The Mansion Of Stranger

The Hale mansion was so large that Amara felt like an ant lost inside a palace. Every step echoed against marble floors, the chandeliers casting cold light on walls covered in priceless art.

It was beautiful, yes—but not warm.

The staff lined up in the grand hall to greet the new Mrs. Hale. Amara forced a polite smile, though her heart was racing. She caught the faint whispers behind lowered heads.

“She looks so plain…”

“Mr. Hale could have chosen anyone. Why her?”

“She won’t last a month.”

Each word sliced into her chest.

Amara lowered her eyes and followed Lucian as he strode ahead, every movement confident and commanding. He didn’t pause, didn’t glance at her, didn’t even acknowledge the staff.

When they reached the top of the staircase, Lucian turned to his butler. “Show her the house,” he said curtly. “And make sure she understands the rules.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucian disappeared down the hall, his tall frame vanishing behind the heavy doors of his study.

Amara stood awkwardly, her fingers twisting together. The butler, an older man named Harris, cleared his throat and began leading her from room to room—the glittering dining hall, the endless library, the indoor pool.

Everything was grander than anything Amara had ever seen. Yet the more she saw, the smaller she felt.

At last, Harris stopped at the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the air. The housemaids glanced up, their eyes widening as they noticed her.

“This is Mrs. Hale,” Harris announced.

The maids quickly bowed. “Welcome, madam.”

Amara gave them a small smile. “Please, just call me Amara.”

The staff blinked in surprise. No mistress of the Hale mansion had ever spoken to them so kindly, not even Lucian’s ex.

One of the younger maids nervously handed her a plate of bread. “Would you… like to try this, madam?”

Amara accepted it with both hands, her smile soft. “Thank you. It smells wonderful.”

The maid’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing. She wasn’t used to gratitude.

Behind her, Harris raised a brow but said nothing.

Unbeknownst to Amara, Lucian had paused in the hallway, watching. His sharp eyes narrowed as he observed her laughing gently with the maids, her voice warm and genuine. Something flickered in his chest—an unfamiliar irritation.

He turned away quickly, scowling. She’s pretending. They all do.

Later that evening, Amara found herself wandering through the silent halls. Her small room felt suffocating, and she longed for air.

She passed Lucian’s study and froze.

The door was slightly ajar. His voice, deep and cutting, carried out into the hall.

“She’s nothing to me,” he said coldly. “Just a contract. Don’t worry—you’re the only one who matters.”

Amara’s blood ran cold.

Her fingers gripped the wall, her knees weak. He was talking to her. The woman from before. The one with the crimson lips and mocking smile.

Tears stung her eyes, but she pressed her hand over her mouth to stop the sob that threatened to escape. She had known this wasn’t love, but hearing it aloud—hearing him dismiss her so easily—was like being stabbed in the heart.

Inside the room, Lucian’s voice dropped even lower, almost gentle. “Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

The sound of his chair scraping echoed. Footsteps approached.

Amara stumbled back, her chest heaving. Her heart pounded as the study door swung open.

Lucian stepped out, phone still in hand. He stopped abruptly, his eyes locking onto her.

His gaze narrowed, sharp and suspicious.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice like ice.

Amara’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

She had been caught.