Amara didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the contract folder resting lightly on her chest. Her mind kept racing, looping back to everything Ethen had said — his calmness, his certainty, and the terrifying way his presence wrapped around her like a second skin.
She had wanted a job. A little peace.
Not a marriage.
Definitely not a contract with pages and clauses that used the word spouse like it was some casual title.
And yet…
Her fingers brushed over the edge of the document, lingering where her name and Mrs Amara Blake were printed in clear, formal ink.
She turned over and pulled the covers to her chin, eyes wide open until dawn.
---
A knock on her door stirred her.
Not Ethen.
A delivery man.
"Delivery for Miss Amara," he said with a smile, handing her a large cream box tied with gold ribbon.
Inside it:
• A bouquet of white tulips and soft pink peonies
• A handwritten note in precise, bold handwriting:
> "A peace offering.
Let's write the rules together. – Ethen."
Her throat tightened.
Tulips.
Her favorite.
She barely remembered mentioning it once, years ago, during an awkward university lunch. And yet he had remembered?
How?
---
That evening, she stood outside the tall, glass doors of Ethen's penthouse apartment, her heart thudding, her breath uneven.
She wasn't sure if she'd come to say yes or to tear the whole contract in two.
But here she was.
Ethen opened the door in a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled, his tie missing. His hair was tousled like he'd been pacing.
He blinked when he saw her, then his lips curved gently. "You came."
"I haven't signed anything," she said quickly.
"I didn't expect you to." His voice was low, respectful.
She stepped in. The apartment was elegant, quiet. A wall of glass overlooked the city like something from a movie. It didn't feel like home. It felt like power.
"You remembered the tulips," she said, her back still turned.
"I remember more than you think."
She faced him.
"Why me, Ethen? You could have anyone. Why offer this… whatever this is… to someone like me?"
Ethen looked at her for a long time. Then he stepped forward and placed a new folder on the table. This one was slimmer.
"This is a revised version," he said. "I removed the media clauses. No public appearances unless you agree. No shared bedroom unless you want to. And if you choose to leave—no penalties."
She stared at it, silent.
"I'm not asking for a fantasy, Amara," he said softly. "Just a chance to build something honest, even if it starts with a contract."
She didn't answer. Instead, she walked over, opened the folder, and flipped through it.
It was real. Clean. Respectful.
Her heart squeezed.
She looked up at him. "Fine. But I'm not calling you husband."
Ethen gave a half-smile. "Not yet."
---
The court ceremony was brief. Two witnesses. No press.
They signed papers.
They left as Mr. and Mrs. Blake.
Ethen offered his hand to her in the car. She hesitated... then took it.
His grip was warm.
Firm.
Not possessive.
---
Her first night at the Blake estate was overwhelming.
Amara had lived in dorms, in shared apartments, in rooms that heard her cry through paper-thin walls.
This place… it echoed with silence and money.
She had a whole wing to herself. A walk-in closet, a bathroom with a tub the size of a car, and a balcony that looked out to a private pool.
Later, she stood there in a robe, arms folded, watching the city glitter.
Behind her, she heard footsteps.
Ethen.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I don't know how to exist in a place where the light switches have gold trims."
He chuckled. "You'll learn."
She turned to face him. "Why are you being nice?"
"Because I meant what I said," he said. "You're not just a name on paper to me."
Amara swallowed hard. "It's hard to believe you."
"I know."
A pause.
Then: "Have you ever been in love?" she asked suddenly.
Ethen's face was unreadable. "No."
She raised an eyebrow. "Not even once?"
"Not really. I've been... interested. But never vulnerable. Not like this."
That last part made her heartbeat shift. Something warm and sharp settled in her chest.
"I was once," she murmured. "It ended with a text message and therapy."
Ethen smiled faintly. "Then maybe we're both overdue for something real."
---
Dinner was served on a marble table that could seat sixteen. Just two plates. Candlelight. Too elegant.
Amara poked at her pasta.
"You're eating like it personally offended you," Ethen said with a smirk.
"I'm not used to… this."
He leaned back in his chair. "You'll get used to being treated well."
She looked up at him.
"I'm not here for a fairytale," she said.
"And I'm not offering one," he replied.
Another pause.
Then he added: "But I am offering kindness. Safety. Maybe eventually... something more."
Amara stared at him. There was sincerity there. Not desperation. Not manipulation. Just calm, vulnerable honesty.
And for the first time… she didn't feel trapped.
---
That night, she found herself in the library, running her fingers along leather-bound books.
He came in quietly.
"Thought you might end up here."
"Let me guess," she said. "You remember that I like books too?"
Ethen smiled, then walked toward her. Not too close. Just enough.
"I don't want to scare you," he said. "But I want to know you. Not just your past. Your now. Your future."
"You're talking like this isn't a contract."
"Because for me… it's not anymore."
Their eyes met.
For a second, time held its breath.
Then Ethen leaned in — not to kiss her lips, but her forehead. Just a soft touch.
No pressure.
Just warmth.
She closed her eyes, the weight of the world lifting just a little.