Amara woke to silence a profound, overwhelming kind of silence that was at once luxurious and unnerving. Gone were the familiar morning sounds of the neighbor's radio, the scratchy cough from the elderly woman in the flat below, and the whir of the old box fan Leo insisted on using, even in the rainy season.
Instead, the only sound in the Blackwood Penthouse was the faint hum of central air and the distant hush of a city muffled by glass. She sat up in the vast bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush cream carpet as she swung her legs over the edge.
Her gaze wandered to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had stopped. The city stretched beneath her, gleaming and endless. She barely had time to admire it before a sharp knock pulled her attention to the double doors of her suite.
"Mrs. Blackwood?" came a female voice, muffled yet distinct. "It's Mrs. Whitcomb. May I come in?"
Amara padded across the floor and opened the door. She was met by a woman in her mid-sixties with steel-gray hair pulled into a neat bun, wearing a smart black suit and a no-nonsense expression.
"I've brought your schedule for today," Mrs. Whitcomb said briskly, handing over a tablet. "Breakfast will be served in twenty minutes. Your stylist, Ms. Sienna Vale, will arrive shortly after."
Amara blinked. "I… don't need a stylist."
Mrs. Whitcomb raised a silver brow. "Mr. Blackwood insists. You are to accompany him to a board luncheon this afternoon."
Amara's stomach dropped. A luncheon? She hadn't even unpacked her toothbrush.
"Right. Of course," she murmured.
After a quick shower, Amara found a silk robe and stepped into the adjoining dressing room a boutique in its own right. Dozens of outfits hung by color and function, shoes lined up like soldiers. Jewelry sparkled beneath soft lights, and shelves bore designer labels she'd only seen in fashion magazines.
She'd barely started investigating when the suite door opened again, and a whirlwind of caramel curls and fuchsia energy swept in.
"You must be Amara!" said Sienna Vale, practically bouncing with excitement. "Girl, you are going to slay today. I've got three outfit options for the luncheon, a fresh beauty regimen, and a few accessory combos depending on the vibe you're going for."
Amara couldn't help but smile. Sienna was the opposite of everything she'd expected in Ethan's carefully curated world warm, chaotic, and brimming with enthusiasm.
Two hours later, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her in the mirror. Her long dark hair was swept into an elegant knot, subtle makeup framed her wide brown eyes, and she wore a sleek emerald dress that hugged her curves modestly but firmly. Sienna beamed.
"You look like a boss's wife."
Amara gave a dry laugh. "That's because, technically, I am."
A soft chime sounded from the tablet. Sienna glanced at it and sighed. "Mr. Blackwood is ready. Time to play power couple."
The penthouse's private elevator opened directly to a minimalist office floor three stories below. Ethan stood by a massive obsidian desk, tapping away at his laptop. He wore a tailored gray suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the sunlight.
When he looked up, his gaze flicked over her from head to toe not leering, but appraising. Like a sculptor judging stone.
"You clean up well," he said.
"Gee, thanks."
He smirked slightly. "That's a compliment, in case you missed it."
She folded her arms. "What exactly am I supposed to do at this luncheon?"
"You'll sit beside me, smile when addressed, and speak only when spoken to. The board members are old money traditional, watchful. You're here to reassure them that the rumors are false."
"Which rumors?" she asked.
"That I'm an unfeeling sociopath incapable of love," he said, smoothing his tie. "And that I've lost control of the company."
"Have you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He paused, one brow arching. "I never lose control."
She didn't reply, but in her chest, her heartbeat thumped defiantly.
The luncheon was held at The Argent Hall, an exclusive dining club nestled in the heart of the financial district. As they entered, Amara felt eyes on her sharp, suspicious, and some, outright hostile. Every woman in the room was dressed to impress. Every man looked like he'd been born in a boardroom.
Ethan's hand settled lightly on her lower back. A show of affection? Or dominance? Either way, it worked. Conversations quieted. Cameras flashed. Whispers followed.
He leaned down. "Smile like you chose me."
She plastered on a polite grin. "I did choose you. Just not for love."
He chuckled under his breath. "You'll do fine."
At the long table, they were seated at the center power positions. To Ethan's right was Lawrence Maddox, Blackwood Holdings' senior investor, who eyed Amara like she was a bomb about to go off.
"Ethan," Maddox said. "Didn't expect you to settle down. Thought you were married to the market."
Ethan's voice was smooth. "The market doesn't cook, read novels, or make my penthouse livable."
"I don't cook," Amara interjected with a light laugh. "And I haven't had time to read in months."
Lawrence looked surprised. "Honesty. That's rare."
"She's full of surprises," Ethan said, lifting his glass.
Throughout the meal, Amara played her part. She nodded at the right moments, made small talk, and occasionally rested her hand on Ethan's arm when prompted. But beneath the surface, she was taking mental notes who talked the most, who deferred to whom, and who really pulled the strings in Blackwood Holdings.
When dessert was served, Ethan leaned closer.
"You did well."
"Thank you. I'm glad I passed your company's image test."
His eyes lingered on hers. "You're more than an image, Amara. That's what makes you dangerous."
She blinked. "Dangerous?"
He didn't elaborate.
Back at the penthouse, Amara kicked off her heels and let herself fall into the couch in the entertainment lounge. Her head was buzzing. She'd never been in a room with so many sharks.
Ethan appeared a moment later with two glasses of wine.
"You drink?"
"Occasionally. You offering as a husband or a businessman?"
He handed her a glass. "As a man who understands stress."
She accepted it. "Why me, Ethan?"
He sat beside her, not touching, but close enough to feel the cool aura he always carried.
"Because you didn't ask for more than what I offered. You didn't pretend to love me. You didn't try to manipulate me. You came in with terms and stuck to them."
"That's a sad reason to marry someone."
"I'm not a romantic, Amara. I'm a strategist."
She took a sip of wine. "So what's the strategy now?"
"We live our lie so well that no one questions it."
"And if I stop playing along?"
He turned to her, his gaze unreadable. "Then I'll remind you why the truth is much harder to survive."
For a long moment, they sat in silence. Two strangers bound by a lie, drinking wine in a glass palace neither of them truly belonged to.
But as she looked at him now his posture relaxed, the faintest tension in his jaw, the ghost of something like pain in his eyes she wondered.
Maybe there was a man behind the marble.
Maybe the ice wasn't permanent.
But melting it… that would be dangerous.