LOGINHe married her for a contract. She loved him for real. When struggling designer Amara signs a one-year contract marriage with cold billionaire Adrian Wolfe, she promises herself one thing — never fall in love. But love doesn’t follow contracts. One passionate night changes everything… and when Amara discovers she’s pregnant, she believes it will finally make their fake marriage real. Instead, Adrian divorces her. Accused of betrayal. Branded a gold-digger. Thrown out without explanation. Heartbroken and pregnant, Amara disappears — raising her son alone. Five years later, fate brings them back together. Adrian is now engaged. Powerful. Untouchable. But the little boy with her eyes and his sharp gaze? He’s about to shatter every lie. And when the truth explodes, Adrian must face the cruel reality: He didn’t just lose his contract bride. He lost his family.
View MoreAmara's POV**March fourth.Tuesday.The first day of the making school.I woke up at five.Not because of nerves.Because the day had a specific weight and I had learned from Noah that the days with weight deserved to be in from the beginning.I lay in the dark.I thought about what today was.Not the Hidden Stitch collection.Not the waiting list.Not the piece in the significant publication.Not the global recognition.This.The making school.In my father's shop.With his name on the sign.Mr. Abara on Tuesdays and Thursdays.The first students arriving at nine.Six of them for the first
Amara's POVFebruary thirteenth.Four days after Noah's birthday.The appointment was at ten AM.Dr. Kleenex's colleague.Dr. Sarah Owens.Obstetrics.The Hope Foundation building.Two floors up from Dr. Kleenex.We had told no one we were going.Not Marisol.Not Martha.Not Victor or Hargrove.Not Mrs. Petrakis.Just us.The specific privacy of a thing still in its early stage.Still becoming.Still the category seven version.The coming thing.We sat in the waiting room.The specific quality of a waiting room designed to feel less like a waiting room than most waiting rooms managed.Good chairs.Natural light.A plant in the corner.Not the formal kind.The ordinary kind.The kind that grew rather than communicated.Adrian sat beside me.He looked at the plant."A fern," he said quietly.I looked at it."Yes," I said.He looked at me."Eleanor would appreciate that," he said."Yes," I said.We sat.The February morning."Are you nervous?" he said."No," I said. "You?""The good kind
Noah's POVFebruary ninth.My birthday.Six years old.I woke up at six exactly.Not early.Not late.Six AM on the sixth birthday.The specific quality of a morning that had been waiting to arrive.I lay in bed.I looked at the ceiling.I thought about what six was.Five had been a significant year.The most significant year I had on record.The charity event.Dad.The DNA test.The hospital.Judge Harmon.The notation system growing to eight categories.The extended survey.The map.The wedding.The baby co
Adrian's POVFebruary.The first week.Noah's birthday week.He was turning six on the ninth.He had announced the birthday approach with the specific matter of fact certainty he brought to significant dates."Nine days," he had said at breakfast on Monday."Yes," Amara had said."I want to go to the Wissahickon Valley," he had said. "On the day.""For your birthday?" I had said."Yes," he had said. "The schist in the pavement comes from there." He had paused. "I want to see the origin." He had paused. "Origins are important." He had paused. "They should be visited."Amara had looked at me.I had looked at her."The Wissahickon Valley for your sixth birthday," I had said."Yes," he had said. "W
Amara’s POVThe rhythm of the sewing machine was the only thing that kept the ghosts at bay.Whir-clack. Whir-clack.For this past days, I was able to afford a small shop to continue my seam in cape Haven. I watched the silver n
Amara’s POVThe salt-heavy wind of Cape Haven usually felt like a lullaby, but tonight, it sounded like a funeral dirge.I didn't turn on the lights in the shop. I didn't need them. I knew every inch of this cramped, thread-scented space by heart. M
Amara’s POVThe silence in the sunroom was heavy, thick with the scent of lilies and the cold, sharp edge of a blade. I was back in the chair, my body feeling like it was made of lead. Eleanor Wolfe hadn't moved. She sat there, as elegant and terrifying as an ancient go
Amara’s POVThe sunroom was beautiful, which made it feel even more like a trap.Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the perfectly manicured gardens. White lilies stood in tall glass vases, filling the room with a thick, sweet scent that made m






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