Ronan
✧ ✦ ✧
Morning in the penthouse was always the same. Predictable. Quiet. Controlled.
But not today.
The faint hum of the city filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunlight pouring in like liquid gold. It was a view I'd long stopped noticing—a reminder of how far I'd climbed and the cost of staying here. But as I stepped into the kitchen, the scene was anything but routine.
Amara stood by the counter, a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. The golden light softened her features, but the tension in her posture betrayed her unease. She didn't belong here, not in this space that mirrored my life: sharp, cold, and carefully curated. And yet, there she was—both a disruption and a tether I couldn't seem to sever.
I lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She didn't notice me at first, her focus elsewhere. Maybe on the message from the night before. I could see it in the way her fingers tightened around the cup, in the slight furrow of her brow. She was trying to piece it together, to make sense of a puzzle without knowing what the edges looked like.
Her presence here had shifted everything. The penthouse, once a fortress of solitude, now felt alive with tension. It was a dangerous sensation—one I couldn't afford.
"Mrs. Blackwood."
Evelyn's voice broke the quiet, sharp and professional as always. My housekeeper never missed a detail, and her loyalty was one of the few things I trusted implicitly.
Amara turned, her movements slow, as if Evelyn's formality was a physical weight pressing down on her. I caught the flicker of irritation in her eyes at the title, a detail that shouldn't have amused me as much as it did.
"Thank you, Evelyn," she said, her voice even but tight.
Evelyn nodded, her gaze sweeping over Amara before meeting mine briefly as she left the room. I didn't need her to say it; the message was clear. Amara was unsettled, and whatever mask she was trying to wear, Evelyn had seen through it.
I stepped further into the room, my presence drawing Amara's attention. Her eyes met mine briefly before darting away, a flicker of defiance replaced quickly by something guarded. She set the cup down with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the quiet space.
"You're quiet this morning," I said, keeping my tone casual.
She turned back to me, arms crossing defensively. "Just trying to figure out where I fit into all of this."
I leaned against the counter, watching her. "You're here. That's all that matters."
Her laugh was soft, bitter. "Is it?"
The question hung between us, heavier than I liked. She didn't push further, though. Instead, she turned away, her focus drifting to the sprawling cityscape beyond the windows. I followed her gaze for a moment, wondering what she saw. A cage? A sanctuary? Maybe both.
•••
The gala was a calculated move, a necessary step in reinforcing the facade of our marriage. But as we arrived at the grand venue, I couldn't ignore the tension radiating off Amara. She was a storm bottled up, her unease evident in the way her fingers twitched against the delicate fabric of her dress.
The crowd shifted as we entered, their eyes snapping to us like moths drawn to a flame. Whispers rippled through the room, questions and speculation trailing behind us.
Good.
The weight of their attention served its purpose, cementing the image of us as an unshakable force. But it also meant more eyes watching, more risks to manage. I rested my hand lightly on the small of Amara's back, a gesture meant to steady her—and remind everyone else where she stood.
When Aldridge's voice cut through the low hum of the crowd, I didn't need to turn to know he was near. His tone carried that distinct edge of arrogance, a man who thought he could challenge me.
"Amara."
The way he said her name was almost a challenge.
I watched her stiffen, her shoulders drawing back as she turned toward him. "Nate," she said, her voice tight.
He stood just a few feet away, his expression calm, but his eyes burned with thinly veiled anger.
"Married," he said flatly, his gaze flicking to me before returning to her. "Quite the whirlwind, isn't it?"
I didn't give her a chance to respond. "Life's full of surprises, isn't it, Mr. Aldridge?"
My tone was smooth, controlled, but I let the warning seep through.
Aldridge straightened, his jaw tightening as he met my gaze. "Surprises indeed," he said, his voice strained.
I shifted my hand slightly on Amara's back, my fingers brushing against her skin. The subtle move wasn't just for him; it was for her too. A reminder of the role we were playing—and the consequences of stepping out of line.
"If you'll excuse us," I said, steering Amara away.
Her steps faltered for a moment, but she didn't resist. As we moved through the crowd, I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves. She didn't look back, but I did. Aldridge's glare followed us, his grip tightening on the champagne flute in his hand until I heard the faint crack of glass.
Good.
•••
The evening passed in a blur of strategic conversations and polite smiles. I kept Amara close, not just because it reinforced the narrative but because I didn't trust the crowd around us. Too many eyes, too many variables.
When I noticed her slip toward the edge of the ballroom, my focus followed. She moved with an almost deliberate slowness, her gaze darting toward a nearby alcove.
Her body tensed suddenly, her movements freezing mid-step.
I shifted slightly, scanning the room, but she was already moving back toward me, her expression carefully blank.
"Something wrong?" I asked as she approached.
"No." Her smile was tight, forced. "Nothing at all."
The lie was obvious, but I didn't push. Not yet.
•••
The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, the weight of the evening settling over us. When we stepped inside, I kept my movements deliberate, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
Her phone buzzed, and her reaction was immediate—too immediate.
"Another message?" I asked, my voice low.
She hesitated, clutching the phone tightly. "Just spam," she said, too quickly.
I stepped closer, holding her gaze. "Don't lie to me, Amara. Not about this."
Her defiance faltered, and I saw it—the fear she was trying to hide. It struck something in me I didn't want to name, a flicker of protectiveness that threatened to unravel my carefully constructed walls.
As I reached for the phone, my fingers brushed against hers. The contact was brief, but it was enough. Enough to remind me why I couldn't let my guard down.
Enough to remind me why I couldn't let her go.
✧ ✦ ✧