Whispers In The Dark

The line clicked off.

Amara staggered back a step, her chest aching as though someone had tightened a fist around her heart. He had said it himself—this marriage was nothing, just appearances. Yet still, why did it hurt so much to hear it again?

She turned to retreat, but her slipper brushed the marble floor, too loud in the silence.

The study door swung open.

Lucian stood there, tall and sharp, his phone still in his hand. His eyes found her instantly, narrowing with suspicion.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was cold, controlled.

Amara’s lips trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “I… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he repeated flatly, his expression unreadable. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “Or were you listening?”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t answer.

Lucian’s eyes darkened, searching hers. For a moment, something flickered—guilt? Conflict? Then it vanished, replaced by the steel mask he always wore.

“Go back to bed, Amara,” he said at last, his tone clipped. “And remember your place.”

Her chest ached, but she lifted her chin. “I’m starting to.”

The words hung in the air, quiet but sharp.

Before he could respond, she brushed past him and walked back toward her room, her steps steady even though her hands shook.

Behind her, Lucian’s jaw tightened. He watched her retreat, his thoughts in turmoil. She was supposed to be invisible, obedient, forgettable. So why did her defiance linger in his chest like a wound he couldn’t ignore?

In the silence of his study, Lucian poured himself a drink, his reflection staring back from the glass.

He told himself it was control. Possession. Nothing more.

But deep inside, where he would never admit it, he knew he was lying.

Amara woke the next morning with swollen eyes and a hollow ache in her chest. The memory of Lucian’s late-night call clung to her like a shadow—his cold promise to the woman in crimson that their marriage meant nothing.

She told herself she shouldn’t care. She had known it from the beginning. One year. A contract. Nothing more.

And yet her heart still broke, piece by fragile piece.

She dressed simply, avoiding the elaborate gowns his staff often brought her. The silk blouses, the diamonds—none of it felt like hers. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a stranger draped in another woman’s life.

Downstairs, breakfast was laid out in perfect order on the long dining table. Lucian sat at the head, his newspaper open, his face hidden behind the pages. The silence was sharp, punctuated only by the faint clink of silverware.

Amara lowered herself into her seat quietly. She picked at her food, her appetite gone.

It was Lucian who broke the silence first. “You’ll accompany me to another event this evening.”

His voice was calm, detached, as if nothing had happened the night before.

Amara’s fork stilled. She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Another room full of people who’ll whisper about how I don’t belong?”

His gaze sharpened. “You belong because I say you do.”

Her lips curved in a bitter smile. “So I’m just your shadow, then. A convenient illusion.”

Something flickered in his expression—anger, or maybe guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He set down his paper and leaned back in his chair, his tone like steel. “Play your role, Amara. That’s all I ask.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. Nothing more. That was all he wanted of her.

Later that evening, as Lucian worked in his study, Harris approached Amara quietly. “Madam, a gentleman has come to see Mr. Hale. While they speak, he asked if he might greet you. I can send him away if you wish.”

Amara blinked. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Ethan Blake.”

Her heart skipped.

She hesitated, then nodded. “It’s all right. I’ll see him.”

Ethan was waiting in the garden, the fading sunlight casting warm hues across the stone path. He smiled when he saw her, his presence gentle in a way that felt almost foreign after weeks of coldness.

“Amara,” he greeted softly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

She shook her head. “No… it’s fine.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the scent of roses heavy in the air. Then Ethan tilted his head, studying her face. “You look tired.”

Her chest tightened. She forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”

“People say that when they’re not,” he said quietly. His eyes held hers, steady and kind. “If you ever need someone to listen, I can be that person. No judgment. No expectations.”

Her throat burned. No one had offered her that—just simple kindness, without strings attached.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why would you care?”

Ethan’s smile was gentle. “Because sometimes the strongest people are the ones who need it most.”

For a heartbeat, Amara wanted to believe him. Wanted to lean into the warmth he offered and forget the cold walls closing in around her.