The black town car slid through the iron gates as silently as a shadow. Amelia watched, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, as they ascended a long, winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured, yet strangely austere, hedges. There were no colourful flowerbeds, no whimsical sculptures. Everything was geometric, controlled, and imposing. It wasn't a home; it was a statement of power.
And then, the house came into view.
It was a modern architectural marvel of glass and steel, all sharp angles and cold, reflective surfaces, perched on a cliff edge overlooking the tumultuous Atlantic Ocean. It looked less like a residence and more like a fortress, a beautiful, isolated prison designed by a minimalist god.
The car came to a stop before massive, double-height doors of frosted glass and dark bronze. The driver, a silent, unsmiling man, opened her door and unloaded her single, modest suitcase—a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding her.
"Mr. Blackwood is expecting you inside, Miss Swift," the driver said, before getting back into the car and driving away, leaving her utterly alone on the vast, wind-swept driveway.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath that did little to calm her nerves, Amelia lifted her suitcase and approached the doors. Before she could even reach for a handle, they swung inward noiselessly, activated by some hidden mechanism.
A woman who looked to be in her late fifties, with severe silver hair pulled into a tight chignon and dressed in a immaculate grey dress suit, stood in the cavernous entrance hall. The hall was all polished black marble and a soaring ceiling, dominated by a single, terrifyingly abstract sculpture that looked like a twisted knot of metal.
"Miss Swift. I am Mrs. Higgins, the house manager," the woman said, her voice as crisp and sterile as the environment. "I oversee the running of the household. Mr. Blackwood is in a meeting. He has instructed me to show you to your quarters and acquaint you with the rules."
Quarters. Rules. The words made her feel like a new inmate.
"Thank you, Mrs. Higgins," Amelia managed, her voice small in the immense space.
She followed the older woman across the marble floor, her footsteps echoing. The interior was breathtakingly luxurious and soul-crushingly cold. Every piece of furniture was a design icon, every surface gleamed, but there was not a single personal touch—no family photos, no messy stack of books, no throw blanket casually draped over a chair. It was a showroom, not a home.
"Your movements within the house are generally unrestricted," Mrs. Higgins stated without looking back, "with the exception of Mr. Blackwood's private study on the east wing's third floor, and his personal bedroom suite. Those areas are key-coded and off-limits. Your biometrics have been registered for the main living areas and your own suite."
They entered a sleek elevator that descended silently. "The house operates on a smart system. Schedules, including meal times, cleaning, and any required appearances, will be communicated to you via the tablet in your room. Punctuality is non-negotiable."
The elevator doors opened onto a hallway that was slightly warmer, with textured charcoal-grey walls and softer lighting. Mrs. Higgins stopped before a door and pressed her hand against a discreet panel. It glowed green and clicked open.
"This is your suite."
Amelia stepped inside and felt her breath catch. It was stunning. A wall of glass looked out over the endless, churning ocean, a view so dramatic it was almost aggressive. The room itself was decorated in shades of cream, silver, and pale taupe. A large, low-slung bed dominated one area, a sitting area with a deep sofa another. A door stood ajar, revealing a lavish bathroom with a freestanding tub.
"It's… beautiful," Amelia whispered, because it was. It was also the most beautiful prison cell she could ever imagine.
"Your wardrobe has been pre-stocked according to Mr. Blackwood's specifications and the measurements provided by your lawyer," Mrs. Higgins continued, gesturing to a wall of sleek, white doors. "You will find appropriate attire for all scheduled events. Personal items from your previous life are to be stored discreetly."
Amelia's eyes stung. Pre-stocked. Her old clothes, her comfortable jeans and soft sweaters, were deemed inappropriate. She was to be a doll, dressed for her part.
"Dinner will be served at eight o'clock sharp in the formal dining room. Mr. Blackwood expects your presence." It was not an invitation. It was a command. "Do you have any questions?"
A million. "No," Amelia said quietly. "No questions."
Mrs. Higgins gave a curt nod. "Very good." She turned and left, the door sighing shut behind her, leaving Amelia in the profound silence of her gilded cage.
She walked to the glass wall, pressing her palms against the cool surface. The ocean roared below, a wild, untamable force, and she felt a kinship with it. She was trapped here, in this sterile, controlled environment, while her own emotions raged just as violently.
