Amara
✧ ✦ ✧
The morning after moving into Ronan's world felt like waking up in a place where every detail was calculated to intimidate. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the sprawling penthouse in a golden glow that softened none of its edges. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below, as if the world beyond was deliberately distant.
I stood in the kitchen, my fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. The stainless-steel appliances gleamed under the morning light, spotless and pristine, like no one actually used them. The space, much like Ronan, was all sharp lines and quiet power—a show of dominance without a single word spoken. Even the coffee machine, a state-of-the-art monstrosity that probably cost more than my first car, had produced my drink with eerie efficiency, leaving me feeling even more out of place.
The unease from the night before hadn't faded. The message I'd received lingered in the back of my mind, a dark thread weaving its way through every thought. Get out while you can.
The words played on a loop, and though I'd nodded to Ronan, pretending I could trust his assurance, my chest still felt heavy with doubt. This marriage wasn't the escape I had hoped for—it was a doorway to chaos I hadn't yet begun to understand.
"Mrs. Blackwood."
The title grated on my nerves, but I forced myself to turn calmly. A middle-aged woman in a tailored uniform stood near the doorway, her posture stiff but not unkind. Her grey hair was pulled into a perfect chignon, and her gaze flicked over me with a practiced neutrality that somehow felt more invasive than outright curiosity.
"I'm Evelyn," she said, her tone crisp. "Mr. Blackwood's housekeeper. If you need anything, you may request it through me."
"Thank you, Evelyn," I replied, setting the cup down with a clink. "I'll keep that in mind."
She gave a short nod, her gaze lingering for just a moment too long before she disappeared as silently as she'd arrived. Even the staff here were unsettlingly efficient, their presence a constant reminder that I was in a world that didn't belong to me.
•••
By the time afternoon arrived, Ronan informed me that we would be attending a charity gala that evening—a public appearance to cement the facade of our marriage. My stomach twisted at the thought. The last thing I wanted was to parade around in front of high society, pretending everything was perfect.
When we arrived at the venue, it was everything I'd expected—opulent, grand, and suffocating. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their light dancing across the marble floors. The hum of chatter filled the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of champagne glasses. The scent of expensive perfume and polished wood drifted through the air, mingling with the faint notes of a live string quartet.
Ronan's hand rested lightly on the small of my back as we entered, his touch deceptively gentle but unmistakably possessive. It wasn't just a gesture; it was a statement. Each step we took together seemed to echo with authority, a silent declaration that he owned the room—and, by extension, me.
The crowd shifted like waves yielding to a ship's prow, their gazes snapping to us with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. Conversations dipped to hushed murmurs, fragmented words catching in the air like threads of a web. I felt the weight of every glance, the speculation in every whisper. Who is she? Why her? What does it mean? Questions I didn't want to answer—questions I wasn't sure I could.
And then, a voice sliced through the low hum of intrigue, sharp and familiar. "Amara."
My breath caught in my throat as I turned, my name hanging in the air like a blade. Nate stood just a few feet away, his posture casual but his expression anything but. His stormy gaze burned with something close to anger—an emotion he masked poorly with his unreadable facade.
"Nate," I said, my voice tight as I forced a calm I didn't feel. I couldn't quite look him in the eye, not with Ronan standing beside me. The heat of his hand pressed more firmly against my back, a subtle reminder of his presence. A warning.
Nate's lips curved into a humourless smile, his eyes flicking to Ronan and back to me. "Married," he said flatly, the word weighted with disbelief and something darker. His voice dropped slightly, as though the word itself carried a betrayal. "Quite the whirlwind, isn't it?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but Ronan was quicker. "Life's full of surprises, isn't it, Mr. Kingsley?"
His tone was smooth—silk wrapped around steel—but the undercurrent of authority was impossible to miss. He tilted his head slightly, a wolf sizing up his prey. The air between them crackled, and though Ronan's lips held the faintest hint of a smile, his eyes were anything but warm.
Nate's jaw tightened, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. The tension rippled through him, his tightly controlled expression threatening to crack. "Surprises indeed," he said, forcing a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Ronan's hand shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of my back where my dress dipped low. The subtle motion sent a shiver up my spine, though whether it was from his touch or the charged atmosphere, I couldn't tell. It was a deliberate move—a silent assertion of power.
