The Study

In her room, the air felt colder. She peeled herself out of the gown, each button stiff against her trembling fingers, and slipped into a silk robe. The fabric slid across her skin like a whisper, a small mercy against the weight of the day.

On the vanity, her sketchbook waited. Her gaze lingered on it before she pulled it into her lap.

Her fingers brushed the pencil, and the pencil moved swiftly, the first lines hesitant, then bolder.

A neckline here, a cascade of fabric there. Ruffles, hems, folds—each stroke pulling her deeper into a world of her own making.

For the first time since stepping into the Mercer mansion, she could breathe.

She spoke softly as she worked, the words spilling into the silence. “They’ll expect me to be a perfect wife, to smile for cameras, to nod and play along. But they won’t see this. They won’t see me.”

Her hand trembled. She pressed harder, darkening the lines. “I won’t disappear.”

The knock came suddenly, sharp and decisive, rattling the door.

“Mrs. Mercer,” the butler’s voice carried through the hall. “Mr. Mercer awaits you in his study.”

The pencil stilled in her hand.

So much for silence.

“Sit.”

The word landed the instant the double doors shut behind her. Leon’s voice was low, steady, not raised—but it carried like an order no one ever disobeyed.

Amira’s chin lifted. “You could ask.”

“I could.” His head tilted slightly, the faintest curve at his mouth. “But you’d sit anyway.”

Her silk slippers whispered against the polished floor as she crossed the room. She lowered herself into the chair opposite him, spine straight, every movement chosen. If he wanted her obedience, he would not get it quietly.

The study was dim, lit only by the last traces of dusk spilling through the glass wall behind him. Leon sat in a high-backed chair, a black desk stretching before him like a barrier. His cane leaned against the chair, close enough to touch. Dark lenses hid his eyes, but she felt watched all the same.

Leon reached for a porcelain pot. The rich scent of coffee drifted into the air. He poured slowly, not a tremor, not a spill. His hands moved with precision that prickled at her skin. He set the cup down with a soft click.

“Tell me,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “What did Darren Cole whisper to you after the wedding?”

Her pulse jolted. “Excuse me?”

“You were seen outside with him,” Leon continued, unhurried. “What did he say?”

Her fingers tightened in her lap. “You had me followed.”

“I had you protected.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “There’s a difference.”

“You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

“I don’t care who you talk to,” Leon replied, voice smooth as glass. “I care who thinks they can use you.”

Anger flared in her chest. “I’m not your pawn.”

“No,” Leon said softly, almost approvingly. “You’re my wife. And wives don’t keep secrets from their husbands.”

Her throat tightened. “I don’t owe you every breath I take.”

“You do.” His tone didn’t change. “Because when you signed my name, you signed away the luxury of private battles.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m not a luxury. I’m not leverage. I’m a person.”

“You’re both.”

Her hands curled into fists. “Then you’ve already lost. Because I will never play the quiet little piece you want on your board.”

Leon tilted his head slightly, the gesture precise, deliberate. “Pawns don’t choose sides.”

“Then maybe I’m not a pawn.”

The silence crackled. She refused to look away, her pulse hammering in her throat.

“Every wife wants something,” he said finally, voice calm again. “Power. Jewelry. An heir. A title. What do you want?”

Her voice came sharp, certain. “My life. My name. My work.”

He leaned forward slightly, the dim light catching on the edge of his lenses. “Dreams,” he murmured. “Fragile. Costly.”

“They’re mine,” she shot back.

“They’re ours, now.”

Her nails dug into her palms. “No. They were mine before you. They’ll be mine after you.”

A faint pause. Then his lips curved—half a smile, half a warning. “After me? Planning for divorce already?”

“Planning to survive.”

The coffee’s steam curled between them, invisible threads of tension.

“You don’t get to decide what I build,” she snapped.

“On the contrary,” he said, his voice silk edged with steel. “You decided when you signed me.”

Her chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back, fury rising hot in her chest. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“No.” His tone was quiet, certain. “I think you’re afraid of being invisible.”

Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to tilt.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered.

“Not yet.” His mouth curved again. “But I will.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with defiance and unspoken challenge.

Amira stood slowly, her body trembling with the effort of keeping her chin high.

Leon didn’t move. His fingers rested lightly on the arm of his chair, relaxed, patient, as though the argument had been nothing but a passing exercise.

Her voice cut through the air like glass. “I won’t break for you, Leon Mercer. Not for your company! Not for your name! Not for your vendettas!”

His reply was quiet, final. “Then don’t break! Adapt!”

“I don’t play games,” she hissed.

“Then you’ll lose, Mrs Mercer”

The words landed like a verdict and the title burned worse than before.

For a moment neither moved. The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

Amira turned sharply and stormed toward the doors, her silk slippers scraping the polished floor with a harsh, biting rhythm that left no doubt about her fury.

She turned and walked out without looking back.