Amara sat by her window, staring out at the fading sunlight that bathed the city in hues of orange and gold. The world outside looked warm, almost peaceful. But inside her heart, there was nothing but a storm.
At twenty-one, she should have been like any other college girl—worrying about exams, daydreaming about her future, laughing with her friends during lunch breaks. Instead, she was carrying the weight of her family's broken legacy on her shoulders, forced into a marriage she never wanted.
The Cross name had always been untouchable. Damian Cross was a man whispered about in hushed tones—wealthy beyond measure, ruthless in business, feared in society. They called him a man with a heart carved from ice, someone who had no time for romance or weakness. And now, he was about to become her husband.
The thought alone made Amara's hands tremble as she gripped the edges of her worn notebook. She couldn't stop thinking about how her life had collapsed so quickly. Just last year, her family still lived in a mansion with marble floors and servants bowing at every turn. Her father was respected in the business world, and her mother was the picture of grace at every social event.
But then came the collapse.
Her father's company had made one disastrous investment after another. The debts piled up until the creditors began circling. Friends turned their backs, distant relatives vanished into silence, and those who had once smiled at them now whispered words of mockery behind their backs.
The proud Bennett family had crumbled into dust.
And when all seemed lost, salvation came in the form of a contract.
But that contract carried a price—her future.
---
"Amara, come downstairs," her mother's voice called gently from the hallway. There was a hesitation in it, almost as though she already knew her daughter would hate what awaited her.
Amara closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and rose from her desk. The air in the house was heavy, stale, as if their family's despair had seeped into the walls. She walked down the winding staircase, her steps slow, her heart heavier with each one.
In the living room, her parents sat together, though they seemed miles apart. Her father, once strong and commanding, now looked worn and fragile. His eyes were tired, his hair grayer than it had been just months ago. Her mother's hands were folded tightly in her lap, her posture rigid as though holding herself together by sheer will.
"Amara," her father began, his voice hoarse, "you know the situation we are in. The creditors, the lawsuits… everything is falling apart."
Amara nodded silently. Of course she knew. She had seen the notices pinned to their gates, the threatening letters slipped under their door, the shame in her parents' eyes when they could no longer pay her tuition on time.
"We… we have found a way to protect what's left of the family," her mother continued, her voice trembling. "But it requires a sacrifice. Yours."
Amara felt her heart tighten. She had already guessed where this was going.
Her father cleared his throat, forcing out the words. "Damian Cross."
The name sent a shiver down her spine.
"He has agreed," her father went on, his voice heavy, "to merge with us. To help clear some of our debts. But the condition… is marriage."
Silence filled the room.
Amara's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and she felt as though she were drowning in the weight of it all.
Marriage.
Not love. Not choice. Just survival.
Her mother reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. "You don't have to do this, Amara. But… if you don't, we lose everything. We lose the house, we lose what little dignity we have left. Your father…" she paused, her voice breaking, "he may even face prison."
Amara stared at them, her throat burning with unshed tears.
Was this what her life had come to? That her worth was reduced to being a bargaining chip in a desperate negotiation?
But when she looked at her father—his sunken cheeks, his trembling hands—she knew. She couldn't let him collapse completely. She couldn't let her mother bear this shame alone.
Her voice cracked as she finally spoke. "I'll do it."
Her parents looked at her with a mixture of guilt and relief.
Her mother pulled her into a trembling embrace, whispering apologies into her hair. Her father simply closed his eyes, as though he could not bear to look at her and see what they had done.
Amara swallowed hard. She felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.
---
The following week passed in a blur.
Her classes at college became a hollow routine. She sat in lectures, scribbled notes, and forced smiles when friends asked how she was doing. None of them knew she was counting down the days to a wedding she hadn't chosen.
At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining the man she was about to marry. Damian Cross. She had seen him once at a business gala years ago, when her family was still wealthy enough to stand in the same room as him.
He had stood tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features that drew every woman's gaze. But his expression had been unreadable, his eyes cold as if the world itself bored him. People gave him space wherever he walked, as though his very presence demanded distance.
That was the man she would belong to.
The thought made her stomach twist with dread.
---
The first time she met him again was three days before the wedding.
Her father had arranged a meeting at the Cross family's estate—an opulent mansion that looked more like a palace. The air there felt heavier, as though wealth itself had a weight.
Amara sat nervously on the edge of a velvet sofa in the vast living room, her hands clutched tightly together. Her parents sat beside her, trying to appear calm.
Then the doors opened.
And he walked in.
Damian Cross.
Tall. Commanding. Every step deliberate. His black suit fit him perfectly, his presence radiating authority. His eyes—sharp, piercing—settled on her, and for a moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her soul.
Amara lowered her gaze, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Mr. Cross," her father greeted nervously, rising to his feet.
Damian gave a curt nod, his eyes never leaving Amara.
"So," he said, his voice deep and smooth, yet chillingly indifferent. "This is the bride."
Amara's cheeks flushed. She forced herself to look up, meeting his gaze for just a moment. His eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them—something that made her skin prickle.
"Yes," her father said quickly, "this is my daughter, Amara."
Damian's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I see."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Damian finally spoke again, his tone clipped. "The wedding is in three days. I expect punctuality. I do not tolerate disobedience."
Amara's chest tightened. This wasn't a man speaking to his future wife—it was a commander giving orders.
Her father nodded eagerly. "Of course. She will be ready."
Damian's gaze lingered on Amara for another moment, then he turned and walked away, his presence leaving the room colder than before.
Amara sat frozen, her nails digging into her palms.
This was the man she was marrying.
And for the first time, she realized—her life was no longer her own.
---
That night, as she lay awake, her mind replayed the encounter over and over. His voice. His eyes. His coldness.
She had thought she was prepared for this marriage, but now she wasn't so sure.
Because Damian Cross wasn't just a powerful man. He was a storm—and she was about to be caught in the center of it.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a thought whispered—a thought she tried to silence but couldn't:
What would it mean to be the wife of Damian Cross?
And what would it cost her soul?