The car ride was silent, tense. Amara sat stiffly in the back seat, her fingers clenched around the handle of her bag. Everything she knew—her home, her life, her freedom—was now behind her. In front of her lay only uncertainty, a cold mansion, and a man who didn't want a wife, just a contract fulfilled.
She kept her eyes on the road, but her heart beat furiously in her chest. What kind of place did a man like Adrian Blake call home?
When the car finally stopped in front of a towering iron gate, Amara sucked in a breath. The gate creaked open, revealing a massive estate surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges, marble fountains, and white stone walls that glinted under the afternoon sun. It looked more like a palace than a house—cold, pristine, lifeless.
The driver stepped out and opened her door. "Miss De Luca," he said politely.
Amara hesitated, then stepped out. The chill in the air hit her immediately, even though it wasn't the weather—it was the atmosphere. The mansion loomed in front of her, elegant yet unwelcoming.
A woman in her early forties approached her on the steps, dressed in a simple black uniform. "Welcome, Miss. I'm Martha, the house manager. Mr. Blake asked me to show you to your room."
Amara nodded, clutching her small suitcase. "Thank you."
She was led through wide hallways with marble floors, high ceilings, and artwork that probably cost more than her father's debt. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. It didn't feel like a home—it felt like a museum. Cold and untouched.
Martha finally stopped at a large door and opened it. "This will be your room. If you need anything, ring the bell by the bed. Dinner is at seven. Mr. Blake expects punctuality."
Amara walked in slowly. The room was gorgeous—large windows, a king-sized bed, soft cream walls, elegant furniture. But none of it felt like hers. She dropped her bag on the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.
That's when she saw the envelope on the pillow.
She picked it up and opened it, pulling out a typed document titled: Rules of Coexistence.
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1. Do not enter my office or private wing.
2. No personal guests allowed.
3. You will accompany me to events when instructed.
4. Keep all matters private.
5. We maintain appearances—nothing more.
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Amara let out a bitter laugh. "Appearances… of course."
She crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room.
So this was her new life—liv
ing under rules in a gilded cage.Dinner was served in a grand dining room, the long table set with fine china and sparkling crystal glasses. The room was silent except for the soft clinking of silverware against plates. Adrian Blake sat at the head of the table, his back straight, his posture rigid. He was the embodiment of control, every movement measured, deliberate. His eyes barely left the menu as a servant poured wine into his glass, and then, without a word, the servant stepped away, leaving Amara alone to face him.
She swallowed hard and sat down opposite him. The silence between them was suffocating, more oppressive than the cold air outside. Adrian didn't look up. He didn't need to. He was already dismissing her.
Amara fiddled with the corner of her napkin, trying to gather her thoughts. The last few hours had been a blur of opulence, each moment more surreal than the last. She had been forced into a marriage with a man who didn't even look at her. Who didn't care.
"Is this what my life has become?" she thought bitterly.
Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. The silence, the tension, the absolute coldness of the man across from her. She spoke, her voice shaking, but louder than she intended.
"I don't understand why I'm here," she said, meeting his eyes for the first time since arriving. "Why couldn't you just let me go? Why this… this farce?"
Adrian didn't flinch. He placed his fork down slowly, then looked up at her with a gaze so cold, so calculating, that it felt like he was stripping her bare. It was as if he saw right through her, past the nerves and fear, past the anger she desperately tried to hide.
"You really don't get it, do you?" His voice was low, measured. "This isn't about you, Amara. This is about me getting what I need to solidify my position. The contract was the only option. And you, well, you're just a means to an end."
Amara's heart clenched, the words cutting deeper than she expected. A part of her had always hoped there was more to this—some trace of humanity in him, some chance that he might see her as more than just an object.
But no. He was right. She was nothing but a tool.
"And you're okay with that?" she asked, her voice thick with disbelief. "You can just... use me like this, and I'm supposed to go along with it?"
Adrian leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He took a slow sip of wine before answering, his voice as cold and detached as ever.
