All Chapters of Bullied Wife In A Contract Marriage : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

~ Amara Kline ~ The heavy oak door of my suite clicked shut, the sound echoing through the sterile perfection of the east wing. I didn't turn on the lamps. I didn’t want to see the cream-colored silk wallpaper or the silver-framed mirrors that reflected a woman I no longer recognized. Instead, I let the moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows guide me toward the bed. My conversation with Gideon still vibrated in the back of my throat, a bitter, metallic taste. “I don't have time for domestic drama, Amara.”. The words were a dismissal, a verbal shove that told me exactly where I ranked in his world. I wasn't a wife or even a person to him; I was a line item that had suddenly become noisy.. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from shaking. The silence of Moore Crest was different tonight. Usually, it felt like a heavy blanket, but now it felt like a vacuum, sucking the air out of my lungs.. I looked toward the west wing,

~ Amara ~ The Obsidian was a place built of polished black stone and the kind of hushed, expensive air that made me want to hold my breath. It was the centerpiece of Raventport’s dining scene, a cathedral for people who traded in power and didn't mind the cold. I sat at the circular table, my back straight, my hands folded tightly in my lap beneath the white linen tablecloth. My dress was a deep, midnight blue—chosen by Helena’s personal shopper, of course. It was stiff and uncomfortable, the fabric scratching against my collarbone. Across from me sat Sarah, the daughter of a man who owned half the docks in the city. Beside her was Adrian, who was currently laughing at something Gideon had said. Gideon looked perfectly at home. His charcoal suit was sharp, his movements fluid and precise as he cut his steak. He hadn’t looked at me once since we stepped out of the car. To him, I was a decorative piece of the table setting, as essential and as silent as the silver bread basket. "So,

~ Gideon ~“She didn't make a scene when she got home!” I siad, not looking up from the spread of acquisition reports on my desk.Adrian leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of my office in Helix Tower. The Ravenport skyline stretched out behind him, a grid of cold, electric blue. He let out a short, huffed breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “A scene? Gideon, the woman practically evaporated. I watched her walk out of the restaurant, and she didn't even look back to see if you were following. Which, for the record, you weren’t.”“I had a dinner to finish,” I said. I picked up a pen and circled a fluctuating percentage in the logistics report. My hand was steady. “The East-End dock deal is worth three hundred million. I wasn’t going to let Selene’s theatrics or Amara’s sensitivity derail a quarterly milestone.” “Sensitivity,” Adrian repeated. He turned away from the window, his expression uncharacteristically somber. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Selene spent f

~ Amara ~ The silence of Moore Crest used to feel like a heavy blanket, but now it feels like a thin, cold mist. It follows me through the halls of the east wing and settles in the corners of the rooms I inhabit. Since the fitting room incident with Selene, I have learned a new level of quiet. I do not just speak less; I aim to exist less. I am becoming a shadow in my own home, a ghost that Gideon Moore paid millions of dollars to keep in a gilded cage. I spent most of my morning in the library. It is the only room in this house that doesn't feel like a stage for a performance. The scent of old leather and mahogany is grounding. I pulled a heavy chair into the farthest corner, hidden behind a row of encyclopedias that haven't been touched in decades. I didn't pick up a novel today. Instead, I reached for a thick volume on corporate mergers and acquisitions. If I am to be a "line item" in Gideon’s life, I want to understand the language he uses to define me. "Liquidated assets," I

~ Amara ~The wrought-iron gate of the Linden Row warehouse creaked as I pushed it open. The sound was rusted and loud, a sharp contrast to the silent, oiled hinges of Moore Crest. Here, the air didn't smell like expensive jasmine candles or floor wax; it smelled of diesel, old cardboard, and the metallic tang of hardworking trucks. I took a deep breath, letting the gritty air settle in my lungs. It felt more like home than the mansion ever would. I found Noah in the small glass-walled office overlooking the loading bays. He was hunched over a laptop, his brow furrowed in a way that reminded me of our father. When he looked up and saw me, his expression shifted instantly from stress to a sharp, pained concern."Amara," he said, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the linoleum. He didn't wait for me to reach him. He met me at the door and pulled me into a hug. His flannel shirt was rough against my cheek, smelling of woodsmoke. I closed my eyes, letting my shoulders drop