Chapter Nine: Whispers in the Dark
The gala had ended hours ago, yet Amara's ears still rang with the relentless chorus of cameras and questions. Back at the mansion, she slipped off her heels, wincing at the ache in her feet. She had survived her first public test.
Or so she thought.
The next morning, the sound of voices woke her. She padded down the staircase in Ethan's oversized robe, curious. The voices were sharp, tense, leaking from the glass-walled office. She lingered near the doorway, her heart thudding as she recognized Ethan's manager, a tall, sharp-eyed woman named Miranda.
"This isn't good, Ethan," Miranda said, her voice clipped. She slapped a tablet onto the desk. "It's everywhere."
Ethan leaned over the screen, jaw tightening. "Tabloids always make noise. What's different about this one?"
Miranda's lips thinned. "They're saying your marriage is a sham. That it's a PR stunt to save your image. Some gossip blog claims Amara was hired."
Amara's breath caught. Hired. The word sliced through her like a blade.
Ethan's gaze darkened. "And who's their source?"
"They don't say. But the rumor is spreading like wildfire. If we don't contain it, the studio will panic."
Amara pressed a hand against the doorframe to steady herself. The contract, the secrecy, the constant pretending—had someone already discovered it?
Ethan's voice dropped to a deadly calm. "Then we'll double down. More appearances, more proof. They'll choke on their own lies."
"Proof?" Miranda arched a brow. "Like what?"
Ethan's jaw flexed. "Whatever it takes."
Amara stepped back before they could notice her, retreating to the safety of the hallway. Her pulse raced as she climbed the stairs. She should have felt relieved that Ethan wasn't panicking, but instead, dread coiled in her stomach. Proof. Whatever it takes. What did that mean for her?
Later, when Ethan found her in the library, she was pretending to read, her hands trembling around the book.
"You heard," he said simply, his eyes scanning her face.
She set the book down carefully. "They know, don't they? Or at least… they're guessing."
His expression was unreadable. "They're fishing. We can't let them catch anything real."
Her throat tightened. "But what if they do? What if someone already suspects the truth?"
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Then we make them believe the opposite. Stronger. Louder. No cracks."
Amara stared at him, her fear warring with something else she refused to name. "And if I mess up?"
"You won't." His voice was low, steady, as though he could will it into reality. "Because now you're not just surviving, Amara. You're part of the performance."
She wanted to argue, to scream that she wasn't an actress, that she was just a woman who stumbled into something too big for her. But instead, she whispered, "And what happens when the performance ends?"
For a flicker of a moment, his mask slipped. His eyes softened, almost vulnerable. Then, just as quickly, the steel returned.
"Don't think about endings," he said. "Think about tomorrow. We'll give them a show they can't deny."
That night, Amara lay awake in her enormous bed, staring at the ceiling. The whispers of gossip clawed at her mind, louder than the silence of the mansion. She thought of Ethan's steady voice, his commanding hand at her back, the way the world believed when he smiled at her.
And for the first time, she wondered if she believed it too.
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