Amara stood in Kaelen Sterling's walk-in closet, feeling small and utterly defeated. The contract stated she was to be his wife, and that meant she had to attend the annual Metropolitan Museum Gala, the city's most important social and corporate event. She needed a dress, but this closet was a shrine to Kaelen's meticulous, boring taste. There were rows of identical white shirts, black ties, and fifty shades of gray suits.
His personal stylist, a bony woman named Clarissa who looked down her nose at Amara's worn leather portfolio, had selected the outfit. It wasn't a gown; it was a simple, stark, black sheath dress from the Valerius Group's conservative ready-to-wear line.
"Mr. Sterling insisted you wear Valerius," Clarissa said flatly, holding the dress like it was a sacred artifact. "It's to show solidarity ahead of the acquisition. Keep your jewelry minimal and please, try not to smudge the pristine image we're aiming for. This event is vital for the Sterling Global brand."
Amara knew the game. Kaelen was using her as a human shield and a walking billboard. He wanted her to be a bland, silent accessory that proved he was "stable," while also subtly boosting the value of the company he was buying, the company she, as The Thread Dissenter, had publicly slammed for its lack of originality. The dress was plain, conservative, and designed to make her disappear. It would hide her talent and her secret.
As she put it on, Amara felt a surge of professional disgust. The fabric was cheap, the cut was ill-fitting around the waist, and it screamed uninspired. It was exactly the kind of mass-produced, thoughtless garment she spent her nights railing against online. This was the moment for her first public face-slapping, not against Kaelen, but against the people who expected her to be nothing. She remembered the fifty million dollars she needed. She had to survive this night, but she refused to be ugly while doing it.
She marched back into the apartment, her mind racing. Clarissa was already waiting, ready to approve the final look.
"Perfectly acceptable," Clarissa sighed, already turning to leave.
"Not quite," Amara said, her voice firm. She walked straight to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of large, industrial-grade scissors. Clarissa gasped, spinning around.
"What are you doing? That is Valerius! You can't mutilate it!"
Amara ignored her. In two swift, precise cuts, she sliced open the full-length skirt up to her mid-thigh, creating a dramatic slit. Then, she took a long, thick silk scarf she'd found in Kaelen's jacket pocket—a scarf meant to be tied around his neck and twisted it into a thick cord. She cinched the ill-fitting waistline tight, using the scarf to create a structured, asymmetrical knot on her hip. The plain black sheath was instantly transformed into a dynamic, daring, one-of-a-kind gown that showcased her designer's eye.
"It was acceptable before," Amara said, looking at the horrified stylist. "Now, it's original. Tell Mr. Sterling it's a statement piece, showing that Valerius is moving into the future. That should help his stock price."
Clarissa fled the apartment in a panic, leaving Amara alone to examine her work. It wasn't just a design fix; it was a declaration of war on the conservative taste that had tried to bury her.
Kaelen arrived minutes later, his face set in a mask of stern control. He stopped dead when he saw her. His eyes, usually cold and detached, traveled slowly from the severe updo she'd managed, down the new, daring lines of the dress, to the unexpected, artistic knot at her hip.
"The stylist called, she was hysterical. What did you do to the dress?" he demanded.
"I improved it," Amara replied simply, meeting his gaze. "You need a wife who looks valuable, Kaelen. I don't look valuable in things that are boring."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn't yell or scold, instead, he simply nodded, his eyes lingering on the scarf detail. "Fine. But if you cause a scene, the contract is terminated tonight, remember your position."
The trip to the gala was silent. They entered the museum's grand hall, an enormous space teeming with the city's most powerful elite, and the silence immediately broke into a hundred whispers. Amara could feel the eyes boring into her, she heard the snippets: gold-digger, mistake, divorce soon, where did he find her?
Then, she saw her antagonist. Seraphina Thorne, Kaelen's intended fiancée before the accidental marriage, floated toward them, draped in a gown that looked three times more expensive than Amara's entire net worth. Seraphina was a socialite and a model, beautiful in a sharp, intimidating way.
"Kaelen, darling," Seraphina purred, embracing him with undue familiarity. She didn't spare Amara a glance until Kaelen subtly moved his arm, forcing the acknowledgment. Seraphina then fixed Amara with a pitying smile. "Amara, is it? How brave of you to wear a piece from the Valerius ready-to-wear line. I suppose it must be difficult transitioning from… whatever you were doing before… to this."
The insult was precise, public, and designed to remind everyone that Amara was poor, low-status, and temporary. The group around them snickered.
Amara kept her composure. "I found the ready-to-wear line lacked personality," she said, raising her chin. "So I gave it some of mine."
Seraphina's smile tightened. "I'm sure the shareholders appreciate the effort, but darling, effort rarely sells. You're simply not equipped for this world." She then turned her back to Amara, addressing Kaelen, effectively dismissing his wife in front of dozens of corporate rivals. "The auction is starting. I've secured a prime table. You'll join me?"
Kaelen hesitated. He was supposed to maintain a stable image, and ignoring his wife to sit with his former fiancée-hopeful would be disastrously revealing. He was calculating the optics, but he was doing it too slowly.
Before Amara could move or speak, Seraphina deliberately 'tripped,' her elbow swinging wide, holding a glass of deep red wine. The glass went flying, aimed straight at the front of Amara's unique black dress. Seraphina hadn't meant to cause a small stain; she had meant to ruin the dress, the night, and Amara's confidence.
Time seemed to slow and Amara braced herself for the embarrassing, destructive splash. She felt a furious heat rise in her chest, not from fear, but from the sheer maliciousness of the attack.
But the wine never reached her.
In a movement so fast it stunned the onlookers, Kaelen dropped his hand to Amara's waist, hauling her flush against his chest and twisting them around in one fluid, powerful motion. The wine glass shattered harmlessly against the marble floor a foot away. The crowd gasped, then fell silent.
Kaelen held Amara tightly against his hard body, his breath warm against her ear. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over Seraphina and the surrounding group with a lethal, icy authority that shut down every whisper. This was not the calculation of a CEO; it was the raw possessiveness of a predator protecting his territory.
"My wife is not clumsy, Seraphina," Kaelen's voice was low, but it carried across the sudden silence of the marble hall. "And she is not available for comment, for insults, or for staged accidents. She is my partner for the evening, and she will be treated with the respect due to a Sterling."
He did not let go. With his body still pressed firmly against hers, his left hand cupping the back of her head, Kaelen lowered his face, he didn't ask or warn her. He simply claimed her mouth in a searing, shocking, desperate kiss.
It was fierce and thorough, a public declaration that was less about affection and more about dominance and property but the sheer force of the kiss, the unexpected heat and the raw need he put into it, instantly erased the line between contract and chemistry. Amara's heart vaulted into her throat, and she instinctively gripped the front of his suit jacket to steady herself.
The cameras exploded in a rapid-fire succession of blinding flashes.
Kaelen finally pulled back, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't name part control, part lingering hunger. He looked at Seraphina, whose face was pale with shock and fury, then back at Amara, whose breath hitched.
"Smile, Mrs. Sterling," he whispered, his lips brushing hers again. His voice was low, for her ears only, but the warning was clear. "That was a scene, we have a role to play. Don't forget why you're here."
He released his grip on her head, but his arm remained locked around her waist, pulling her into their next step, walking straight past Seraphina and into the glittering, buzzing heart of the gala. Amara walked beside him, stunned, knowing that her simple, desperate contract had just been escalated into a full-blown, chaotic scandal.