Romans de Precious Doherty

The drive back was tense. Amira's mind raced through possibilities. Had she done something wrong? Violated some rule she didn't know existed? Leon waited in his study, standing by the window, his posture rigid. "Sit," he said without preamble. Amira sat, pulse racing. "Darren Cole contacted you today." Not a question. "What? No, he didn't—" "Check your email." With shaking hands, Amira pulled out her phone. Sure enough, buried in her spam folder was an email from an address she didn't recognize. *Amira, I need to talk to you. About Leon. About what really happened five years ago. Please. For your own safety. Meet me tomorrow. 3 PM. The coffee shop on Sterling Street. Come alone. -D* Her blood ran cold. "I didn't see this. I swear, I didn't—" "I know. But now you have." Leon moved to his desk, his movements controlled fury. "And now you have a choice. You can ignore it, block him, and we move forward. Or you can go meet him, and deal with the consequences." "Consequences?"

The next morning arrived too early. Amira woke to find a garment bag hanging on her closet door—the first of many fittings, according to her schedule. She ignored it, pulling on workout clothes instead. If she only had two hours at the studio today, she'd use this morning to move her body, to feel like herself for just a moment. The estate had a gym—pristine, expensive, completely unused. Amira found it on the third floor, all chrome and mirrors and equipment that looked like modern art. She was twenty minutes into a run on the treadmill when Leon appeared in the doorway. "You're up early," he observed. "Couldn't sleep." Amira didn't slow her pace, sweat gathering at her temples. "Too much on my mind." "Such as?" "Whether I'm married to a man who's protecting me or imprisoning me. Whether the gala in eight days is my debut or my funeral. Small things." Leon moved into the room, his cane tapping against the rubber flooring. "Those aren't mutually exclusive, you know. Prot

Amira woke to find a garment bag hanging on her closet door—the first of many fittings, according to her schedule. She ignored it, pulling on workout clothes instead. If she only had two hours at the studio today, she'd use this morning to move her body, to feel like herself for just a moment. The estate had a gym—pristine, expensive, completely unused. Amira found it on the third floor, all chrome and mirrors and equipment that looked like modern art. She was twenty minutes into a run on the treadmill when Leon appeared in the doorway. "You're up early," he observed. "Couldn't sleep." Amira didn't slow her pace, sweat gathering at her temples. "Too much on my mind." "Such as?" "Whether I'm married to a man who's protecting me or imprisoning me. Whether the gala in eight days is my debut or my funeral. Small things." Leon moved into the room, his cane tapping against the rubber flooring. "Those aren't mutually exclusive, you know. Protection and imprisonment. Sometimes they're

Back at the estate, Amira went straight to her room. The house felt emptier than usual, shadows stretching long across marble floors. She changed out of her lunch clothes into comfortable jeans and a soft sweater, needing to shed the armor of Mrs. Leon Mercer, even if just for a few hours. Her studio key sat on her desk, catching the afternoon light. A lifeline. A promise of something that was hers. She grabbed her sketchbook and the key, then paused at her door. Where was Leon? Usually by now, he'd have summoned her for some meeting, some reminder of the rules, some new way to tighten the leash. The silence felt ominous. Amira found him in his study, standing by the window with a tumbler of amber liquid. He didn't turn when she entered, but his posture shifted—acknowledging her presence without welcoming it. "You're back," he said. Statement, not question. "Samuel reported my return?" "He always does." Leon took a slow sip of his drink. "How was Giselle?" "Poisonous. As expec

Morning arrived with gray skies and the threat of rain. Amira woke to find a garment bag hanging on her closet door—the black dress for tonight's benefit. High-necked, long-sleeved, elegant as a funeral shroud. She touched the fabric briefly, then turned away. First, she had to survive lunch with Giselle. The stylist came at ten to do her hair and makeup. Conservative. Polished. The armor of respectability. By eleven-thirty, Amira looked like the perfect stepdaughter—expensive, unthreatening, appropriate. Everything Giselle had tried to mold her into for years.Samuel drove her to Bisque in silence. The restaurant was the kind of place where power lunches happened over white tablecloths and wine that cost more than most people's rent. Subdued. Elegant. Perfect for civilized warfare.Giselle was already seated when Amira arrived, positioned at a corner table with perfect sight lines to the entire dining room. She wore a cream Chanel, pearls at her throat, her platinum hair swept in

At one-fifteen, Amira stood in front of her closet, staring at clothes that suddenly all felt wrong. Casual, Leon had said. But what did casual mean to a man who controlled everything? Was this another test? Another way to measure whether she'd obey? She chose dark jeans, a soft gray sweater, and minimal jewelry. The uniform of someone trying to disappear. Her phone buzzed. Samuel: *Car ready when you are, Mrs. Mercer.* Of course he was. Efficient. Always three steps ahead. Always reporting back. She grabbed her purse—the one with Elena's card tucked inside, along with her secret account information. Small rebellions. Tiny pieces of autonomy she hoarded like treasures. Leon waited in the foyer, dressed similarly casual in dark pants and a navy shirt. Without the suit, he looked younger. More approachable. More dangerous, because the softness was just another mask. "Ready?" he asked. "As I'll ever be." His mouth curved. "That's what people say before walking into battle." "Is