Three days into her marriage, Ama learned two things about Ethan Blackwell.
One: He left the penthouse before 7 AM every day.
Two: He came back after 9 PM every night.
In between, she wandered around his apartment like a ghost with excellent rent-free housing.
Day One had been strange. The spoon incident. The almost-smile at 3 AM.
But Day Two? Nothing. Empty apartment. Cold coffee machine. A note from someone named Yuna saying "Food in fridge. Eat."
Day Three? Same.
By Day Four, Ama had watched an entire drama series, learned the names of all the plants near the window (she named them individually), and had a full conversation with herself about whether socks needed to be folded a specific way.
Spoiler: They didn't. She tried five different methods. All fine.
On Day Five, she was sitting in the kitchen eating yogurt when the front door opened at 6:47 PM.
She choked.
Not a little choke. A full yogurt-down-the-wrong-pipe, eyes-watering, coughing-fit choke.
Ethan Blackwell walked in wearing his usual suit and an expression that said "Why is there a dying person in my kitchen?"
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She waved a hand. Coughed. Waved again. Pointed at her throat.
"Do you need—" He stopped. Looked around like help might appear from a cabinet. "Water? A doctor? Someone who knows first aid?"
She finally swallowed. Took a breath. Wiped her eyes.
"I'm fine," she croaked. "You just—you're early."
"I live here."
"I know. I just—you're never here. At this time. Ever. I checked."
He raised one eyebrow.
The Eyebrow. She would come to know it well.
"You checked my schedule?" he asked.
"No! I mean—I noticed. Casually. Like a normal person who lives in someone's wing."
"My wing," he said.
"Your wing. Yes." She pointed her yogurt spoon at him. "Which you gave me. So technically it's my wing now. For three years. Then you get it back."
He stared at her.
She stared back.
The yogurt was dripping onto the counter. She pretended not to notice.
"I came to get something," he said finally.
"Okay."
"A file."
"Cool."
"In my office."
"Great."
He didn't move.
She didn't move.
It was like Day One all over again, except this time she had yogurt and slightly more confidence.
"You know," she said, "for someone who owns a billion-dollar company, you're not great at walking away from conversations."
"I'm great at it."
"This is our third awkward silence in less than a week. That's not greatness."
"Third?"
"Day One. The wing conversation. Day Two you weren't here. But Day Three I saw you for approximately four seconds when you got water at midnight and pretended not to see me."
"I didn't pretend."
"You totally pretended. You walked faster."
"I walk at one speed."
"No human walks at one speed. That's not a thing."
"Ethan Blackwell does."
She snorted.
His eyebrow went up again.
Two Eyebrow Raise. Rare. Valuable.
"That's funny?" he asked.
"A little. The way you said it. Like you're a brand. Ethan Blackwell: Walks at one speed. Doesn't laugh. Probably doesn't cry either."
"I cry," he said.
She waited.
He said nothing else.
"That's it?" she asked. "Just 'I cry'? No story? No evidence?"
"I cried in 2007. A movie."
"Which movie?"
"I don't remember."
"You're lying."
"I don't lie."
"Then tell me the movie."
He looked at the ceiling. Thought about it. Looked back at her.
"March of the Penguins."
Ama lost it.
Not a polite laugh. A full laugh. The kind that comes from somewhere deep and surprised.
"March of the Penguins?" she repeated. "You cried at March of the Penguins?"
"They were walking. For so long. In the cold. Just to find love."
She kept laughing.
He watched her.
No smile on his face, but something there. Something softer.
"The yogurt is dripping," he said.
She looked down. Yogurt on the counter. Yogurt on her hand. Yogurt everywhere.
"Oh no."
"Disaster," he said flatly.
"That's sarcasm. You just did sarcasm."
"I don't do sarcasm."
"You absolutely just did sarcasm. That's two human things in one conversation. Crying at penguins and sarcasm. Who are you and what have you done with Mr. Blackwell?"
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he remembered he was Ethan Blackwell and walked toward his office.
"Wait," she called.
He stopped.
"The file. You came for a file."
He blinked. "Right."
"See? I'm helpful. I pay attention. That's worth something in this marriage, probably."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he walked to his office, grabbed a file, and walked back toward the door.
At the door, he paused.
"Ama."
"Yeah?"
"There's a meeting Saturday. Charity thing. You're expected to attend."
"Okay."
"Formal. Black dress. Yuna will leave one in your room."
"Okay."
"The contract says—"
"I know what the contract says. I read it. All forty-seven pages."
"Forty-three."
"Forty-seven. I counted."
Another long look.
Then: "Saturday. 7 PM. Don't be late."
And he was gone.
---
Saturday arrived faster than Ama wanted.
The dress was on her bed when she woke up. Black. Elegant. Expensive in a way that felt scary to touch.
Also shoes. Also a bag. Also jewelry in small velvet boxes.
She texted Ethan.
Ama: Did you buy me a whole person?
