Amara stared at the message for a long time, the glow of her phone screen illuminating the sudden fear in her eyes. The words were simple, but they clawed at her like icy fingers.
You don't know who you married. But you will. Soon.
She quickly turned off the screen and pressed the phone to her chest, her heartbeat uneven. She wasn't sure if she should tell Zayn. He had just barely cracked open a corner of his past, and now some shadow from it was knocking at their door—or maybe it wasn't from his past. Maybe it was from hers.
No. Her past was clean, quiet, predictable. Until him.
She sat down, trying to steady her breathing. It was probably a prank. Or some jealous ex of Zayn's who couldn't stand the sight of his new wife. That made sense. He was rich, powerful, and emotionally unavailable. A magnet for people who thought they could change him. Just like her.
By the time Zayn returned that evening, she had pushed the message far back in her mind. He walked into the penthouse, his expression unreadable as usual, but his coat was folded over his arm instead of slung carelessly. A small shift. A quieter entrance.
"Hi," she said carefully.
He glanced at her. "Get your dress ready. The party is three nights from now. Friday."
"I know. You said gold."
"Yes. You'll need to smile. Investors love a polished wife. Especially one who doesn't speak too much."
Her chest tightened. "Of course."
He dropped his coat on the armrest and loosened his tie. "Also, the press will be there. You're expected to look… in love."
She blinked. "You want us to act like a real couple?"
"I want us to act like the version of us people are paying attention to."
She stood. "Then maybe we should practice."
Zayn looked at her slowly, the corners of his lips twitching—not a smile, but something almost amused. "Practice what, exactly?"
"Smiling. Talking. Maybe even holding hands without looking like we're in a hostage situation."
He stepped toward her. "You're surprisingly bold tonight."
"Maybe I'm tired of walking on glass."
"You're not afraid of me anymore."
"I think I'm afraid of what not knowing you is doing to me."
For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them thick with possibility. Then he reached out, hesitating for just a second before touching her hand. His fingers brushed hers, warm and firm.
"Fine," he said. "Practice."
She stared at their joined hands, surprised by how gentle he could be when he wasn't hiding behind coldness. Her voice softened. "When the cameras are on, should we kiss too?"
He didn't answer. Just leaned forward, so close she could feel the faint heat of his breath. His eyes searched hers, not with desire, but with calculation. Testing her.
"You think this is a game?" he asked.
"No. But I think if I have to be your wife in public, I'd rather not look like I'm being forced into it."
He studied her face for a moment, then dropped her hand and stepped back. "You'll get your dress tomorrow. I'm assigning you a stylist. She'll bring options."
And just like that, the window between them slammed shut again.
The next day, the stylist arrived as promised. She was brisk, beautiful, and French. Claudine, as she introduced herself, wore bold red lipstick and a black jumpsuit tailored like armor. She brought six gowns and very few words.
Zayn didn't come home during the fitting. Claudine approved the fifth dress—a silky gold number that hugged Amara's curves and shimmered with every breath she took. It was stunning and screamed elegance, but it also revealed more skin than Amara had shown in years.
"You'll stun him," Claudine said flatly, folding the dress with expert precision. "Or at least, the cameras."
By Friday, the penthouse was buzzing. Hair and makeup teams came in the afternoon, transforming Amara into something otherworldly. Her hair flowed in waves down her back, her lips a soft coral that matched the subtle blush on her cheeks. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman looking back.
Zayn stepped into the room without knocking. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, and though he said nothing, his eyes lingered just a second longer than usual.
"You clean up well," he said.
She turned to face him, holding his gaze. "So do you."
He wore a dark tuxedo, crisp and tailored, with a gold handkerchief in his pocket to match her gown. He offered his arm. "Let's go convince the world we're in love."
As they descended in the private elevator, Amara's pulse quickened. She had been to high-end events before as a caterer's assistant, not a guest. Never as a wife. Never as someone the cameras would follow.
The ballroom was already full when they arrived. Glittering chandeliers hung like crystal galaxies, casting soft light on the polished floors. Zayn's name echoed in whispers as they entered, his presence shifting the energy in the room. And beside him, Amara felt like both an imposter and a queen.
Flashbulbs popped the moment they stepped onto the carpet. Zayn placed a hand on her waist, possessive and cool. She smiled like she belonged there, even as anxiety curled in her stomach.
They moved through the crowd with practiced grace. Investors smiled, women eyed her with curiosity, and men nodded respectfully toward Zayn. Champagne flutes were offered, and Amara took one to steady her nerves.
"Amara, darling," Zayn said suddenly, loud enough for nearby ears. "Tell Mr. Donovan how we met."
She blinked, caught off guard. But she remembered their story. The one they had agreed on before the wedding.
"At a charity gala," she said smoothly. "He spilled wine on my dress. Then offered to buy the entire table just to make up for it."
Mr. Donovan laughed, charmed. "Sounds like Zayn."
"Impressive memory," Zayn murmured into her ear once they moved on.
"I have to remember," she whispered back. "If I don't, your entire empire might collapse."
He gave a small smirk, and for a second, something playful danced in his eyes.
Then she saw him. Across the room.
A man. Watching her.
Tall. Dark-skinned. Unfamiliar suit. But his eyes were fixed on her like he knew her. Like he'd been waiting.
Zayn noticed her pause. "Something wrong?"
She tore her gaze away. "No. Nothing."
But she felt it. That message. The warning. It wasn't a prank. Someone was watching. Someone knew.
She clung to Zayn's arm tighter, not out of affection, but fear.
That night, long after the party ended and the penthouse returned to silence, Amara stood on the balcony alone. The city lights stretched endlessly before her, but her focus stayed inward.
The mask she had worn was exhausting. But it wasn't the pretending that hurt most—it was the way part of her wanted the illusion to be real. To have a husband who touched her like she mattered. Who didn't flinch from closeness. Who looked at her like more than an obligation.
Behind her, she heard soft footsteps. She didn't turn.
"You did well tonight," Zayn said, voice low.
"Thank you."
"They believed us."
"Did you?"
There was a pause. "That's irrelevant."
She turned to face him. "Is it?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, his face unreadable. Then his gaze dropped to her lips. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her.
Instead, he said, "Don't go wandering outside alone for the next few days."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
He turned and left before she could question further.
And just like that, the cold crept in again—stronger this time. Thicker. But beneath it, something else stirred.
Danger.