"If you'll excuse us," Ronan said, his voice dripping with polite dismissal as he guided me forward with a firm hand. His touch anchored me, though I wasn't sure if it was to him or to the precarious role I'd agreed to play.
I didn't resist, though my mind was a whirl of fragmented thoughts. Nate's expression, Ronan's control, the eyes of the crowd—all of it threatened to drown me. As we walked away, I caught a faint sound behind us: the unmistakable crack of a champagne flute being squeezed just a little too hard.
•••
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite smiles and sharp whispers. I could feel the weight of every gaze, the silent judgment of a crowd eager for scandal. But it was the conversation I overheard near the end of the night that left me reeling.
Standing near the edge of the ballroom, I let my gaze wander, seeking a momentary escape from the stifling weight of curious stares and whispered judgments. The glittering chandeliers above cast their light across the polished marble floor, their brilliance doing little to soften the oppressive grandeur of the room. I shifted closer to the draped curtains of a nearby alcove, hoping for a sliver of solitude.
But then I heard it—a low murmur of voices just beyond the heavy fabric. At first, I tried to ignore it, unwilling to give in to the temptation of eavesdropping. But a single word froze me in place, my breath catching in my throat.
"Amara."
The name slipped out like a blade unsheathed, deliberate and cutting. I didn't dare move, my pulse quickening as I strained to hear more.
"I don't see why he needs her," a man said, his tone clipped and impatient. There was an edge to his voice, the kind of sharpness that came from suppressed frustration. "The Kingsley girl isn't worth the risk."
My heart slammed against my ribs, and I pressed myself closer to the curtain, barely breathing. The sound of my name on his lips felt like a spotlight aimed squarely at my chest.
"She's a means to an end," another voice replied, colder, sharper, like steel scraping against ice. The calculated calm in his tone was almost worse than the first man's frustration. "Ronan knows what he's doing. Stay out of it."
The words struck like a blow, leaving me reeling. A means to an end. The phrase echoed in my mind, heavy with implication. Was that all I was to Ronan? A pawn in some carefully orchestrated game? My stomach twisted, and the edges of the room seemed to blur as panic began to creep in.
I forced myself to step away, my movements slow and deliberate, desperate to avoid drawing attention. My heart was pounding by the time I slipped back into the main flow of the ballroom, the polished perfection of the crowd now feeling unbearably suffocating. My gaze darted around until it landed on Ronan, his tall, commanding figure standing out like a beacon in the chaos.
His eyes caught mine immediately, narrowing as I approached. The faint furrow in his brow deepened as he studied my face. "Something wrong?" he asked, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"No," I said quickly, the word escaping before I could think. My lips curved into a tight smile, but it felt like a mask, fragile and ill-fitting. "Nothing at all."
For a moment, he didn't move, his gaze searching mine as if he could pull the truth from my expression. Then, slowly, he nodded, the tension in his jaw softening only slightly. "Let's go."
As we left the ballroom, his hand once again came to rest on the small of my back. The gesture felt heavier now, not just a show of possession but a reminder of the control he wielded. The knot in my chest tightened with every step we took away from the glittering crowd.
For all my bravado, I couldn't shake the sinking feeling that I was playing a game where I didn't know the rules. And the most dangerous part? Ronan was the only one holding the cards.
•••
The penthouse felt even more oppressive when we returned. The weight of the evening settled over me like a heavy cloak as I stepped into the living room. The city lights twinkled beyond the massive windows, but they offered no comfort.
My phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. I picked it up, my brows furrowing at the unknown number flashing on the screen.
The message was short, but it hit like a punch to the gut: "You're in deeper than you think. Get out while you can."
My blood ran cold. My fingers hovered over the screen as my mind raced, a hundred questions colliding at once. Who was sending these messages? How did they know about the marriage?
Before I could react, the sound of footsteps drew my attention. I looked up to see Ronan standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable as his eyes locked on mine.
"Another message?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.
I hesitated, clutching the phone tightly. "Just spam," I said, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
Ronan stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. "Don't lie to me, Amara. Not about this."
His tone was sharp, but there was something else there too—something that made my chest tighten. Concern? Anger? I couldn't tell.
But as he reached for the phone, his fingers brushing mine, I realised that whatever game we were playing, I wasn't just a pawn. I was the bait.