The Other Woman

By morning, she wore a mask of her own. She dressed quietly, her hair pulled back, her face composed.

When she entered the dining room, Lucian was already there, scrolling through his tablet, his jaw sharp in the morning light.

For once, she didn’t wait for him to speak. “I’ll be visiting the hospital today.”

His eyes flicked up. “You’ll take a driver.”

“I’ll take Harris.”

A pause. His gaze lingered on her, studying her expression, but she gave him nothing. At last, he nodded once and returned to his screen.

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Amara tried to focus on her mother, but Lucian’s kiss lingered in her mind like an unwelcome shadow.

At the hospital, she stayed by her mother’s side, reading to her, feeding her soup spoon by spoon.

For a few hours, the world outside didn’t exist.

But when she returned to the mansion that evening, she found a car already parked in the drive. Sleek. Expensive. Familiar.

Her heart sank.

The woman in crimson stood in the foyer, her lips curved in that same poisonous smile. Diamonds glittered at her throat, her eyes sharp as blades.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her gaze sweeping over Amara like she was dirt. “The dutiful little wife returns.”

Amara’s chest tightened. “What are you doing here?”

The woman’s smile widened. “Visiting my Lucian. Is that a crime?”

Before Amara could respond, Lucian appeared at the top of the stairs, his tie loosened, his expression unreadable.

But his ex’s triumphant smile told Amara everything she needed to know.

“Dinner, darling?” the woman purred.

Lucian’s silence cut deeper than words.

Amara’s fingers curled into fists. The ache in her chest swelled, but she forced her voice steady. “I’ll be in my room.”

She turned on her heel, refusing to let them see the tears burning her eyes.

But as she climbed the stairs, she felt Lucian’s gaze on her back—heavy, conflicted, and far from indifferent.

Amara shut the bedroom door behind her, pressing her back against the wood.

Her chest rose and fell with quick, uneven breaths. She hated how her hands trembled, how easily that woman’s presence could shake her.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t break again. And yet here she was, shaking in her own home.

No. Not her home. Lucian’s.

She wiped her eyes quickly and crossed to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, pale but steady.

“You’re stronger than this,” she whispered to herself. “Stronger than her. Stronger than him.”

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She stiffened. “Who is it?”

The door opened without waiting for permission.

The woman in crimson swept inside, her perfume heavy, her heels clicking against the floor like tiny hammers.

Amara straightened. “You’re not welcome here.”

The woman’s smile was all venom. “Oh, but I am. You see, Lucian and I have history.

Real history. Not this little… arrangement you’ve signed yourself into.”

Her eyes flicked to Amara’s simple dress, full of disdain. “You’re nothing but a placeholder, my dear. And we both know it.”

Anger sparked in Amara’s chest. She swallowed hard, fighting the sting of tears, and lifted her chin.

“If I’m nothing, then why are you standing here, trying so hard to convince me?”

For a moment, the woman’s smile faltered. But she quickly recovered, her gaze icy. “Because you’re standing in my place. And I always get back what’s mine.”

Before Amara could answer, Lucian’s voice cut through the tension.

“That’s enough.”

Both women turned. He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the intruder.

The woman’s smile softened instantly, her tone dripping with sweetness. “Lucian, darling, I was just having a chat with your little wife.”

Lucian’s gaze darkened. “Get out.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“I said leave.” His voice was cold steel. “Now.”

For the first time, the woman looked unsettled. Her lips parted, as though to argue, but the intensity in his eyes silenced her.

With a sharp click of her heels, she brushed past him, her perfume trailing like smoke.

Silence settled in the room.

Lucian’s eyes shifted to Amara. She stood stiffly, her chin high, refusing to let him see how shaken she truly was.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, his voice low and rough, Lucian said, “Don’t let her get to you.”

Amara let out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You let her into your home.”

His jaw tightened. “This is my home. I let no one in unless I choose to.”

Her chest tightened. “And you chose her.”

The words hit harder than she meant them

Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for it.

Lucian took a step closer, his eyes burning with something she couldn’t name. “And I told her to leave. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

Amara’s lips parted, but no words came.

Because the truth was—it did.