Chapter Ten: The Getaway Illusion
Two days after the rumors hit the tabloids, Ethan announced the plan without room for negotiation.
"We're going away this weekend," he said, standing in the doorway of the breakfast nook as Amara stirred her coffee. "The press needs to see us—unbothered, inseparable, in love."
Amara blinked up at him. "Going away? Where?"
His lips curved into the faintest smile. "Somewhere picturesque. Somewhere they can photograph us on balconies and beaches."
She frowned. "So… a vacation staged for strangers with cameras?"
He leaned against the frame, utterly unruffled. "Exactly."
Amara groaned, pressing her forehead into her hand. "You make it sound so simple."
"Because it is," he replied, his tone silk and steel. "You just have to look at me like you did at the gala."
Her cheeks heated at the memory, though she quickly masked it. "Fine. But don't blame me if I trip in the sand."
By Friday afternoon, they were flying in Ethan's private jet to a luxury resort tucked along the Italian coast. Amara pressed her face to the window as the turquoise waters and terracotta rooftops came into view. It was breathtaking—like stepping into a postcard.
The moment they landed, the flashes began. Paparazzi had already staked out the resort, cameras raised, shouting their names as though they were royalty. Ethan slid his sunglasses on, calm as ever, and reached for her hand.
"Smile," he murmured, tugging her close. "We're madly in love, remember?"
Her pulse skipped. "Right."
They strolled through the resort's grand entrance like a scene from one of his movies. The cameras followed, capturing Ethan's protective arm draped around her shoulders, the way she tilted her head toward him, her laughter echoing like soft music. For once, the act didn't feel rehearsed.
Inside their private villa, Amara let out a shaky breath. "I feel like I just ran a marathon."
Ethan smirked as he removed his jacket. "You did well. Better than some actresses I've worked with."
She rolled her eyes. "High praise, I'm sure."
The days that followed blurred with staged perfection. Long walks along the beach at sunset, champagne toasts on the balcony, stolen glances timed perfectly for the hovering lenses. But in the quiet moments—when no cameras lingered—something shifted.
One evening, they sat on the balcony overlooking the ocean, a cool breeze brushing Amara's hair. Ethan poured her a glass of wine, his movements uncharacteristically unguarded.
"You're getting good at this," he said, watching her over the rim of his glass.
"At pretending?" she teased, though her voice was softer than she intended.
"At making them believe," he corrected.
Their eyes held longer than they should have. For once, the silence wasn't heavy—it was magnetic.
Amara looked away quickly, her heart drumming. "Careful, Ethan. People might start thinking we actually like each other."
To her surprise, he chuckled. A real laugh, low and warm, that stripped away the armor he always wore. "Maybe they wouldn't be wrong."
The words hung between them like an unspoken promise.
Later that night, when she lay in the vast bed of their villa, Amara couldn't sleep. The sound of waves crashing outside seemed to echo her racing thoughts. She told herself it was just the role, just the contract. Yet every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ethan's rare smile, felt the warmth of his hand, heard the honesty in his laugh.
And she realized with a pang of fear—she wasn't sure where the act ended and the truth began.