Chapter Eight: The Spotlight Trial
Amara had survived two nights in the mansion without losing her sanity, though barely. The house was too quiet, Ethan too distant, and the rules he'd laid down still echoed in her mind like commandments. But nothing unsettled her more than the announcement from his assistant that morning:
"Tonight, you'll attend the Silver Screen Charity Gala with Mr. Knight. Your first appearance as his wife."
The words sent a chill racing down her spine.
By evening, she stood in front of a full-length mirror in a gown of midnight-blue silk, her nerves trembling beneath the layers of fabric. The stylist fussed over the train while Lila—her one approved guest in this madness—buzzed her phone with encouraging texts: Smile, girl. Own it. Pretend you're the queen of the world.
Pretend. That was the key word.
When Ethan entered the room, her breath stalled. He wore a black tuxedo, crisp and sharp, his dark hair swept back in perfect style. He looked like every poster, every movie scene she had ever glimpsed—but standing so close, he was far more real, and far more dangerous to her composure.
"You clean up well," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "So do you."
The drive to the gala was silent except for the hum of the car. But as the vehicle slowed, the sound outside shifted—shouting voices, flashing bulbs, the roar of the media.
The moment the door opened, chaos exploded. Paparazzi surged forward, cameras firing like machine guns, reporters screaming questions. "Ethan! Who's your bride?!" "Mrs. Knight, how did you meet?!" "Is it true this was a secret wedding?"
Amara froze, deer in headlights, until Ethan's hand slipped into hers. Warm. Firm.
"Smile," he whispered through clenched teeth, lips curving into the perfect Hollywood grin. "And look at me like I'm your whole world."
Her heart thudded painfully, but she did it—lifting her eyes to his, forcing a smile that wasn't entirely fake. The crowd erupted, shutters clicking wildly at the picture-perfect couple.
Ethan guided her down the red carpet, his hand at the small of her back, his touch commanding yet oddly protective. To the outside world, they looked like newlyweds basking in romance. To Amara, it felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.
Inside the ballroom, the atmosphere was more controlled but no less intimidating. Celebrities mingled like stars fallen to earth, their diamonds glittering, their laughter practiced. Amara felt out of place, a book editor disguised as a princess.
"Relax," Ethan said smoothly, his hand never leaving hers. "They're already buying it."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered, her lips still curved in a smile. "You've been trained for this."
His gaze flicked to hers, a shadow of something unreadable in his eyes. "You're doing better than you think."
The evening blurred into handshakes, champagne toasts, and carefully posed photos. People congratulated her as though she had truly married for love, their envy thinly veiled behind polite smiles. Every time she faltered, Ethan was there, leaning close, whispering lines that made the act seem real.
At one point, when a reporter pressed too hard—"So tell us, Mrs. Knight, what's the secret to winning Ethan's heart?"—Amara froze. Her mind blanked.
Ethan's arm tightened around her waist. He looked down at her with a smile so convincing it nearly unraveled her. "The secret," he said smoothly, "is that she already had it before she knew."
The crowd melted at his words. Amara nearly did too.
Later, when they finally escaped into the car, her heart was still hammering. "You make it look so easy," she whispered.
Ethan leaned back, his smile fading into the mask of calm detachment. "That's the job."
Amara turned her gaze to the window, but the warmth of his hand on hers lingered long after.
And for the first time, she wondered if pretending could be more dangerous than she had imagined.
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