Chapter 7. Rejected but hopeful

Dinner was unusually quiet.

Amelia sat across from Ricardo at the long dining table, her fingers tightening around her fork as the clink of cutlery echoed in the spacious room. The soft glow of the chandelier reflected off the polished surface, but none of its warmth reached her chest. Her appetite had vanished the moment she sat down.

Ricardo noticed it almost immediately.

She had barely touched her food, and every few seconds, he felt her gaze flicker toward him—hesitant, lingering, then quickly pulled away as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden. He pretended not to notice at first, focusing on his meal, but the tension thickening the air made it impossible to ignore.

“Amelia,” he finally said, setting his fork down. “You’ve been staring at me all evening.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “I—I wasn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You look like you want to say something. What’s wrong?”

The question made her heart pound violently against her ribs. She lowered her gaze to her plate, swallowing hard. This wasn’t how she had imagined it. In her head, the words had come easily—soft, careful, unassuming. But now that he was looking at her, waiting, they tangled painfully in her throat.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered.

Ricardo leaned back slightly, studying her. “You’re a terrible liar.”

That earned a faint, nervous smile from her. She took a deep breath, then another, as if gathering courage from the air around her. For months—no, years—she had buried these feelings, convincing herself they would fade. But they hadn’t. They had only grown stronger, heavier, until they became impossible to carry alone.

“I just…” Her voice trembled. “I don’t want to keep pretending anymore.”

Ricardo’s expression hardened, though his eyes sharpened with curiosity. “Pretending about what?”

Amelia lifted her head slowly. Her eyes met his, glossy but determined. “About how I feel.”

The room seemed to still.

Ricardo froze, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. “Feel… how?”

Her hands clenched in her lap. “I like you. No—” She shook her head, forcing the truth out. “I love you.”

The words fell between them like fragile glass.

For a long moment, Ricardo said nothing. He stared at her as though he were seeing her for the first time—not the timid girl who had signed a contract out of desperation, not the obedient wife who followed rules too well—but a young woman sitting before him, brave enough to bare her heart knowing it might be crushed.

She had grown up.

That realization unsettled him more than her confession.

She was nineteen then but four years had passed she is twenty three now, the girl he remembered had disappeared somewhere along the way. In her place was a woman—soft, resilient, quietly strong. And for the first time, Ricardo felt something stir in his chest that he refused to name.

He stood abruptly.

Amelia flinched at the sound of his chair scraping against the floor. “Ricardo—”

“This is a mistake,” he said sharply.

Her breath caught. “What?”

“You’re confused,” he continued, his tone firm, almost cold, as if he were speaking to himself as much as to her. “We’re in a contract marriage. Nothing more. You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself.”

The words struck like a slap.

“I know it’s a contract,” Amelia said quickly, tears blurring her vision. “I’ve always known. I’m not asking you to—”

“You shouldn’t feel anything at all,” he interrupted. “That was the agreement.”

Silence swallowed her protest.

Ricardo turned away, running a hand through his hair. He felt suffocated—by guilt, by temptation, by emotions he had no intention of dealing with. Caring for her would complicate everything, and complications were luxuries he couldn’t afford.

“I think it’s best if you remember your place in this arrangement,” he said, his voice low and controlled.

“This doesn’t happen again.”

With that, he walked out of the dining room, leaving his untouched dessert behind.

Amelia remained seated, unmoving.

The moment the door closed, the tears she had been holding back spilled freely. She pressed a hand over her mouth to silence the sob threatening to escape.

Her chest ached, but strangely, she wasn’t surprised.

She had expected this.

Still, knowing it didn’t make it hurt any less.

She wiped her tears slowly and stood up, forcing herself to breathe. It’s okay, she told herself. You knew this could happen. Loving him had never been part of the contract—but neither had forbidding herself from feeling.

Back in her room, Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Her heart felt bruised, but beneath the pain was something stubborn—something hopeful.

“I’ll love you quietly,” she whispered into the empty room. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll be here.”

She hugged her arms around herself, a sad smile tugging at her lips. Maybe one day—before the contract ended—he would see her not as an obligation, not as a mistake, but as someone worth choosing.

Until then, she would endure.

Because loving him, even alone, was a choice she was willing to make.