Amara hadn't planned on ending the night married, let alone to a man like Damian Cross. Yet there she was, stuffed into the back of his sleek black car, staring out at the city lights flickering past like her life was some badly written drama.
"This is insane," she muttered under her breath.
"Not insane," Damian replied without looking up from his phone. "Practical."
Amara whipped her head toward him. "Practical? Do you hear yourself? We're strangers! You don't just accidentally marry someone and call it practical!"
He glanced at her, eyes cool and unreadable. "You're dramatic."
Her jaw clenched. "And you're—" She stopped herself before saying something she'd regret. "Unbelievable."
"Already established," he murmured, scrolling.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she folded her arms and tried to focus on her breathing. She wasn't going to let him get under her skin. Except… he already had. Just his presence filled the car, all sharp lines and expensive cologne, and it made her pulse skip in ways she did not approve of.
The car slowed, turning down a gated drive. When the mansion came into view, Amara almost forgot her anger.
It wasn't just a house. It was an estate. Sleek glass walls, sprawling gardens lit by soft golden lights, fountains that probably cost more than her entire apartment building.
Her mouth fell open. "You live here?"
Damian finally pocketed his phone. "Where else?"
"You don't even look impressed by your own castle."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "That's because I own it."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course you do."
The driver opened her door, and Amara stepped out, heels clicking against marble like she'd walked onto the set of some billionaire soap opera. Inside, the place was even worse. Or better. She couldn't decide. High ceilings, art that probably belonged in a museum, a chandelier big enough to crush a small car.
Her reflection stared back at her from the polished floors, reminding her just how out of place she was — bridesmaid dress slightly wrinkled, hair frizzing from the day's chaos. She tugged at the fabric self-consciously.
Damian watched her like he was cataloging every insecurity.
"Don't worry," he said flatly, handing his jacket to a butler who appeared out of nowhere. "No one cares how you look."
Amara's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
He paused, then added, "In this house. People care about money, not appearances."
For a moment, she almost softened — until she remembered who she was talking to. "Wow. That's supposed to make me feel better?"
He didn't answer, just started up the sweeping staircase. "Guest room's upstairs. End of the hall."
Amara followed, glaring daggers at the back of his perfect suit. "Hold on, Mr. CEO. If we're really doing this insane plan of yours, then we need rules."
Damian stopped, one hand on the banister, and turned just enough to look at her. "Rules?"
"Yes. Rules. Like: no bossing me around just because you're used to people jumping when you snap your fingers. And—" she jabbed a finger toward him, nearly poking his chest "—absolutely no… no husband stuff."
One brow arched, dangerously amused. "Husband stuff?"
"You know what I mean."
The corner of his mouth curved, and for the first time that night, a hint of real humor flashed in his eyes. "Relax, Miss Blake. You're not my type."
Her stomach flipped — from irritation, she told herself. Only irritation. "Good. Because you're definitely not mine."
The tension between them hung thick in the air. Neither moved for a beat, their glares locked, their breathing uneven.
Then Damian turned away, cool and unbothered as ever. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll discuss how long you'll be Mrs. Cross."
Amara stayed behind, gripping the banister like it might ground her. She hated him. She really did.
So why did it feel like she was already tangled in his world — and why, deep down, did some reckless part of her wonder what it would be like not to fight him?