Chapter Twenty: United Front
The morning began not with silence but with chaos.
Amara woke to the sound of Miranda's sharp voice echoing through the villa. By the time she made it downstairs, she found Ethan at the dining table, his phone buzzing nonstop, and Miranda pacing like a general preparing for war.
"They've escalated," Miranda said without preamble. "Headlines everywhere. Paparazzi are surrounding the gate. And the network wants a statement by noon, or they'll start pulling your contracts."
Ethan's jaw was tight, his grip on his phone so hard Amara worried it might shatter. "What do they want from me, Miranda? A confession? A blood sacrifice?"
"They want proof you're stable," Miranda replied sharply. "That you're not still haunted by the past. That you've moved on—with her."
Her finger jabbed in Amara's direction.
Amara froze. "Me?"
Miranda's gaze was cool but assessing. "Yes. You're his wife, Amara. On paper and in public, that's all that matters. If you two want to stop the bleeding, you'll need to show the world what they want to see: love, unity, stability."
Ethan gave a dry laugh. "You want us to put on a show."
Miranda's lips twitched. "You're an actor, Ethan. Consider it another role."
By noon, they were dressed to perfection—Ethan in a tailored navy suit that made him look untouchable, Amara in a pale silk dress that softened her edges. Her stomach was in knots as they slid into the sleek car waiting outside.
When the gates opened, the world exploded.
Flashes blinded her, reporters shouted her name, questions hurled like stones:
"Amara, do you feel like a replacement?"
"Ethan, are you hiding guilt about Celeste?"
"Is your marriage a contract?"
The words cut like knives, but Ethan's hand found hers, firm and steady. He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. He pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her waist, and whispered just loud enough for her to hear:
"Smile, Mrs. Knight."
Her heart skipped, but she obeyed.
Together, they stepped onto the red carpet of a charity gala—one Miranda had strategically chosen for their "debut as a couple." The cameras devoured them, desperate for cracks, but Ethan's grip on her hand never wavered. He guided her through the chaos as if she belonged at his side, as if she were more than just a contract.
Inside, the whispers were softer but no less piercing. Socialites in glittering gowns eyed her with thinly veiled judgment. Amara forced herself to lift her chin, to let Ethan's steady presence ground her.
When they paused for photos, Ethan leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "You're doing well."
Her pulse jumped. "You make it sound like a performance."
His smile didn't falter for the cameras, but his eyes flickered with something private. "Isn't it?"
The night dragged on, filled with handshakes and staged laughter, but every time the tension threatened to swallow her, Ethan was there—a hand at the small of her back, a reassuring squeeze of her fingers. To the world, they looked untouchable.
But behind the facade, Amara felt the dangerous truth growing stronger. Every glance, every touch blurred the line between what was real and what was for show.
As they left the gala, surrounded once more by flashing lights, Ethan pulled her close and kissed her forehead for the cameras. It was supposed to be staged, calculated.
But the warmth of his lips lingered long after the flashes faded, and Amara knew it hadn't been just for them.
It had been for her.