"Life isn't fair, Amara. You can either accept that and play your part, or you can fight a losing battle." His eyes narrowed slightly, almost as if daring her to challenge him further. "But I'll warn you now—you won't win."
Amara clenched her fists under the table. How dare he? How dare he act like this was all just a game to him?
But she knew he was right. There was no way out. She was trapped.
The rest of the meal passed in silence, the clatter of silverware filling the void between them. Adrian barely touched his food, his attention fixed on some unseen thought. Amara, meanwhile, fought to control the storm of emotions crashing inside her.
When the meal finally ended, Adrian rose without a word, signaling that it was over. His coldness, his detachment, it was all too much to bear. She wanted to yell, to throw the food at him, to demand that he show some semblance of kindness. But she knew it would only make things worse.
Instead, she stood and followed him to the door. As she reached it, she heard his voice again, this time without looking back.
"You'll be staying in your room for the night. We have an early meeting tomorrow. Don't be late."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Amara nodded stiffly. "Of course, Mr. Blake."
He didn't even acknowledge her as she walked away, leaving her alone with the opp
ressive silence of the mansion once agaAmara spent the night in the unfamiliar room, her thoughts racing like a storm inside her mind. The silence of the mansion seemed to grow louder, creeping into her bones. She couldn't sleep—not with the weight of her new reality pressing down on her chest. She lay wide awake in the enormous bed, the sheets too crisp, too perfect, like everything else in this house. She wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't her life. And yet, here she was.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each one pulling her further from the world she had known, from the girl she had been. Her father's desperate face flashed in her mind, his voice pleading with her to do this for them, for their survival. She had agreed to this madness to save him. To save their home. But now, alone in this empty room, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had traded one prison for another.
The door creaked open just slightly, and Amara sat up with a start, heart racing. She had locked the door. She was sure of it. But before she could react, she heard the familiar sound of footsteps—the same slow, deliberate steps she had heard the night before.
She stood up quickly, rushing to the door and gripping the handle. Her fingers shook as she turned it, expecting to find a servant, or maybe even Adrian himself. But when she opened the door, there was no one there.
Just the vast hallway stretching into the darkness, the empty house so quiet it felt like it was holding its breath.
She stepped into the hallway cautiously, her pulse quickening. There was no one. Yet the feeling of being watched lingered. She glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing—just the shadows of the mansion closing in on her.
"Get a grip," she muttered to herself, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment. She needed to think, to find a way to make sense of all this. To survive.
The following days were a blur of routine. Adrian rarely spoke to her unless it was necessary. He treated her with the same cold indifference he had shown at dinner, like she was invisible. He would give orders, and she would follow them. They never exchanged anything personal. There was no warmth, no empathy—just the contract.
It felt like she was living in a dream, or maybe a nightmare. One she couldn't wake up from. The mansion was beautiful, but it was also suffocating. The walls felt like they were closing in on her with each passing day.
As the days went by, Amara's anger grew, but so did something else. A sense of powerlessness, of being trapped. She couldn't fight him—she couldn't even fight the situation. She had agreed to this. She had made the choice.
But did she?
Her mind was constantly torn between two conflicting emotions. One part of her hated him for what he represented, for the way he treated her like nothing more than a pawn. But another part—the more vulnerable part—felt something else when she looked at him. Something she couldn't quite place. Something that terrified her.
Was it pity? Compassion? Or was it simply the desperation of being so lost in this new world that she was looking for any shred of human connection?
Amara shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts away. She couldn't afford to be distracted. She had to stay focused. She had to remember why she was here in the first place: to save her father. To get through this marriage.
As if on cue, a soft knock echoed through the door. She jumped, startled, and then opened it to find Martha standing there, a polite smile on her face.
"Mr. Blake would like to see you in his office," she said without a hint of emotion.
Amara's stomach dropped. She hadn't expected this, but she knew better than to question it. "
Of course," she replied quietly.in.
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