With a sigh, she turned to the wardrobe. Sliding the doors open, she was met with a breathtaking array of luxury. Dresses from designers whose names she only knew from fashion magazines. Tailored trousers, silk blouses, exquisite cocktail dresses. Everything in a muted, sophisticated palette—whisper-greys, navy blues, stark whites. Nothing bright. Nothing that truly felt like her.
At the very end, hanging in a garment bag, was a single, breathtakingly elegant ivory dress. It was simple, columnar, and exquisitely cut. Pinned to it was a note, written in a sharp, slashing handwriting she already recognized.
'Wear this for our engagement announcement dinner on Friday. - A.B.'
The reality of it all crashed down on her. This wasn't just about living in his house. It was about performing. Every moment, every outfit, was part of the script.
Driven by a sudden, desperate need for a piece of her old self, she unzipped her suitcase. She pulled out a small, worn teddy bear she'd had since childhood, a silly, comforting relic. She went to place it on the bedside table, but her hand froze. It looked absurd there—a shabby, loved thing against the pristine, impersonal perfection. Feeling a wave of shame and grief, she quickly stuffed it into the bottom drawer of the bedside table, hiding it from view.
As eight o'clock approached, she changed into a simple, dark blue dress she found in the wardrobe. It fit her perfectly, as if she had been sculpted for this role. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. A stranger stared back—elegant, composed, and hollow-eyed.
She found the formal dining room after getting lost only once. It was a long, cavernous room dominated by a table that could seat twenty, made of a single, massive slab of obsidian. Only two places were set at one end, emphasizing the vast, empty space between them.
Alexander was already there, standing by a console, scrolling through his phone. He was wearing dark trousers and a simple black sweater that should have looked casual but instead hugged his powerful frame with an intimidating elegance. He looked up as she entered, his stormy eyes scanning her from head to toe, a slow, thorough assessment that made her skin prickle.
"You're on time," he remarked, as if he'd expected her to be late. He pulled out a chair for her, a gesture that was chivalrous in form but utterly devoid of warmth.
"Punctuality is non-negotiable, I'm told," she replied, her voice tighter than she intended.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "Mrs. Higgins is efficient."
A server appeared soundlessly, placing plates of food before them—seared scallops on a bed of something frothy and green. It looked like a piece of art. Amelia doubted she could swallow a single bite.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft clink of silverware against porcelain. The tension was a physical presence, thick and suffocating.
"This Friday," Alexander began, finally breaking the silence. "We will host a small, carefully selected group of journalists and influencers here. We will announce our engagement. The story is one of a whirlwind, secret romance. We met through mutual acquaintances, were drawn together by a shared… intensity. You find my focus compelling. I find your spirit refreshing."
Amelia put her fork down, her appetite completely gone. "You've scripted our love story? How romantic."
"Romance has nothing to do with it," he said coldly, his eyes locking with hers. "Perception is everything. You will look at me with adoration. You will touch my arm, laugh at my jokes—quietly, not a guffaw—and you will, under no circumstances, correct any detail of the narrative."
"And what if I can't?" she challenged, a spark of the defiance she'd felt the day before flickering to life. "What if I 'guffaw'?"
He leaned forward slightly, the overhead light carving harsh shadows into his face. "Then I will reinstate the debt before the dessert course is served. Do not test me, Amelia. You signed the contract. Now you will perform your part."
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of exquisite, tasteless food and oppressive silence. When it was finally over, Amelia stood, her legs feeling weak.
"If you'll excuse me," she said.
He gave a curt nod, already looking back at his phone, dismissing her.
She fled the dining room, her composure shattering the moment she was in the empty hallway. She walked quickly, blindly, until she found a set of glass doors leading to a terrace. She stumbled outside, the cold, salty air a slap in the face after the climate-controlled interior.
Gripping the cold metal railing, she looked down at the violent, dark ocean crashing against the rocks far below. The wind whipped her hair and dress, and a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a cold path down her cheek. She was trapped in a beautiful nightmare with a man who was more ice than flesh.
But as she stood there, the spark of defiance within her refused to be extinguished. He wanted a performance? Fine. She would give him the performance of a lifetime. She would be the perfect, adoring fiancée. She would wear his clothes, follow his rules, and play her part.
But she would not let him break her. She would use his own coldness as her armor. The battle lines had been drawn not in the boardroom, but in this gilded cage, and Amelia Swift was just beginning to learn how to fight.