Day 67 started like any other day.
Ama woke up. Made coffee. Checked her phone.
Seven missed calls from Mom.
Her stomach dropped.
She called back immediately.
"Mom? What happened?"
Silence. Then sniffling. Then the sound of her mother trying not to cry and failing completely.
"It's your father," Mom said. "He did something stupid."
Ama sat on the bed. Held the phone tighter.
"What kind of stupid?"
"He invested. The rest of the money. The money from—" Mom stopped. Didn't need to finish. The money from your marriage. "He thought he could double it. Fix everything. Instead he—" Another sob. "It's gone, Ama. Almost all of it."
Ama closed her eyes.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
"How much is left?"
"Enough for maybe two months. Three if we don't eat."
"Okay."
"Okay? Ama, that's not okay. That's—I don't know what that is. We're drowning. Again. And I can't—I won't ask you to—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't ask. Because I can't. I won't. I already—" She stopped herself. Looked at the door. Lowered her voice. "I already did what I had to do. I can't ask him for more. That's not how this works."
"I know. I know, baby. I'm not asking. I just—I needed to tell someone. I needed to not be alone with this."
Ama's heart broke.
For her mom. For her dad. For herself.
"You're not alone," she said softly. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
"Without more of his money?"
"Without more of his money. I'll find a way. I promise."
They talked for ten more minutes. Small things. Mom pretending to be okay. Ama pretending to believe her.
When the call ended, Ama sat in silence.
Stared at nothing.
Thought about all the ways her life had gone wrong.
Then she stood up, wiped her face, and walked to the kitchen to pretend everything was fine.
---
Ethan was there.
Standing at the counter. Coffee in hand. Looking at her like he'd been waiting.
Her heart stopped.
"How much did you hear?" she asked.
"Enough."
"How much is enough?"
He didn't answer.
She wanted to disappear. Sink through the floor. Vaporize.
"It's not your problem," she said. "My family. My mess. Not in the contract."
He put his coffee down.
"Ama."
"Don't."
"Your family needs—"
"I said don't." Her voice cracked. She hated it. "You already gave us money. A lot of money. That was the deal. I do three years, you save them. That's it. That's all. I'm not coming back for more like some—some beggar who—"
"You're not a beggar."
"I'm your contract wife. That's exactly what I am."
He stepped closer.
She stepped back.
"I don't want your pity," she said. "I don't want your charity. I want to finish these three years and walk away with some dignity left. So please. Pretend you didn't hear anything."
"Ama."
"Please."
He stopped.
Looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded. Once. Sharp.
"Okay."
He walked out.
Ama stood in the kitchen.
Didn't cry.
Waited until she was sure he was gone.
Then went to her room and cried for an hour.
---
Three days passed.
Ethan was gone more than usual. Early mornings. Late nights. No balcony doors left open. No tea at midnight.
Ama told herself this was good.
This was normal.
This was what she asked for.
On Day 70, she got a text from her mom.
Mom: Ama. What did you do?
Ama: What? Nothing. Why?
Mom: Money appeared in the account. A lot of money. From an anonymous source.
Ama: What?
Mom: I thought you said you wouldn't ask him.
Ama: I didn't.
Mom: Then who?
Ama stared at the message.
Then she got up.
Walked to Ethan's office.
Didn't knock.
He was at his desk. Looked up. Surprised.
"You," she said.
"Me what?"
"The money. My parents. You sent it."
He didn't deny it.
"Why?"
"Because they needed it."
"That's not your problem."
"It is now."
"No. No, it's not." She walked closer. Hands shaking. "We have a contract. Terms. Conditions. That money wasn't part of it."
"Forget the contract."
She stopped.
"What?"
"Forget the contract." He stood up. Came around the desk. Closer than he'd ever been. "Just for a second. Forget the paper. Forget the terms. Your family was drowning. I had money. I helped. That's all."
"That's not all. Nothing with you is just anything."
He blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means I don't understand you." Her voice shook. "You're cold. Distant. You leave at dawn and come back at midnight and I never know where you are or who you're with or if you even think about me at all. But then you do things like this. Like the balcony. Like the tea. Like—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Like making me feel like maybe I'm not just a contract to you. And I don't know what to do with that. I don't know what any of it means."
Silence.
The kind that fills rooms.
Ethan looked at her.
Really looked.
Like he was seeing her for the first time.
"Ama," he said quietly.
"What?"
"You're not just a contract."
Her heart stopped.
"Then what am I?"
