The dining hall shimmered like a palace, every detail meticulously curated to reflect power and wealth. The chandelier cast a golden glow over the long mahogany table, where crystal glasses and silver cutlery gleamed like weapons waiting to be drawn.
Amara stood at the head of the table, her crimson gown hugging her frame like molten fire. She wasn't the trembling bride from yesterday. Tonight, she was the queen of this marble kingdom, and she would not kneel.
"Dinner is served," she said softly, her voice carrying through the cavernous hall like silk over steel.
The double doors opened, and they entered.
Michael walked in first, his presence swallowing the room whole. Behind him glided Chiamaka, her gold dress glinting like sunlight on a blade, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Amara didn't move. She didn't bow. She didn't even blink.
Michael's eyes found hers instantly—dark, unreadable, but heavy with something she couldn't name. A flicker passed between them, electric and dangerous. Then it was gone, masked behind his usual indifference.
"Amara," he said smoothly, pulling out a chair at the center of the table. "You didn't have to go through the trouble."
She smiled—a perfect, practiced curve of lips that hid the storm beneath. "It's no trouble. After all, it's my duty as your wife to ensure our… guests feel at home."
Chiamaka's laugh was light, airy, and dripping with poison. "Oh, how sweet. You're settling into the role nicely, darling. I was worried you might not be… strong enough for him."
Amara turned her head slowly, her eyes locking on Chiamaka like a predator sizing up its prey. "Strength comes in different forms, Miss Chiamaka. Some roar. Others… wait in silence and strike when it matters most."
The air stilled, thick with unspoken venom.
Chiamaka's smile faltered, just a little. Michael's gaze sharpened, flicking between them like he was watching a chess match no one else could see.
Dinner began in brittle silence. The clinking of silverware on porcelain was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional murmur from the staff.
Amara ate slowly, savoring each bite, her posture perfect, her expression serene. Inside, her mind was a battlefield, every move calculated. She thinks she can humiliate me in my home? Not tonight.
"So," Chiamaka said suddenly, her voice lilting with false sweetness. "How's married life treating you, Amara? Adjusting well?"
Amara dabbed her lips with a napkin before answering, her tone light but laced with steel. "It's… different. But I don't mind challenges. They make victory all the sweeter."
Michael's hand stilled on his wine glass, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Chiamaka chuckled, swirling her wine. "Victory? Oh, sweetheart, marriage isn't a game."
Amara leaned in slightly, her eyes never leaving Chiamaka's. "Isn't it? Funny—you sound like someone who's losing."
The glass in Chiamaka's hand trembled before she steadied it, her smile brittle now.
Michael set his glass down with a soft thud, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Enough."
The single word was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. Both women fell silent, though their eyes stayed locked in silent war.
Dinner continued, tense and taut, until Michael pushed back his chair abruptly.
"Chiamaka. A word." His voice was clipped, brooking no argument.
She rose gracefully, masking her irritation with a smile. "Of course."
They disappeared into the adjoining lounge, leaving Amara alone at the table.
The moment the doors closed, her facade cracked. She gripped the edge of the table, her nails biting into the polished wood. Her chest heaved with silent fury. He walks out with her. In my house.
Her reflection in the gleaming surface of the table stared back at her—a queen, yes, but one standing on a battlefield littered with broken crowns.
No more. If he thinks I'll play by his rules, he's wrong.
She rose slowly, her heels clicking against the marble like war drums as she followed the sound of muffled voices into the lounge.
The door wasn't fully closed. Through the crack, she saw them—Chiamaka standing close, too close, her manicured hand brushing Michael's sleeve.
"Michael," Chiamaka murmured, her voice dripping honey. "She's not like us. She doesn't belong in your world."
Michael's gaze was like stone, unreadable. "Chiamaka—"
"She'll ruin you," Chiamaka pressed, her tone urgent now. "Let me help you. Like before. Like always."
Amara's pulse roared in her ears, but she stayed silent, hidden in the shadows.
Then Michael spoke, his voice low, hard as steel. "Enough, Chiamaka. You forget yourself."
There was a pause—a sharp inhale from Chiamaka. "Michael—"
"Leave." The word cracked like a whip.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then Chiamaka turned sharply, fury blazing in her eyes. She stormed toward the door—toward Amara.
Amara stepped back just in time, pressing herself against the wall as Chiamaka swept past, her perfume trailing behind like smoke from a dying fire.
Michael remained inside, his broad shoulders taut, his hands clenched at his sides.
Amara stepped into the doorway then, her voice soft, almost mocking. "Trouble in paradise?"
His head snapped toward her, his eyes dark and burning.
"What are you doing here?" His tone was lethal, the kind that could flay a man alive.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Enjoying my home."
He moved then, in a blur of controlled fury, until he was inches away, his presence swallowing her whole.
"Careful, Amara," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You're playing a game you don't understand."
She met his gaze, unflinching, her chin tilting up in defiance. "Then teach me the rules, Michael. Or better yet…" Her smile curved like a blade. "…watch me break them."
The silence stretched, electric, suffocating.
Then he laughed—a low, dark sound that curled around her like smoke. "You'll regret this."
Her heart pounded, but her voice was steady. "Not as much as you will."
The air between them sizzled, heavy with something that felt dangerously like desire and hate entwined.
And then—without warning—he gripped her chin, his fingers firm, tilting her face up to his. His eyes were black flames, his jaw hard as iron.
"Don't tempt me, Amara," he whispered, his voice a dark promise.
Her breath hitched. For one searing second, the world narrowed to the heat of his touch, the raw power coiled in his frame, the storm raging in his gaze.
And then—he let go. Abruptly. Violently.
"Stay out of my way." His voice was ice again, and then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps trailing through the empty hall like the aftermath of a battle.
Amara stood frozen, her pulse a war drum, her lips tingling where his fingers had been.
She exhaled slowly, her fists curling at her sides.
"This isn't over," she whispered into the empty room, her voice a vow carved in fire.