Two Faces

Amara’s throat went dry as Lucian’s sharp gaze pinned her in the hallway. His father’s words still echoed in her ears like poison: She makes you look weak… End it now.

Her lips trembled, but she forced them shut. If he knew she had overheard, if he knew she had seen his mask slip, what then?

Lucian stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, voice low, clipped.

Her mind raced for an excuse. “I—I got lost,” she whispered. “This house… it’s so big.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe her. But after a tense pause, he simply brushed past her, his cologne lingering in the air. “Stay out of places you don’t belong.”

The sting in his words was sharp, but before she could reply, his phone rang. He answered quickly, his tone shifting into smooth confidence. “Yes, I’ll be there shortly.”

Within minutes, a sleek black car pulled up to the mansion. Harris, the butler, told her they were going to a charity gala that evening. Amara’s stomach knotted. Another event. Another night of pretending.

She dressed in a gown chosen for her, the fabric expensive but cold on her skin. When Lucian offered his arm as the cameras flashed outside the gala, Amara forced a smile. His grip was firm, commanding, like he was reminding her of the role she had to play.

Inside, the ballroom glittered with gold and crystal. Reporters snapped pictures, flashes blinding her as questions flew.

“Mr. Hale, your new wife—tell us, how does it feel to be married?”

“Mrs. Hale, what’s it like being married into such power?”

Before she could stumble on an answer, Lucian cut in smoothly. His hand rested on her waist, his voice calm and charming. “My wife is everything I could ask for. I’m fortunate to have her.”

The crowd murmured approvingly. The cameras clicked louder.

Amara froze. Everything I could ask for? The words were a lie, yet he said them with such ease that for one dizzy second, she almost believed him.

Through the night, he stayed close, shielding her from prying questions, pouring her drinks, even lowering his head to murmur, “Smile now,” when reporters were near. To the world, Lucian Hale looked like a doting husband.

But when the gala ended, and the car door closed behind them, the mask shattered.

The warmth vanished. His hand dropped from her waist as though she burned him. His jaw tightened, his eyes turning cold.

“Don’t let that go to your head,” he said flatly.

Amara turned to him, confused and hurt. “Why would you say those things in public if you don’t mean them?”

His lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Because perception is power. They needed to believe. You needed to play your part. And you did.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “Don’t confuse performance with reality, Amara. You may look like Mrs. Hale out there, but here…” His eyes raked over her coldly. “…you’re nothing more than a burden.”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Her chest ached, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her cry this time.

“Maybe you’re the weak one, Lucian,” she whispered, her voice trembling but steady.

His eyes snapped to hers, shock flashing for a second before it hardened into anger.

The car fell into silence, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Amara turned her face to the window, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The city lights blurred through her tears, but inside her heart, something shifted.

She was done being his silent puppet.