The morning of the wedding began with the sound of rain.
Not the gentle kind that sings against rooftops—but a restless, heavy downpour, the kind that feels like the sky is warning you to turn back.
Amira sat by the window of the hotel suite Leonardo's assistant had booked for her. The white dress hung on a mannequin across the room—simple but elegant, satin and lace whispering wealth. She had never worn anything so beautiful, and never felt so trapped.
Her reflection in the glass looked like a stranger. The girl who used to rush to class with a backpack and braids had vanished. In her place was a woman wearing foundation too smooth, eyes too careful.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Sophia
Car will pick you up at 10:15 a.m. sharp. Mr King requests punctuality.
Amira exhaled. "Of course he does," she murmured.
She turned back to the mirror, adjusting the tiny diamond studs that came in a box marked For the Bride.
The words made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. Bride. It didn't even feel like a word that belonged to her.
The Arrival
By 10:10, the car was waiting—a black Bentley that gleamed even under the gray sky.
The driver, a tall man in a charcoal suit, opened the door silently. "Miss Yusuf?"
She nodded and stepped in. The interior smelled faintly of leather and cologne.
Her heart pounded louder with every turn of the road.
The King Estate appeared after half an hour—a stretch of white marble and glass rising from acres of manicured gardens. It looked less like a home and more like an empire. Guards opened the gate before the car even stopped.
Sophia stood at the entrance, tablet in hand, her blonde hair pulled tight. She smiled, but her tone was clipped. "Right on time. Mr King appreciates efficiency."
"I'm not sure I have a choice," Amira said.
Sophia's smile didn't waver. "Of course you do, Mrs King. Every choice has consequences."
The way she said Mrs King made Amira's stomach knot.
The Wedding
The garden ceremony was small—five witnesses, two photographers, and one priest whose voice trembled slightly as he read the vows. The rain had stopped just long enough for the sun to break through the clouds, casting a pale gold over the white roses surrounding them.
Leonardo stood waiting beneath a floral archway. His suit was black, his tie the color of midnight. He looked carved from calmness itself.
When he saw her approach, his gaze flickered briefly—not surprise, not admiration, just quiet recognition, as if ticking off another item on a to-do list.
"You look suitable," he said when she reached him.
"Thank you," she replied, because anything else might sound like rebellion.
The priest cleared his throat. "We are gathered here today to witness the union…"
Amira barely heard the rest. Her eyes stayed fixed on the paper bouquet she held—white lilies and silk ribbons. Her heartbeat filled the silence between words.
When it was time to say I do, her voice came out soft but steady.
Leonardo's answer was lower, firmer. "I do."
The priest smiled faintly, closing the book. "By the power vested in me…"
A flashbulb went off. Cameras clicked. And just like that, she was married.
After the Vows
They didn't kiss.
Leonardo simply turned, offered his arm, and led her through the garden toward the mansion as though escorting a client instead of a wife.
Inside, servants lined the hallway—bowing, greeting Mr and Mrs King.
It sounded unreal each time.
In the grand dining hall, a long table had been set with champagne flutes and a small cake topped with sugar flowers.
Sophia gestured. "Congratulations. There will be a short photo session for the press in fifteen minutes. After that, the contract will be signed officially in Mr King's study."
"Another contract?" Amira asked before she could stop herself.
Leonardo's lips curved slightly. "Documentation. My lawyers enjoy paperwork almost as much as I dislike it."
She followed him upstairs. The mansion was silent except for their footsteps.
The Study
The study was a cathedral of books—dark mahogany shelves, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a smell of ink and rain-damp air.
Leonardo gestured toward a chair. "Sit."
He poured himself a glass of water, not champagne. "You don't drink?" she asked.
"Not when I need to think," he said. "And this"—he nodded toward the folder on the desk—"is the part that requires thinking."
She sat carefully, smoothing the folds of her dress.
He opened the folder and handed her a pen. "This is the marital contract. It protects us both. You'll receive a monthly allowance, full coverage of your father's medical bills, and a trust fund at the end of the year. In return, you'll maintain the image of my wife. Appear at events, dinners, charity galas. Discretion is essential."
"And emotions are forbidden," she said quietly.
Exactly."
"Do you ever get tired of sounding like a lawyer?"
He looked at her for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching—almost a smile. "I didn't know sarcasm was part of your skill set."
"Neither did I," she admitted.
He placed the pen between them. "You can still walk away, Amira."
She looked up. "Can I? My father can't afford another week in that hospital. You know that."
Silence filled the space between them—thick, uncomfortable.
Finally, she took the pen and signed.
Leonardo signed next, the scratch of ink deliberate and final.
He closed the folder and slid it aside. "Then it's official."
She let out a shaky breath. "So what now?"
He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Now, Mrs King, we begin our performance."
The Dinner
That evening, they sat at opposite ends of a dining table so long it could have seated a football team. Plates of grilled salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes filled the space between them.
Amira tried to cut her food quietly. The silence was heavier than the rain outside.
"Do you always eat like this?" she asked finally.
He looked up. "Like what?"
"Like it's a board meeting instead of dinner."
He raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer small talk?"
"Yes. It's what normal couples do."
"We're not a normal couple," he reminded her.
She set her fork down, exhaling. "Right. How could I forget?"
For a moment, something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "You're braver than you look."
"I'm not brave," she said. "Just desperate."
The honesty startled even her. She expected him to mock it, but instead he nodded slowly, as if he respected it.
"Desperation builds character," he said. "Maybe that's why you interest me."
She looked up sharply. "Interest you?"
"Purely professionally."
"Of course."
But she saw the faintest shadow of a smile as he took another sip of water.
Late Night
Hours later, Amira lay in the guest bedroom—her new bedroom—staring at the ceiling. The rain had started again, tapping softly against the glass.
Down the hallway, she heard faint footsteps. Curiosity pulled her up. She stepped into the corridor, barefoot, the marble floor cool beneath her feet.
Light glowed under the study door. She pushed it open slightly.
Leonardo sat at his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, reading a file. A single lamp lit his face, sharp and tired. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a man carrying a weight no one else could see.
She hesitated, then knocked softly.
He glanced up. "Can't sleep?"
"Not really," she said. "Too many thoughts."
"Regrets?"
"Questions."
He gestured to the chair opposite. "Ask."
She sat. "Why me, really? You could have hired any actress to play the role."
He leaned back. "Because you wouldn't sell your story to the tabloids. Because you still have dignity even when you're broke. And because when I told you not to fall in love, you didn't promise you wouldn't—you just looked offended. That kind of honesty is rare."
She blinked. "That's… oddly specific."
"I'm a businessman. I notice details."
For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt different now—less like a transaction, more like something waiting to happen.
Then he closed the file. "You should sleep. Tomorrow we attend a charity gala. Wear something red. The press loves symbolism."
"Red?" she repeated.
"It means confidence. And danger."
The Whisper of a Beginning
Back in her room, Amira sat by the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass. Her chest felt tight, but not entirely from fear anymore.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the strange realization that the man she had married wasn't just cold—he was guarded, like a fortress built too high.
She whispered to the night, "What are you hiding, Mr King?"
Downstairs, in his study, Leonardo stared at the rain too. On his desk lay a small black-and-white photograph—a young woman smiling beside a car, years ago. He touched the edge of it once before turning off the lamp.
Some ghosts never rest, no matter how many contracts you sign.