Headlines

“Jesus Christ, Amira!”

Her father’s roar filled the Westwood study, slamming against the wood-paneled walls. He stood by the window, his phone clutched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

That night, the world had already decided who Amira Westwood was.

WESTWOOD HEIRESS STORMS OUT OF BRUNCH

BILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER MELTDOWN AMID INVESTIGATION

TROUBLE IN PARADISE? AMIRA WESTWOOD & DARREN COLE DRAMA EXPLODES

The headlines glared back at her from her phone screen, every angle captured — her storming through the rooftop doors, Darren’s hand reaching after her, Camila’s shocked face in the background. Paparazzi had feasted, stitching images together with lies they didn’t need proof for.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?!” Marcus Westwood bellowed. “The company is bleeding, the Feds are circling, and now you hand them a spectacle to drag us through the mud?”

Amira stood stiff near the desk, hands balled into fists. “I  I didn’t plan for—”

“You didn’t think!” Marcus cut her off, pacing, his usually pristine suit wrinkled from sleepless hours. “You don’t get to storm out like some spoiled child when the entire family is under siege. Every move you make is a headline!”

Her jaw locked, words burning but unsaid.

From the sofa, Giselle’s smooth voice slipped in like smoke. “She’s not entirely wrong, Marcus. The girl has… emotions. People eat that up. It makes her human. Sympathetic.”

Marcus spun toward his wife. “Sympathetic? They’re calling her a meltdown! They’re calling her unstable!”

Giselle’s red lips curved faintly as she sipped her coffee. “Unstable can be rebranded. With the right spin, she’s not a liability—she’s a story. A woman wronged. A victim.”

Amira’s glare snapped to her. “I’m not your prop.”

“Oh, darling,” Giselle purred, setting the cup aside. “You’ve always been the headline. The only question is whether you control the narrative—or let the world write it for you.”

Marcus rubbed his temples, muttering as he dropped into his chair. Another call buzzed across his phone, another furious investor he didn’t dare answer.

Amira’s chest heaved, her fury tangled with shame. She wanted to scream the truth — about Darren, about Camila, about how every smile she gave was a lie. But in this house, weakness wasn’t allowed. Silence was survival.

Her phone buzzed again on the desk beside her. Darren. 

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t touch the phone. She let it buzz and buzz until it finally fell silent, face down on the mahogany desk like a corpse.

The storm hadn’t stopped since dawn.

Amira’s manicured nails dug into the velvet curtain as she parted it, peering down at the gates. Camera flashes burst like lightning, reporters chanting her family’s name.

Westwood.

Once whispered with awe. Now spat through megaphones.

The landline shrilled, slicing through the tension.

She answered. “Hello?”

“Garden house. Now.”

The line went dead.

Only one woman in the Westwood estate gave orders like that.

The garden house stood like a glass box in the heart of sculpted hedges and roses. Once her mother’s sanctuary, it had become Giselle’s throne room. Rain streaked down the glass walls like tears Amira refused to shed.

Inside, Giselle waited, framed in the morning light, flawless as ever. White cashmere clung to her frame, her platinum hair curled over one shoulder, her lips painted blood-red. She sipped wine at nine in the morning as if it were water.

Without looking at Amira, she murmured, “At least you dressed appropriately for defeat.”

Amira crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

“You summoned me like a dog,” she pressed when Giselle didn’t answer.

“And yet,” Giselle said, turning at last with that velvet-and-arsenic smile, “you came.”

“I’m not playing your games.”

“Of course not,” Giselle replied smoothly. “You’re losing them.”

Amira’s jaw clenched. “Spit it out.”

Giselle set her glass aside, her tone flat. “You’re getting married.”

The words hit like a bombshell wrapped in silk.

Amira blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To Leon Mercer,” Giselle continued, calm as a surgeon.

“Blind. Tragic widower. Reclusive. The papers call him many things.” Giselle tilted her head. “What matters is that he has what we need — stability, capital, influence. His board is pressing him to marry. He needs a wife.”

Amira let out a sharp laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” Giselle’s voice sharpened, though her smile never faltered. “He is willing to make a contract. A marriage that binds our families together. You gain protection. Your father gains time. And you… You gain relevance beyond being just Marcus Westwood’s daughter.”

