The wedding was scheduled in ten days.
Ten.
Amara stared at the headline flashing across every digital billboard in Times Square.
BLACKTHORNE TO WED MYSTERY WOMAN AFTER SCANDAL
Her photo — pulled from her LinkedIn profile — looked startled and slightly defiant. They'd cleaned it up, softened the lighting, made her look less like a struggling illustrator and more like a woman who belonged beside power.
She didn't belong.
That was the problem.
Blackthorne Penthouse – Five Days Before the Wedding
Adrian stood at the far end of the dining table as stylists moved around Amara like she was a sculpture being restored.
"Should we lighten her hair?" one asked.
"No," Adrian said immediately.
They all paused.
He hadn't meant to answer that fast.
Amara's eyes flicked to him.
"It's fine as it is," he added coolly.
The stylist nodded and continued working.
Amara rose slowly, the silk dress cascading around her like liquid ivory.
It wasn't a wedding gown. Not yet. This was for engagement photos.
She looked… untouchable.
Adrian didn't like that he noticed.
She walked toward him, posture straight, chin lifted.
"Well?" she asked.
He studied her.
She didn't fidget. Didn't blush. Didn't seek approval.
"You look appropriate," he said.
Her mouth twitched. "High praise."
"You'll get used to worse."
"Is that a threat?"
"A fact."
The photographer called them closer.
"Stand behind her, Mr. Blackthorne."
Adrian stepped behind Amara. Close enough to feel the warmth of her back through the thin silk.
"Hand on her waist," the photographer instructed.
He hesitated.
Just slightly.
Amara felt it.
"You can touch me," she murmured quietly. "I won't break."
His hand settled on her waist.
The contact was controlled. Impersonal.
But her breath shifted.
Just a little.
The camera flashed.
And for the first time, Adrian realized something dangerous:
She did not lean into him.
Most women did.
She remained upright. Independent. Balanced.
Like she didn't need him to hold her up.
That Evening
The penthouse felt enormous.
They'd agreed she would move in immediately for optics.
Separate bedrooms.
Separate bathrooms.
Shared public life.
Amara stood in the living room, looking out at Manhattan glowing below.
"You don't have to stand like a hostage," Adrian said from behind her.
"I'm assessing my cage."
His jaw tightened.
"You're being compensated generously."
"And you're being saved publicly."
He stepped closer.
"Don't mistake this arrangement."
"I won't."
"Good."
She turned to face him.
Up close, his eyes weren't just cold.
They were tired.
"You're afraid," she said softly.
"I don't experience fear."
"You're about to lose everything your grandfather built."
His voice sharpened. "I won't."
"You don't know that."
Silence.
Rain tapped gently against the glass.
She studied him.
"You don't care about reputation," she said. "You care about control."
His gaze darkened.
"You're observant."
"You're predictable."
He stepped into her space.
"And what are you, Miss Ellis?"
"Temporary."
The word lingered between them.
He didn't like how that sounded.
Elena
The problem began the next morning.
Amara stepped out of the building and found her waiting.
Elena was exactly what tabloids described — striking, poised, dangerous in a polished way.
"You must be the charity case," Elena said pleasantly.
Amara didn't flinch.
"And you must be the inconvenience."
Elena smiled.
"Oh, sweetheart. You think you've won something?"
"I didn't know we were competing."
"You're marrying him for money."
"Yes."
"At least you're honest."
"And you're angry."
Elena's eyes cooled.
"He doesn't love you."
"I know."
"And he won't."
Amara tilted her head slightly.
"That sounds like a warning."
"It's advice."
Amara stepped closer.
"He doesn't love you either."
That landed.
Elena's smile thinned.
"You won't survive him."
Amara's voice lowered.
"I didn't grow up with survival as a suggestion."
Elena watched her for a long moment.
Then she laughed softly.
"We'll see."
Wedding Day
There were no vows.
Just signatures.
The ceremony took place in a private Manhattan chapel flooded with press outside the gates.
White roses. Marble floors. Flashing cameras.
Amara wore silk, not lace.
Adrian wore black, not navy.
They stood side by side, not touching.
The officiant spoke about unity and partnership.
It sounded almost ironic.
"Do you, Adrian Blackthorne, take—"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
The room shifted.
The officiant blinked, then continued.
"Do you, Amara Ellis—"
She looked at Adrian.
He didn't look back.
"Yes."
Their hands brushed as they signed.
Her fingers were warm.
His were cold.
The press exploded the moment they stepped outside.
"Adrian! Is this a love marriage?"
"Amara! How did you meet?"
"Is this related to the yacht scandal?"
Adrian's hand settled at the small of her back.
Possessive.
Strategic.
"Smile," he murmured.
She did.
Perfectly.
But her eyes remained unreadable.
The First Night
No candles.
No romance.
No awkward laughter.
Just two strangers in a penthouse.
Adrian poured himself a drink.
Amara stood near the staircase.
"We should establish rules," she said.
"Already in the contract."
"Emotional rules."
He didn't look at her.
"This isn't emotional."
"It will become that."
"It won't."
She stepped closer.
"You underestimate proximity."
His jaw tightened.
"Don't try to analyze me."
"Then don't try to control me."
Silence.
"You'll attend the board dinner next week," he said.
"I assumed."
"You'll sit beside me."
"Obviously."
"You won't contradict me."
She raised a brow.
"If you're wrong, I will."
His gaze hardened.
"Don't test me."
Her voice softened.
"I'm not afraid of you."
And that — more than anything — unsettled him.
Most people were.
She turned toward the stairs.
"Goodnight, husband."
The word felt strange.
Adrian stood alone in the quiet.
He told himself this was strategy.
One year.
Public stability.
Inheritance secured.
Divorce.
Clean exit.
But as he replayed the way she'd looked at him — not impressed, not intimidated — something unfamiliar stirred.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
Recognition.
She wasn't dazzled by power.
She was measuring him.
And for the first time in years…
He felt measured.
Across the Hall
Amara leaned against her bedroom door once it was closed.
Her heart was racing.
Not from fear.
From awareness.
He was more dangerous than she expected.
Not because he was cruel.
But because beneath the ice…
There was fracture.
And fractured men were unpredictable.
She exhaled slowly.
One year.
She could survive one year.
What she didn't know yet—
Was that Adrian Blackthorne had never once entered an agreement without reshaping it.
And he had no intention of remaining emotionally untouched.