, the door slammed. Zayn's voice rang through the house, clipped and low.
"Amara!"
She jumped, heart racing. She quickly returned the album and walked out of the room. "You're back early."
He walked toward her with sharp, deliberate steps. His expression wasn't angry—it was worse. It was controlled. Dangerous. "Did you go through my things?"
"No. I was just—"
"You found the book."
"I didn't mean to pry. I was exploring—"
"You touched it," he said, cutting her off. "You opened it. You looked."
"I did," she said firmly. "I wasn't looking for secrets, Zayn. I just found… pieces of you. Pieces I never see."
Zayn's nostrils flared. "That woman in the photo. Her name was Hana. She died."
Amara blinked. "She was important to you."
He didn't answer. Just turned and walked toward the bar again. He always did that—walked away when the truth threatened to show.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment.
"For what?"
"For touching a memory you weren't ready to share."
He poured whiskey this time. It was barely past noon.
"She drowned," he said quietly. "In Santorini. I was with her. A storm rolled in too fast, and I… I couldn't reach her in time."
Amara's breath caught.
"I told myself I wouldn't feel again. That feelings were liabilities. That weakness like that… cost too much."
"And now you use silence as armor," she said gently.
He looked over at her, eyes flat. "I use silence to survive."
She took a small step toward him. "I don't want to hurt you, Zayn. I just want to understand you."
"You won't."
"But I'll try."
He stared at her for a long time, then set the glass down untouched.
"I have a meeting," he said. "We're hosting an investor party next week. You'll attend. Wear something gold. No questions."
She nodded. The vulnerability was gone again. Buried beneath cold steel.
Later that evening, Amara stood by the window, watching the sunset paint the skyline in orange and fire. She wrapped her arms around herself, not from the cold, but from the weight of it all.
She didn't know what scared her more—the fact that Zayn could be so emotionally shut off, or the fact that she was beginning to care.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number lit up the screen.
You don't know who you married. But you will. Soon.
Her blood ran cold.