Chapter Ten: The Way He Looked At Her

The penthouse was quiet when they returned.

Not the sterile, hollow silence of before, the kind that echoed with isolation and absence, but a softer, deeper quiet. The kind that follows a storm. The kind that settles after a moment of truth.

Niles met them at the elevator, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his eyes flickered to Amara for a fraction of a second, something like approval, perhaps, or quiet relief. He took Damian’s coat, his gloves, his briefcase, all handled with the precision of a man who knew the weight of each item.

Damian didn’t speak.

He walked past the living room, toward his office, his steps measured, his posture rigid. But Amara saw it, the slight tremor in his hands as he removed his gloves, the way he paused before closing the door behind him, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

She stood in the center of the vast space, the city glowing beyond the floor to ceiling windows, the skyline painted in gold and violet as the sun dipped below the horizon.

They were home.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel like a guest.

She felt like she belonged.

She walked to the sofa, sank into the soft leather, and pulled her laptop from her bag. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it, the screen flickering to life.

She hadn’t checked the internet since the gala.

She hadn’t wanted to.

The last time she’d looked, the world had been calling her a slut. A fraud. A desperate woman selling herself for money.

But something had shifted.

She could feel it in the air. In the way the paparazzi had hesitated before shouting their questions. In the way the reporters had lowered their microphones when Damian called her his wife.

Now, she typed her name.

Amara Collins.

The results loaded instantly.

And for the first time in weeks, the top headline wasn’t about the scandal.

It was about him.

> “Who Is Damian Blackwell? Reclusive Billionaire Breaks Silence to Defend New Wife at Apex Gala”

>

She clicked.

The article opened with a photo, the photo.

It was from the red carpet.

She was stepping out of the limo, her midnight blue gown shimmering under the flash of a hundred cameras. Her hair was swept into a loose updo, her makeup flawless, her expression calm, regal.

And beside her?

Damian.

Tall. Imposing. Dressed in black, his high collar rising to his jaw, his gloves covering his hands.

But it wasn’t his appearance that made her breath catch.

It was the way he was looking at her.

Not at the cameras.

Not at the crowd.

Not at the flashing lights.

His silver gray eyes were locked on her.

And the look in them, deep, intense, almost reverent, was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t even love, not yet.

It was recognition.

As if he had found something he’d been searching for his entire life.

As if she were a missing piece.

As if she were precious.

Amara’s heart skipped a beat.

Then another.

She stared at the image, her fingers frozen over the keyboard.

No one had ever looked at her like that.

Not James.

Not her father.

Not even her mother, though her love was unconditional.

James had looked at her like she was a prize. A trophy. A beautiful accessory to be shown off at premieres and award shows. His gaze had been possessive, hungry, always calculating, how she looked, how she dressed, how she could benefit his career.

But Damian?

He looked at her like she was a treasure.

Like she was something rare. Something sacred. Something his.

And the world had seen it.

The article continued:

> “In a stunning moment at the Apex Gala, reclusive tech billionaire Damian Blackwell publicly defended his new wife, Amara Collins, against a barrage of invasive questions from the press. When asked if she had cheated on her fiancé, James Holloway, Blackwell responded with chilling precision: ‘She is my wife.’ He then issued a formal statement warning of legal action against any media outlet that slanders her. The moment has gone viral, with over 12 million views in 24 hours. Fans are calling it ‘the most powerful husband moment in history.’”

>

Amara scrolled down.

There were more photos.

Her and Damian walking the red carpet, side by side.

Him guiding her with a gloved hand on the small of her back.

Her laughing at something he said, her head tilted toward him.

Him watching her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burning.

And then, another image.

It was a close up.

Damian’s hand on hers.

Gloved, yes.

But holding her.

Not just touching.

Holding.

And the caption beneath it:

> “He doesn’t touch anyone. But he’s holding her. What does that mean?”

>

The comments section was flooded.

> “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

> “He looked at her like she hung the moon.”

> “This is what true love looks like.”

> “I don’t care about the scandal. Look at the way he looks at her. That’s real.”

> “Amara didn’t marry a billionaire. She married a protector.”

> “They look like royalty.”

> “I was ready to hate her, but now I’m rooting for them.”

> “She went from ‘Slutty Bride’ to ‘Queen of the Gala’ in one night.”

> “If he can touch her, she must be the one.”

>

Amara’s eyes filled with tears.

She quickly wiped them away, but they kept coming.

It wasn’t just the praise.

It wasn’t just the shift in public opinion.

It was the truth of it.

For the first time, the world wasn’t seeing her as a victim.

Or a villain.

Or a joke.

They were seeing her as his.

And in that moment, she realized something.

She wasn’t just using Damian to rebuild her life.

He was using her to reclaim his.

They were saving each other.

