Chapter Seven: A Mansion of Secrets
Two days after the whirlwind wedding, Amara found herself staring up at the towering iron gates of Ethan Knight's mansion. Calling it a "house" was laughable—it stretched across acres of manicured lawn, its white stone walls gleaming under the California sun like something out of a glossy magazine spread.
Her small suitcase looked ridiculous against the backdrop of the sprawling estate. A black SUV idled at the driveway, her driver waiting for instructions.
"Mrs. Knight," the butler greeted formally as he opened the massive doors. The title still felt foreign, heavy on her ears.
Stepping inside, Amara's breath caught. The interior was a world apart from her cramped apartment: marble floors, glittering chandeliers, a grand staircase sweeping upward like something from a fairytale. Artwork worth more than her yearly salary adorned the walls, and sleek modern furniture filled the space with understated luxury.
She had expected extravagance. What she hadn't expected was how cold it felt. The mansion was beautiful, yes, but it was silent—eerily so.
"Mr. Knight is waiting for you in the study," the butler said.
Her pulse quickened. She hadn't seen Ethan since the wedding reception, where their every smile and touch had been orchestrated for the cameras. Now, there would be no audience. No script.
She followed the butler down a hall that seemed to stretch forever until they reached a door of dark oak. A knock, a pause, and then it opened.
Ethan sat behind a massive desk, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with scripts, awards, and photographs from his career. He looked up, his expression unreadable, and motioned for her to come in.
"You're late," he said simply.
Her jaw tightened. "I wasn't aware there was a schedule."
"There's always a schedule," Ethan replied. He rose, coming around the desk to stand before her. His presence was magnetic, intimidating, the kind that filled a room without effort.
"This arrangement works only if we're disciplined," he continued. "There are rules to living here, and I expect you to follow them."
Amara crossed her arms. "Rules? What kind of rules?"
Ethan's tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Rule one: appearances are everything. Whether the paparazzi catch us leaving for breakfast or attending a gala, we play our roles. That means no hesitation, no slip-ups. We're in love, Mrs. Knight, and the world must believe it."
Her cheeks warmed. The way he said in love sounded like both a warning and a challenge.
"Rule two: privacy is sacred. You don't enter my study, my gym, or my private wing without permission."
Her brows shot up. "Your private wing?"
"You'll have your own quarters," he explained. "Luxurious. Comfortable. But separate. This is not a real marriage, and I don't intend to blur lines unnecessarily."
Something inside her bristled. "You don't have to worry about me invading your privacy," she snapped. "Trust me, I'm not here for… whatever it is you think I want."
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable, before he nodded once. "Good. Rule three: the media will test us. Rumors, lies, ambush interviews—you'll ignore them unless I say otherwise. One careless comment could undo everything."
Amara exhaled slowly, trying to absorb it all. "Anything else?"
"Yes," Ethan said, his voice dropping lower. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. "Rule four: never forget this is temporary. Six months, Amara. That's it."
Her heart stumbled at the sound of her name on his lips. She wanted to argue, to demand why he had to sound so detached. But the weight in his eyes silenced her.
He stepped back, breaking the moment. "Your things will be taken upstairs. Dinner is at eight. Don't be late again."
As Amara left the study, her head spinning, one thought burned in her mind:
She had entered a gilded cage—and the man holding the key was Ethan Knight.