Ethan: What?
Ama: This dress. These shoes. This bag. This jewelry. You bought me a new skin.
Ethan: You need to look the part.
Ama: What part? Rich wife?
Ethan: My wife.
She stared at the message.
My wife.
Not "contract wife." Not "the woman in my wing."
My wife.
Ama: Right. Your wife. For events.
Ethan: Yes.
Ama: Got it.
Ethan: Car at 6:30.
She put the phone down.
Looked at the dress.
Looked at herself in the mirror.
Don't be stupid, she told her heart. He meant nothing by it. He's practicing. Like lines in a play.
Her heart didn't listen.
---
At 6:45, she was in the car.
Ethan sat across from her. Not next to her. Across. Like they were business associates sharing a ride to a meeting.
He wore a black suit. Same as always. But different. Sharper. More.
She wore the dress. Her hair up. Jewelry that cost more than her mother's car.
"You look," he started. Then stopped.
She waited.
"Appropriate," he finished.
Appropriate.
Not beautiful. Not nice. Appropriate.
"Thanks," she said. "You look appropriate too."
He looked at her.
She looked out the window.
The car drove on.
---
The venue was a hotel. The kind with chandeliers and people who looked at you like they were calculating your net worth.
Ama stepped out of the car and immediately wanted to go back in.
Too many people. Too much money. Too many eyes.
Ethan offered his arm.
She took it.
His arm was warm. Solid. Real.
"Just smile," he murmured. "Don't say much. Follow my lead."
"Romantic," she whispered back.
"Not the time."
"Never the time. Got it."
They walked in.
---
The first hour was a blur of names she forgot and smiles that hurt.
"Mrs. Blackwell, lovely to meet you."
"Ethan, didn't know you'd married. When did this happen?"
"She's beautiful, Ethan. Where did you find her?"
Find her. Like a lost puppy. Like a piece of art at an auction.
She smiled through all of it.
Then she saw her.
A woman across the room. Tall. Elegant. Dark hair. Dress that probably cost more than Ama's entire life before this marriage.
She was walking toward them.
And she was smiling at Ethan.
"Ethan," the woman said. Warm voice. Familiar voice. The voice of someone who'd said his name a thousand times.
"Naomi." He nodded.
Naomi looked at Ama.
Ethan said nothing.
Awkward silence. Number four. Maybe five. Ama had lost count.
"I'm Ama," Ama said finally. "His wife."
Naomi's smile widened. Genuine. Warm. "I know who you are. I've been so curious to meet you."
"Really?"
"Really. Ethan never does anything without a reason. I've been trying to figure out what the reason is."
Ama laughed. Uncomfortable. "Maybe I'm just that charming."
"Maybe." Naomi's eyes flicked to Ethan. "Or maybe he finally did something unpredictable."
Ethan said nothing.
Naomi held out her hand. Ama shook it.
"I've known Ethan since we were kids," Naomi said. "He's never brought anyone to one of these."
"I'm not really anyone," Ama said.
Naomi laughed like it was a joke.
It wasn't.
---
Later, in the car, Ama was quiet.
Ethan noticed. She could tell because he kept glancing at her. Little looks. Quick. Like he thought she wouldn't see.
"You did well," he said.
"Thanks."
"Naomi liked you."
"Naomi seems to like everyone."
"She doesn't."
Ama looked at him. "What does that mean?"
He shrugged. One shoulder. Small movement.
"Nothing. Just... she's picky. About people. She liked you."
"That's nice."
Silence.
The car stopped at a light.
"Can I ask you something?" Ama said.
"Okay."
"Is Naomi the reason you needed a wife?"
He turned to her. Full look. Confused.
"What?"
"The contract. The marriage. Your board wanted you settled. But maybe there's more. Maybe you needed to... I don't know. Move on. From something. Or someone."
The light turned green.
The car moved.
"Naomi is my friend," he said. Quiet. Careful. "Nothing more."
"Okay."
"She's been my friend for twenty years."
"Okay."
"That's all."
"I believe you."
He looked at her again.
"You do?"
"Yeah." She shrugged. "You're a lot of things, Ethan Blackwell. Cold. Weird about spoons. Bad at small talk. But you don't lie. I can tell."
He said nothing.
But he kept looking at her.
All the way home.
---
Back in the penthouse, Ama went to her room.
Took off the expensive dress.
Washed off the expensive makeup.
Sat on her bed in old pajamas and looked at the notebook on her nightstand.
She opened it.
Wrote:
Day 8: He said "my wife." Then he said it didn't mean anything. But Naomi looked at me like I was a mystery. Like I mattered. Also—he cried at March of the Penguins. I'll never let him forget it.
She closed the notebook.
Laid back.
Stared at the ceiling.
Nineteen years of friendship, she thought. Twenty years of knowing someone. And he married me.
Me.
A stranger.
What does that mean?
She didn't know.
But she wanted to find out.