ful. A small church, flowers in her hair, her mother smiling i

flowers today. N

te's private hall, where a marriage was about to be s

y perfectly, but it felt heavy, like chains around her shoulders. Her hair had been pinned bac

the powerful billionaire the world admired: tall, striking, untouchable. But there was no tra

ared his throat a

ed the words, her heart aching with

old, in sickness

she wished these words were real, that

to continue, even

hollow. His eyes never softened, not even for a second. He didn't look at her-

iant declared them

p of businessmen and family allies seated nearby. To them

her chest, half-hoping, half-dreading. He leaned i

ered, so only she could hear. "

ears, but all Amara heard was t

bles groaned under the weight of expensive dishes and champagne, but Amara had no appe

e too. Dressed in scarlet, she mingled with the crowd, her laughter like po

yes. She couldn't b

, his hand brushing hers as though to ma

smile, her li

, the guests left, leaving only the soun

stared out the window, her chest tight, while Luc

greeted them formally. "Wel

t the words. Home. Co

ors shining beneath the chandeliers, its walls lined with priceless art. T

the sweeping stairca

and a bed large enough to swallow her whole. For a fleeting moment, she w

d voice cut thro

e smaller adjoining room. It was beautifully

ned. "You mea

think about touching my bed, Amara. This marria

. She bit her lip, fighting t

nt, as if daring her to protest. Th

perfect wife in public. Silent in privat

om, the sound of running w

ides. Her wedding day had ended not with love, n

ad been buried under ma

edge of the bed in the smal

as Mrs. Hale, Amara c