The silence in the mansion felt heavier than the marble walls enclosing it.
Amara stood alone in the massive bedroom, still wearing the remnants of last night's humiliation. Her wedding dress—creased and wrinkled from hours of misery—lay like a corpse on the bed. White lace, meant to symbolize purity and love, now felt like a cruel joke.
The contract sat on the nightstand, mocking her with its neat black letters. She had read those words over and over again, as if repetition could dull the sting. No intimacy. No interference. No emotions involved.
Her hands clenched into fists. Her nails bit into her palms, but the pain felt good. At least it was real—unlike this farce of a marriage.
For hours, she had tried to cry. To scream. To let it all out. But the tears had dried long ago, leaving only a hollow ache in her chest.
How did my life come to this?
Just two weeks ago, she was sitting in the hospital, holding her father's frail hands, promising him she would fix everything. The bills had piled up like mountains, creditors circling like vultures, and then… Michael appeared.
Michael Adewale—the man everyone worshipped. Billionaire. Genius. Power incarnate. When he offered a lifeline, she didn't hesitate. She told herself it was for her family. For her father. For survival.
But last night, when he shoved that contract into her hands… a part of her soul had shattered.
The sound of a soft knock broke through her thoughts.
"Come in," she said weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
A maid entered, head bowed respectfully. "Madam, breakfast is ready in the dining hall. Will you be coming down?"
Amara stared at the woman for a long moment. Madam. The word tasted bitter on her tongue. She was a wife in name only, living in a cage built from another man's arrogance.
She shook her head. "No. I'm not hungry."
The maid hesitated, shifting nervously before speaking again. "Sir will be returning shortly. He… instructed us to prepare the house."
Amara frowned. "Prepare the house? For what?"
The maid swallowed hard. Her eyes darted away. "There… there will be a guest tonight."
A guest?
"Who?" Amara pressed, a strange chill curling through her veins.
The maid hesitated, then whispered, "Miss Chiamaka."
The name hit like a slap. Even Amara had heard of her—the glamorous socialite who was always on Michael's arm at parties. The one the media called the future Mrs. Adewale before Amara appeared out of nowhere.
Amara's stomach twisted painfully. "Thank you. You can go now."
The maid bobbed her head quickly and fled, leaving Amara standing in the cold, echoing silence.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, her mind spinning. So this was his game. Humiliate her on the wedding night, then parade his mistress under the same roof?
Her eyes burned, but no tears fell this time. She was done crying.
Slowly, she stood and walked to the full-length mirror on the far wall. The woman staring back at her looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, broken.
Is this what you've become, Amara? A shadow? A puppet?
She touched the cold glass, her reflection trembling with her breath.
"No," she whispered, voice hoarse but steady. "Not anymore."
Piece by piece, she stripped off the remnants of her wedding attire—the diamond necklace that felt like a noose, the earrings that weighed her down like chains. She peeled away the satin gloves, the rings, everything that tied her to him.
When she was bare, she stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight lift off her shoulders.
Then, slowly, determination sparked in her eyes.
"If he thinks he can break me," she murmured, "he's wrong."
She walked to the wardrobe, flinging it open. Rows of designer dresses greeted her—gifts from Michael, no doubt, intended to make her look like the perfect trophy wife.
Her fingers skimmed the fabrics, pausing on a crimson silk gown that shimmered like fire under the light. It was bold. Defiant. A slap in the face to everything cold and colorless in this house.
She slipped it on, the smooth fabric hugging her curves like liquid flame. She paired it with diamond heels and painted her lips a deep scarlet—the color of rebellion.
When she looked in the mirror again, the ghost was gone. In her place stood a woman carved from steel and fury.
If he wants a puppet, I'll give him a queen.
Her chin lifted, her spine straightened. For the first time since this nightmare began, she felt alive.
The sound of an engine purring to a stop outside made her heart jolt. Michael was home.
She heard the muffled voices of staff greeting him downstairs. The low timbre of his voice rolled through the halls like distant thunder.
Her pulse quickened, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she walked to the door, every step echoing with newfound resolve.
You wanted a contract, Michael? Fine. But you're about to learn the price of underestimating me.
She opened the door and stepped out, crimson silk flowing around her like fire.
And that was the moment she heard it—the sound of a woman's laughter drifting from below. Light, sweet, and laced with poison.
Her blood froze.
She's here.
Amara gripped the railing and peered down. At the base of the grand staircase stood Michael, tall and imposing as ever, his arm loosely around a woman draped in diamonds. Her beauty was the kind that made headlines—perfect smile, flawless skin, a body sculpted to perfection.
Chiamaka.
The mistress who had everything Amara didn't—except the ring.
For now.
Chiamaka looked up, her eyes locking with Amara's. And then she smiled. Slow. Mocking.
"Darling," she purred to Michael, loud enough for the entire hall to hear, "is this the wife you told me about?"
The words struck like lightning, but Amara didn't blink. She smiled back, her crimson lips curving into something sharp enough to cut glass.
"Yes," she said, her voice steady and cool. "I'm the wife. And you are…?"
Chiamaka's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered.
Michael's dark gaze swept upward, pinning Amara like a hawk. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe even something hotter—but it vanished as quickly as it came.
And in that moment, Amara knew one thing for certain.
The game had changed.