AMARA'S POV
The ride back from the gala feels longer than it should.
Silence stretches between us like a wall — polished, unbreakable, cold.
The city lights flicker through the tinted glass, painting shadows across Alexander's face. He hasn't said a word since we left the ballroom. His jaw is tight, his hand resting on his knee, fingers tapping in quiet rhythm — the only sign of agitation he'll allow the world to see.
I look out the window, pretending not to feel the tension pressing against my ribs.
The gala was… a performance.
We both played our parts well — the perfect couple, the picture of power and poise. But under all that sparkle, I could feel the weight of his gaze. Not loving. Not tender. Watching. Measuring.
When the car stops in front of the penthouse, I exhale in relief.
Finally. Silence I can own.
But the moment we step into the lobby, something feels off. The air hums differently. The elevator opens before we even press the button, and when we reach our floor, the lights in the living room are already on.
Alexander notices it too. His steps slow.
Then, a voice — deep, authoritative, familiar in the way thunder is familiar before it strikes.
"You took your time."
The man standing by the window has presence — the kind that makes even silence kneel.
Silver hair. Sharp eyes. A suit that fits like legacy itself.
Alexander's father.
I've seen pictures of him in magazines — the founder of Voss Holdings, the man whose shadow still looms over his son's empire.
But nothing in those glossy images captures how cold he feels in person.
"Father," Alexander greets, voice unreadable. "You weren't expected."
"Clearly."
His father's gaze slides to me — slow, deliberate, dissecting.
"So this is the woman."
"This is my wife," Alexander replies, tone clipped. "Amara."
"Ah." The older man hums. "The gala went well. I saw the photos already — quite the spectacle. You looked… convincing."
It's meant as praise. It doesn't sound like one.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "It was a lovely evening."
His eyes narrow, sharp as a blade. "Lovely, yes. Though some might say it was bold of you — speaking to Ethan Reeve like that."
My stomach twists. Of course, he saw.
"Was I not supposed to speak?" I ask lightly, though my palms sting from how hard I press them together.
He smiles without warmth. "You could've spoken less."
Alexander cuts in, his tone edged. "That's enough."
His father chuckles, low and amused. "Relax, son. I'm only observing. You brought a spark into your home. Sparks can build fire… or burn everything down."
My throat tightens. The insult isn't subtle, but I refuse to flinch.
"I'm sure we'll manage," I say softly. "Alexander seems good at containing fires."
His father's gaze sharpens, almost impressed — but only almost. "We'll see," he murmurs.
For a second, the silence hums with something darker — history, power, things I don't yet understand.
Then I step back, bow slightly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll let you both talk."
I don't wait for permission.
The moment I reach the hallway, my hands tremble — not from fear, but anger.
Because I may not know everything that happened between their families, but I can feel it.
I can feel that I've walked into a battlefield disguised as a marriage.
---
ALEXANDER'S POV
The moment Amara disappears down the hall, my father's smirk drops.
"You've grown soft."
My jaw tightens. "Don't start."
He walks toward the bar, pouring himself a drink like he owns the place. "You used to have fire. Purpose. Now you bring your enemy's daughter into our home and call it strategy."
"It is strategy," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "The alliance stabilizes the deal with Haverford. You know that."
He scoffs. "Business doesn't need a wedding ring."
I meet his gaze. "Revenge does."
That stops him — for a moment.
He sets the glass down, studying me with those same cold eyes I grew up fearing. "You really think this marriage will destroy him? Her father's smarter than that. He'll use her, just like you're trying to."
"Then we'll see who wins."
He laughs, low and bitter. "Wins? Son, there's no winning when you let emotion in."
"This isn't emotion."
"Really?"
He steps closer, voice dropping. "Because I saw the way you looked at her tonight. The way you lost focus when she smiled."
I stay silent.
He keeps going, his tone turning sharper.
"Your mother once looked at me that way — before she realized love doesn't belong in our bloodline. It makes you weak. And weakness, Alexander… costs everything."
Something twists in my chest — anger, guilt, something older than both. "This isn't love," I say flatly.
He studies me for a long moment, then smirks. "Keep telling yourself that. But remember — her father ruined this family. He took everything. Don't let his daughter take the rest."
He turns to leave, but pauses by the door.
"One more thing," he says. "Keep her out of that room."
My stomach knots. "She won't go in there."
"She better not," he warns. "Some ghosts should stay buried."
When he's gone, the silence feels heavier than before.
I sink into the chair, staring at the city below — all glass and distance.
I told myself I married her for revenge.
But every time she speaks, every time she fights back…
I can feel that revenge turning into something far more dangerous.
And my father is right about one thing —
if I'm not careful, she'll destroy me long before I destroy her.