ALEXANDER'S POV
The night stretches long and silent.
Just the faint hum of the city below, the flicker of lights bleeding through the glass, and the dull clink of ice melting in my glass of whiskey.
I've been in my office for hours — not working, not really. Just sitting here, staring at nothing, pretending I'm not thinking about her.
Amara.
The name alone feels like a mistake I keep making.
It's been over three days since she moved in, and already the atmosphere of this place has changed. She walks around the penthouse like it's an invisible battlefield — her silence sharp, her defiance quiet but constant. She doesn't yell. She doesn't beg. She just… looks at me like I'm something to be studied, not feared.
And somehow, that gets under my skin more than anything else.
I take another sip of whiskey, watching the amber swirl like liquid gold. My reflection in the glass looks detached — perfect suit, perfect composure, perfect mask. Everything my father demanded I become. Everything I built myself into.
Control.
Power.
Distance.
Those are the things that have kept me alive.
But lately… control has been feeling more like a cage.
When I look at her, I see the daughter of the man who ruined everything — the man who smiled while destroying my family's name, who made my father a broken man, who left me to clean up the mess with blood on my hands.
And yet — she doesn't look like him. She doesn't act like him.
I tell myself she's a tool. A pawn in a game that started long before she ever entered it. But when she meets my eyes, there's something in her — that stubborn fire — that reminds me of the part of myself I buried years ago.
The part that still knows how to feel.
I hate that.
I hate how she makes this house feel alive again.
How the kitchen smells like warmth now. How there are soft sounds — her voice, her humming, her footsteps — that fill spaces that used to echo only with silence.
I built these walls to be impenetrable. Every inch of marble, every pane of glass, every rule — all designed to keep emotion out.
And yet, she walks in and somehow cracks the damn foundation without even trying.
I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet press in. In the distance, the faintest sound — laughter. Hers.
Probably talking to someone on the phone. Or maybe just laughing to herself. Either way, it cuts through me like a whisper of something I shouldn't want to hear.
My hand tightens around the glass.
I can't afford distractions. Not now. Not when I'm this close to getting what I've waited for.
This marriage isn't about love. It's about debt. About payback. About making her father choke on his own arrogance.
But the line is starting to blur — between revenge and something else I can't name.
Something dangerous.
I set the glass down, the sound sharp in the silence. Then I glance at the door that leads down the hall — the one room I've kept locked for years. The one she's been told to stay away from.
My chest tightens. Memories I thought I'd buried rise like smoke.
No one goes in there.
Not her. Not the staff. Not me.
That room belongs to a ghost.
And ghosts don't like to be disturbed.
I drag a hand through my hair, force my thoughts back into order.
Soon, she'll learn what living here really means. The house rules were just the beginning.
And if she keeps testing the edges of my patience, she'll find out just how cold this cage can get.
Still…
As I pour another glass, I catch my reflection again. For a split second, the corners of my mouth twitch — not quite a smile, not quite bitterness.
"Defiant little thing," I murmur to no one.
Then I take a long drink, letting the burn settle in my chest.
If she wants to play with fire, I'll let her.
But I'll make damn sure she remembers who built the flame.