AMARA'S POV
The door shut behind us with a heavy thud — final, sharp, too loud for the kind of quiet between us.
I didn't even look at him. Just walked straight to the couch and dropped my bag there. "I'll take this. You can have the bed."
His voice came low, rough, and annoyingly calm.
"You're not sleeping there."
I turned, arms crossed. "It's not up for debate."
His gaze flicked toward the couch, then back to me. "You're my wife. You'll sleep in the bed."
"Don't start with that wife nonsense now," I snapped. "You remember I'm your wife only when it benefits your pride."
He moved closer — one slow step at a time, that cold smirk forming on his lips. "You think I care about pride? I care about avoiding rumours, Amara. Imagine the headline — Mr. and Mrs. Voss book a hotel, but sleep separately. Use your brain for once."
I scoffed. "I didn't know protecting your reputation involved sharing a bed with someone you can't stand."
He tilted his head slightly. "And yet here we are. Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I'm not dying to share it either."
My jaw clenched. "Then why insist?"
"Because you're my wife," he said again, voice dropping lower — colder — as if the words were a command. "Not my employee tonight. So you'll stay where you belong."
The air shifted. My heart thudded hard, loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
"Where I belong?" I whispered, taking a step forward. "You mean the place you humiliate me, insult me, treat me like a possession?"
His eyes darkened. "Don't twist my words."
"Oh, I don't need to," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "You do it perfectly on your own."
For a moment, neither of us breathed. The distance between us felt paper-thin, our anger tangling with something far more dangerous.
His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me, but he stopped himself. "You never know when to stop talking."
"And you never know when to listen."
"Careful," he warned.
"Or what?" I challenged. "You'll fire me? You'll throw me out? Go ahead. At least I'll sleep in peace."
He stepped forward, close enough that his breath brushed my cheek. The scent of his cologne hit me hard — expensive, clean, infuriatingly familiar.
"You push too far," he murmured.
"Maybe," I whispered. "But you started the fire."
Something flickered in his eyes then — not anger this time. Something else.
Without another word, he brushed past me and poured himself a drink, the clink of glass breaking the silence.
"Take the damn bed, Amara," he said, voice strained now. "I don't have the patience to argue with you tonight."
I stood there for a moment, my pulse still racing, before muttering, "I don't have the patience to obey you."
He let out a low, humorless laugh. "You never did."
The night stretched — tense, heavy, suffocating.
When I finally slipped under the blanket, I kept my back to him. The silence was louder than any argument we'd ever had.
But when the lights dimmed and I heard him exhale — slow, tired, almost human — something inside me shifted.
He wasn't just angry. He was… haunted.
And I hated that I noticed.
Hated that even in the same bed, separated by pride and pain, part of me still felt him there — every breath, every quiet movement — like gravity refusing to let go.