Lines Drawn

But then the sound of footsteps echoed behind her.

Lucian stood at the edge of the garden, his eyes fixed on them.

His expression was unreadable, but the storm brewing in his gaze was unmistakable.

The air in the garden shifted the moment Lucian stepped forward. His tall frame filled the space, his presence crackling with tension.

Amara’s breath caught as her eyes met his—dark, unreadable, but heavy with something that made her chest ache.

“Lucian,” Ethan greeted smoothly, though he straightened his shoulders as if bracing for a blow. “I was just keeping your wife company while you worked. The gardens here are too beautiful to go unnoticed.”

Lucian’s gaze didn’t move from Amara. “My wife doesn’t need company.”

The words were sharp, final.

Amara flinched. A dozen retorts rose to her lips, but she bit them back. Not here. Not in front of Ethan.

Ethan, however, wasn’t so easily silenced. “With respect, she’s not a statue, Lucian. She’s a woman. And women deserve more than to be treated like decorations.”

The muscles in Lucian’s jaw flexed. He took a slow step closer, his voice dropping low. “Careful, Blake.”

For a tense moment, neither man looked away. Lucian, rigid and possessive; Ethan, calm but firm. Two storms colliding in silence.

Amara’s heart pounded painfully. She stepped between them, her voice trembling but steady. “Stop it. Please.”

Lucian’s hand brushed her arm, not gentle but not cruel either—more like he couldn’t keep himself from touching her, just to remind them both she was his. “Inside,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Amara hesitated, caught between the cold cage she knew and the fleeting warmth Ethan had offered.

Ethan’s eyes softened as they landed on her. “You don’t have to live like this, Amara.”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t answer. Not here. Not now.

Lucian’s grip tightened slightly. “Now.”

The finality in his voice left her no choice. She let him lead her back into the mansion, her chest tight with unspoken words.

When the heavy doors closed behind them, silence pressed in. Lucian’s grip didn’t loosen until they reached the grand hall, where he spun to face her, his eyes blazing.

“What were you doing with him?” His voice was a low growl, more dangerous than when he spoke to business rivals.

Amara’s hands clenched at her sides. “Talking. That’s all.”

“Talking,” he repeated bitterly, stepping closer. “Do you know what men like him want?”

Her eyes flashed. “Maybe I don’t care. At least he speaks to me like I matter.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her defiance.

Lucian froze. For the briefest second, pain flickered across his face, so fast she almost doubted it was real. Then his expression hardened again, cruel and cold.

“You’re my wife,” he said tightly. “Mine. Whether you like it or not.”

Her throat burned, but she lifted her chin. “A wife on paper. That’s all you wanted, isn’t it?”

His silence cut deeper than any answer.

Without another word, Lucian turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the marble.

Amara stood rooted to the spot, her heart breaking and burning all at once. She hated the power he had over her—how even in his coldness, he consumed her.

But she also knew one truth: the more he tried to cage her, the harder she would fight to break free.

The storm between them lingered long after Lucian walked away.

Amara stood in the middle of the grand hall, her chest heaving, her heart breaking in quiet pieces.

She wanted to scream, to shatter the silence with all the words she had swallowed for weeks. But no sound left her lips.

Instead, she went to her room and closed the door. Only when the lock clicked did she let the tears fall.

Hours passed. The mansion slept.

Until Harris’s urgent knock jolted her awake.

“Madam,” the butler’s voice carried through the wood, steadier than most men in panic but heavy with concern. “A call for you. It’s from the hospital.”

Her stomach dropped. She rushed to open the door, her heart thundering. “The hospital? What happened?”

“They wouldn’t say details to me,” Harris said gently, handing her the receiver. “But it sounded urgent.”

Her hands shook as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello? This is Amara Cole—” She stopped, correcting herself. “Amara Hale.”