A War of Words

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

Amara stood rooted in place, her breath shallow, her chest still heaving from the clash with the other woman.

Lucian’s eyes lingered on her, sharp and unreadable, like he was calculating every word before speaking.

At last, he broke the silence. “She doesn’t matter.”

Amara laughed, the sound hollow. “Doesn’t matter?

She waltzed into your house, into my room, and told me I was nothing. And you expect me to believe she doesn’t matter?”

His jaw tightened. “Because she doesn’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then why was she here in the first place? Why does she still think she has a claim over you?”

Lucian stepped closer, his voice low and clipped. “Because people like her never let go.

They cling to the past, to old ties, to whatever scraps of power they think they still hold. But she has nothing over me now.”

Amara searched his face, her heart twisting. “If that were true, you would have told me that from the start. You would have told her we mattered.”

Something flickered in his eyes—raw, dangerous, almost vulnerable.

But then, just as quickly, his walls slammed back into place.

“This marriage isn’t about we,” he said coldly. “It’s about appearances. Business. Protection. Nothing more.”

Her breath caught, the words cutting sharper than any blade.

She forced herself to lift her chin, even as her throat burned. “Then why kiss me, Lucian?

Why hold me like the world was ending if it’s all just business?”

His breath faltered. For a heartbeat, silence roared louder than thunder.

His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself.

Finally, he said, almost too quietly, “Because I lost control.”

The words stung. They weren’t a confession, not an admission of anything real. Just a slip, a weakness he despised.

Amara’s chest tightened. She whispered, broken but defiant, “And I won’t let myself be someone’s mistake.”

She turned on her heel, heading for the door, but his voice stopped her cold.

“Amara.”

Her name on his lips was rough, strained, almost a plea.

She froze, her hand on the doorknob, but didn’t turn around. “Goodnight, Lucian.”

And then she left him standing alone in the room, his fists clenched, his chest burning with words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

The following days passed—silent, suffocating, impossible to grasp.

Amara kept her distance.

She ate in silence, answered questions with short replies, and avoided Lucian’s gaze whenever possible.

She had built her own armor now, one cold look at a time.

Lucian noticed.

He always noticed.

At dinners, his eyes would linger on her a fraction too long. In the mornings, his gaze would flick to her empty chair when she skipped meals.

But pride chained his tongue. He refused to ask.

One evening, Amara found herself in the garden again, her mother’s weakening face still haunting her thoughts.

She needed air, space, anything but the endless tension of marble halls and quiet judgment.

That’s when she heard the voice.

“Amara.”

She turned sharply. Ethan stood at the far end of the path, hands in his pockets, the fading sunlight throwing sharp shadows across his face.

His expression wasn’t gentle this time. It was harder, more ruthless than she remembered, his eyes sharp with intent.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice colder than she intended.

He studied her, unflinching. “Checking on you.

Making sure you’re not wasting away in that golden cage he calls a marriage.”

Her lips tightened. “You shouldn’t be here, Ethan.”

“And yet I am.” He took a step closer, his voice low but firm. “Because I can’t stand by and watch him destroy you.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Ethan countered, his tone sharp.

“Lucian Hale doesn’t know how to love anyone. He only knows how to own. And you… you’re not someone who should be owned.”

Amara swallowed hard, her heart racing—but she forced her face to stay calm, unreadable. “And what? You think you’re any different?

That you’re not ruthless in your own way?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I am ruthless.

But at least I don’t hide it behind cold masks and lies. At least with me, you’d know exactly where you stand.”

Her throat burned.

For a fleeting moment, she wanted to believe him. To imagine what it would feel like to be wanted openly, without chains.