She closed the laptop, her chest tight, her heart full.

And then her phone rang.

Mama.

She answered on the first ring.

“Amara,” Lena said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Amara asked, though she already knew.

“The photos! The videos! The way he looked at you! Baby, the whole world saw it!”

Amara smiled, a soft, private thing. “I saw it.”

“People are changing their minds,” Lena said, breathless. “The comments, the articles, they’re saying you didn’t cheat. That you were framed. That Damian wouldn’t defend just anyone like that. That he sees you.”

Amara closed her eyes, leaning back into the sofa. “He does.”

There was a pause.

Then, gently: “And do you see him?”

Amara didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was complicated.

She saw the billionaire.

The man who had saved her.

The man with a secret so dangerous it could destroy him.

But she also saw the boy who had lost his parents.

The man who had lived in silence for ten years.

The one who had touched her for the first time in a decade, and hadn’t let go.

“I’m starting to,” she whispered.

Lena sighed. “I was wrong, baby. I thought he was using you. I thought you were throwing your life away. But now, now I see it. You’re not his prisoner. You’re his partner.”

Amara’s throat tightened. “I am.”

“And the best part?” Lena said, her voice rising with excitement. “The studio just sent me your schedule for Eclipse.”

She sent a P*F.

Amara opened it.

It was detailed. Intense. A full month of rehearsals, costume fittings, media appearances, and filming.

And at the top, in bold letters:

Lead Actress: Lila Monroe

Second Lead: Amara Collins

Amara’s jaw clenched.

Lila was still the lead.

Of course she was.

The studio had given her the role to appease the “sympathy factor”, the narrative that Lila was the one who had been wronged, the one who had “comforted” James through Amara’s betrayal.

But Amara wasn’t fooled.

She knew the truth.

And she knew what this role meant.

It wasn’t just a second lead.

It was a platform.

A chance to stand beside Lila. To outshine her. To remind the world of who she really was.

“Are you okay with this?” Lena asked. “Second lead. After everything?”

Amara looked at the schedule again.

Then she smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

“What?”

“She thinks she won,” Amara said, her voice low, dangerous. “She thinks because she’s the lead, she’s won. But she doesn’t understand the game we’re playing.”

“What game?”

“The one where the second lead steals the show.”

Lena was silent for a moment. Then she laughed, a deep, proud sound. “That’s my girl.”

Amara flipped through the P*F.

Rehearsals started in three days.

Costume fittings in two.

And the first media appearance, Eclipse: Behind the Scenes, was in five.

She looked up at the city.

Lila thought she had taken everything.

But she had made one fatal mistake.

She had left Amara alive.

And now, Amara wasn’t just coming back.

She was coming for everything.

“Mama,” Amara said, her voice steady, strong. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to find me a dialect coach. I need to perfect a British accent. And a fight choreographer. I want to train, hand to hand combat, knife work, the works.”

Lena blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because in Eclipse, my character doesn’t just play second fiddle,” Amara said, her eyes blazing. “She kills the lead.”

Lena exhaled, a slow, knowing breath. “You’re not just acting, are you?”

“No,” Amara said. “I’m preparing.”

There was a long silence.

Then Lena said, “I’ll have the best sent to the penthouse by tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Amara said.

“And Amara?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“I always am,” Amara said.

But they both knew the truth.

She wasn’t just being careful.

She was being dangerous.

They talked a little longer, about the schedule, about the press, about the gala. Lena asked how Damian was, and Amara hesitated.

“He’s, adjusting,” she said. “The public appearance took a lot out of him. But he didn’t complain. He stood by me.”

Lena was quiet. Then: “He’s not like the others, is he?”

“No,” Amara said. “He’s not.”

“And you?” Lena asked. “Are you okay?”

Amara looked at the photo on her laptop screen, Damian, watching her like she was the only woman in the world.

“I am,” she said. “For the first time in weeks, I am.”

They said their goodbyes.

The call ended.

Amara closed her eyes, the weight of the day settling over her.

But it wasn’t the weight of shame.

It wasn’t the weight of grief.

It was the weight of power.

She opened her eyes.

Walked to the window.

And looked out at the city.

Somewhere out there, Lila was celebrating.

James was smiling for the cameras.

The world was still divided, some still called her a slut. Some still doubted her.

But the tide had turned.

And she could feel it.

The storm was coming.

And this time, she wasn’t afraid.

This time, she was the lightning.

This time, she was the fire.

This time, she was the one who would burn.

She turned from the window.

Picked up her phone.

And texted her mother:

> “Tell the fight choreographer to bring a knife.”

>

Then she smiled.

And for the first time since the scandal, she felt alive.

The night stretched on.

The city pulsed.

And in the heart of Blackwell Tower, a queen was rising.

And no one, no one, was ready for what came next.