He didn't answer.
Seconds passed.
"I don't know," he finally said. "But you're not just a contract."
She waited for more.
Nothing came.
"Okay," she whispered.
Walked out.
Went to her room.
Opened her notebook.
Day 70: He sent money to my parents. I confronted him. He said forget the contract. He said I'm not just a contract. Then he said nothing else.
I don't know what any of this means.
But I think I'm in love with him.
And I think that's going to destroy me.
---
Day 71
A knock on her door.
She opened it.
Ethan stood there. Holding something.
"What's that?" she asked.
"A book."
"I can see that. Why?"
He held it out. "You leave books for me. On my nightstand. I thought... maybe you'd like one too."
She took it.
Looked at the cover.
A novel. One she'd mentioned once. Months ago. In passing.
"You remembered," she said.
"I remember a lot of things."
"Like what?"
He hesitated.
Then: "You hum when you're nervous. You drink tea at midnight but never caffeine after 6 PM. You talk to yourself in the kitchen. You named the plants by the window. You've been here 71 days and you still call me Mr. Blackwell."
She stared at him.
"You noticed all that?"
"I notice everything."
"Then why—" She stopped. Shook her head. "Never mind."
"Why what?"
"Why do you act like you don't care?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said something she'd never forget.
"Because caring is dangerous. For people like me."
"People like you?"
"People who lose things." His voice was quiet. Flat. "People who've lost enough."
And then he walked away.
Ama stood in the doorway.
Holding the book.
Heart pounding.
Day 71: He gave me a book. He remembered something I said months ago. He told me he's afraid of losing things.
I think someone broke him.
I think he's been broken for a long time.
I think I want to be the one who helps him heal.
I think I'm an idiot.
---
Day 75
She left him a note.
Nothing big. Just a few words on a sticky note stuck to his coffee cup.
Hope you slept well. —A
That night, she found a note on her pillow.
I did. Thank you. —E
She stared at it for ten minutes.
Then carefully put it in her notebook.
Right next to the list of small things.
---
Day 80
The photos appeared online.
Ama was scrolling mindlessly when she saw them.
Ethan and Naomi.
At a restaurant.
Laughing together.
Headlines: Blackwell CEO Spotted with Choi Heiress — Romance Rumors Swirl
Ama put her phone down.
Picked it up.
Put it down again.
Her chest felt hollow.
She told herself it meant nothing. They were friends. Childhood friends. He'd explained this.
But the photos...
She looked happy. Naomi. Leaning close. Touching his arm. Smiling like she had every right to be there.
Maybe she did.
Maybe she had more right than Ama ever would.
That night, Ethan came home at 11 PM.
Ama was in the kitchen. Pretending to read.
He saw her. Stopped.
"You're awake."
"Couldn't sleep."
Silence.
He walked to the counter. Made tea. Two cups.
Slid one to her.
She took it. Didn't drink.
"I saw the photos," she said.
He paused. "What photos?"
"You and Naomi. At the restaurant. They're calling it a romance."
He was quiet for a moment.
"It's not a romance."
"I know. You told me. She's your friend."
"She is."
"Okay."
"Is that... is that why you can't sleep?"
She looked at him.
"Why would that matter? It's not in the contract."
He flinched.
Just a little. Just for a second.
But she saw it.
"Ama—"
"It's fine." She stood up. "You don't owe me explanations. That's literally rule number two. No questions. No interference. I remember."
She walked toward her room.
"Ama."
She stopped.
"I don't want her," he said.
She didn't turn around.
"Okay."
"I don't."
"You don't have to tell me anything."
"I know. I'm telling you anyway."
She turned.
Looked at him.
He looked tired. Real tired. Not CEO tired. Human tired.
"Then why do the photos look like that?" she asked. "Why do you look happy with her?"
"I wasn't happy. I was... comfortable. It's different."
"Different how?"
He struggled. Searched for words.
"Happy is rare. Happy is—" He stopped. Started over. "With her, it's easy. It's familiar. It's not... it's not what I feel when—"
He stopped again.
"When what?"
He looked at her.
Straight at her.
"When I'm with you."
The words hung in the air.
Ama forgot to breathe.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Just stood there.
Looking at her like she was something he didn't understand.
Then: "Goodnight, Ama."
He walked away.
She stood in the kitchen for an hour.
---
Day 80: He said he's not happy with her. He said being with me is different. He didn't say how.
But his eyes said enough.
I think.
I hope.
I'm so scared to hope.