Amira’s pulse quickened. “So you want me to marry a man I don’t know, out of pity? Out of business?”

“Out of survival.”

The words cracked like glass breaking.

Giselle stepped closer, her perfume heavy in the air. “You think this is about romance? Fairy tales? Wake up, darling. This is about keeping your father out of prison. About keeping your name worth something when the dust settles. About securing your place before the world decides you’re nothing more than a spoiled heiress with a broken heart.”

Amira swallowed hard. “And if I say no?”

Giselle’s eyes glittered. “Then watch your father fall. Watch the estate being sold piece by piece. Watch the tabloids tear your family apart. And when the vultures are finished, see if Darren or Camila—or anyone—still answers your calls.”

Amira’s voice was low, shaking despite her efforts. “You’re asking me to throw my life away.”

“No,” Giselle corrected softly, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from her blouse. “I’m asking you to save it.”

A laugh escaped Amira, sharp and disbelieving. “This is insane.”

“I don’t deal in sanity, darling,” Giselle replied. “I deal in survival.”

Amira crossed her arms. “You can’t just—”

A sharp creak broke the silence. Both women turned toward the doorway.

Eli stood there, leaning casually against the frame, though his eyes betrayed the fact he’d been listening longer than he should have. His phone dangled in his hand, screen dark.

Amira turned away, pulse racing, knowing her world had just shifted again.

She stormed out of the garden house, but through the wide windows of the dining room.

Her father sat hunched at the table, head in his hands, shoulders hunched, his once-imposing frame reduced to weariness. His tie was loose, his eyes bloodshot. He looked nothing like the titan of real estate, but like a man drowning.

She burst in, voice shaking. “Why him? Why now? Why would you agree to this?”

Marcus hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Amira… It’s the only option.”

Her breath caught. “You’re serious?”

“If Mercer Holdings doesn’t step in,” Marcus continued, “the company collapses. The board… the press…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Amira stared at him. “So you’re selling me off like another property deal?”

“This isn’t selling you,” Marcus snapped, then softened instantly, guilt flickering in his eyes. “It’s protecting the family. Protecting you.”

“No,” Amira said, her voice cracking. “It’s protecting you. Your empire. Your pride.”

Marcus flinched but didn’t argue.

Giselle stepped closer, sliding a thick leather folder across the glass table. “Leon Mercer is one of the wealthiest men in the country. A widower. Recently blinded in a fire. His board wants stability. A wife at his side gives him that. And you, darling, give us redemption.”

Amira’s fingers hovered over the file but she didn’t open it. “You want me to marry a man I’ve never even met? Who can’t even—” she stopped, her voice trembling. “This is madness.”

Giselle smiled. “It’s business.”

Amira turned to Marcus. “You agree with this?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like it. But we don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Amira whispered. “You just never pick me.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. Marcus’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I’m not a chess piece,” she snapped. “You can’t just move me across the board to save your king.”

“You already are,” Giselle said simply, sipping her wine.

Amira’s chest heaved. She turned on her stepmother. “You’ve wanted this from the start, haven’t you? To erase my mother. To rewrite the Westwood name with your legacy.”

Giselle leaned forward, her perfume sweet and suffocating. “Erase her? Darling, she erased herself when she left nothing but bills and nostalgia. I’m the one building something that lasts.”

The words stung like acid.

“Enough,” Marcus said hoarsely, though he barely raised his head. “Amira, this is the cost of being a Westwood. We don’t get to choose freely. Responsibility comes first.”

“No,” Amira said fiercely. “That’s your lie. Responsibility doesn’t mean sacrifice. It doesn’t mean giving up my life for your mistakes.”

“Amira—”

“Tell me, Dad,” she cut in, her throat tight. “If Mom were here, would you have done this to her daughter? To me?”

Silence.

Marcus looked away.

The only sound was the rain hammering against the glass.

Amira’s heart cracked. That silence was her answer.

Her stepmother’s voice cut the moment like a blade. “It is better you agree to this. Or watch your father dragged through courtrooms and headlines until there’s nothing left of the Westwood name.”

Marcus didn’t argue. He didn’t defend her. He just sat there, crumbling.

Her eyes locked on her father, cold and steady. “I hope he’s worth it,” she whispered.