Amira found herself sitting in the study later that night, a book open on her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in over twenty minutes. Her mind kept drifting—to Jordan, to Mila, to the invisible shackles that wrapped around her since stepping into this arrangement.
She glanced at the sleek folder lying on the edge of the coffee table. It was the contract. The one she'd signed with trembling hands weeks ago, her future sold and sealed in ink.
She picked it up, flipping through the pages until her eyes landed on the clause:
Once the child is born, the marriage will be annulled. The woman shall receive ten million dollars in compensation.
It was simple. Cold. Transactional.
So why did it now feel so… complicated?
---
The Unspoken Shift
The next morning, Amira entered the dining room to find Jordan already seated with a cup of black coffee, reading the financial section of the newspaper. His gaze lifted to meet hers, but this time there was no coldness.
Just silence.
She poured herself some juice and sat across from him, unsure how to navigate this new tension—the one that wasn't born of hatred, but of something unspoken.
"Your friend… Mila," he said after a moment. "She's loyal."
Amira looked up, surprised. "Yes. She is."
Jordan nodded once, folding the newspaper. "Keep her close. In this world, loyalty is more rare than gold."
"Are you speaking from experience?" she asked carefully.
He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "I speak from scars."
He left without another word, and Amira felt the weight of those four words settle into her chest.
---
The First Real Smile
That evening, Amira found herself alone in the kitchen—something that rarely happened. The chef had taken the night off, and the staff had retreated to their quarters.
She rolled up her sleeves, determined to bake something. It was silly, maybe, but it reminded her of her mother. Of home.
By the time Jordan returned, the entire kitchen smelled like warm cinnamon and honey. He paused in the doorway, confused.
"You baked?"
She shrugged, brushing flour off her hands. "I needed to feel human again."
He approached, eyeing the tray of buns on the counter. "Do you even know what you're doing?"
"Absolutely not."
A pause. Then—for the first time since they met—he laughed. A real, low, unguarded laugh.
Amira stared at him, startled.
"I didn't know you could do that," she said quietly.
He reached for a bun, taking a bite. "Don't get used to it."
But his eyes, soft and amused, said otherwise.