A new dawn came shining in gold light filled with lies.
The atmosphere of the house was naturally filled with the scent of coffee, rich and homely, filling the silence that hung too still. Amara sat by the window, staring at the sky shining like a promise she no longer had faith in. Ethan moved through the kitchen, with his sleeves rolled up, every move smooth, confident, and, calm.
He didn't bother to ask what she wanted. He already knew. He always knew what she wanted.
"It's your favorite," he stated, placing a tray before her. French toast, sliced strawberries just the way she likes them, and tea filled with honey instead of sugar, with a little lime juice in it. His voice mixed with both balance of affection and authority. The kind of tone that could calm the silence of a tornado.
"Thank you," she said, forcing a smile. Her fingers shook lightly as she lifted the cup.
He watched how out of love she looked, not even in suspicion but in ownership.
"You had a terrific nightmare again," he said. "You kept calling my name."
Her throat tightened. "I don't remember."
He reached across the table, rubbing his thumb across her wrist, gently but firm. "It's fine. You're safe now. You're home, with me. That's all that matters."
Amara sighed in affirmation, lowering her gaze to the cup so he wouldn't see the sign of fear or the spark of anger in her eyes.
After breakfast, Ethan left for a meeting. He kissed her forehead like every man who had pure intentions and promised to be back before dinner.
The moment the door shut, silence surrounded her like freedom.
She rose slowly, her body still weak, but her mind clear as glass. Her eyes drifted to study his private space, the one room he'd never let her get close to. The door was locked, of course. Ethan Vale, as always, believed in control and authority, not trust.
But control could be broken.
In her old studio, Amara searched through the drawers until she found a thin metal ruler and a pin. She worked the lock, her fingers trembling, every small click echoing like a heartbeat. When it finally gave out, she exhaled sharply, half terrified, half alive.
The study was spotless. Books across the walls, a wooden desk beneath a soft light. His scent, a mix of cedar, and something darker, hung in the air. She moved carefully, searching drawers, documents, and anything she could find.
Inside one folder, she found company contracts, insurance documents and her name.
TRANSFER OF SHARES Effective immediately upon mental incapacity or death.
Signed by Ethan Vale. Countersigned by her.
Amara's pulse quickened. Her fingers suddenly went cold. The date was two days before the accident.
She was still staring when she heard the elevator ding.
Ethan was home earlier than expected.
She returned the folder to its place, locked the study, and quickly hurried to the living room, grabbing a book to pretend to read.
"Hey," he said, his tone soft but suspicious. "You're up early."
She smiled faintly. "Couldn't sleep. I thought I'd read for a bit to see if I'd fall asleep."
He studied her face, eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure you're okay? You look cold."
"I'm fine."
He slanted his head, as if trying to see through her. Then, just like that, his charm returned. "You need some air. Let's go for a drive."
Her heart stuttered. A drive.
Every nerve in her body screamed no but she nodded, pretending to be calm. "Alright."
The car hummed to life, sleek and quiet, moving through the city streets with the roof up. Ethan drove one handed, the other resting casually near the gearshift. His profile was perfect
strong jaw, steady gaze, the kind of beauty that could hide cruelty and deceit.
"Do you remember this road?" he asked suddenly.
She froze. It was the same bridge. The same curve of highway where her life had once ended.
"I think so," she whispered.
"It's where you had the accident," he said calmly, almost sadly. "You scared me that night. You were driving too fast. I told you not to go out, remember?"
Her heart thudded. "Did you see it happen?"
He hesitated
a fraction too long. "I was on my way home. I arrived after everything happened. You were already underwater by the time I stopped."
A lie, smooth as silk.
"Do you ever wonder why?" she asked softly. "Why did it happen?"
He looked at her with that piercing gaze, unreadable and calm. "Some things don't need answers, Amara. Just forgiveness and letting go."
The words chilled her. Forgiveness for what?
When they returned home, she felt drained not from fear, but from restraint. She couldn't confront him yet. Not without proof and that made her so angry within herself.
That night, she returned to the studio and opened her sketchbook again. She traced her old drawings, her lines unstable from memory. On the last page, something caught her eye faint marks from a page that had been torn out. She rubbed the surface lightly, and under the lamplight, the outline of handwriting appeared.
It wasn't hers.
It was Ethan's.
"Transfer all assets under A.V. Holdings once confirmation is secured. Maintain a public narrative of the accident."
Her breath fastened.
Public narrative. Accident.
He didn't just cover it up, he'd planned it.
The next day, Ethan arranged a small dinner with close friends and family, a welcome back celebration. Their home was filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and polite sympathy.
"Amara, you look radiant and beautiful," one of the guests said. "We were so worried!"
"Ethan barely slept," another added. "He visited the hospital every day and slept there most nights."
Amara smiled, eyes clicking to her husband. He played the grieving hero perfectly charming, selfless, flawless.
When their guests left, she turned to him quietly. "You're very good at pretending."
He froze. "What's that supposed to mean honey?"
"Smiling through everything," she said lightly, masking her accusation in admiration. "I don't know how you do it."
He relaxed. "You have to, when you're in the spotlight. Weakness isn't an option."
She nodded slowly, her expression soft but her mind racing. Weakness isn't an option. Not for him. Not for her anymore either.
Later that night, she woke to a faint sound of footsteps, whispering, the soft closing of the study door. Ethan wasn't beside her in bed.
Curiosity unbalanced fear. She slipped out quietly and crept down the hall, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. The study door was cracked open. Inside, Ethan stood by the desk, phone to his ear.
His voice was low, clipped, and dangerous.
"…No, she doesn't know. Stop asking. It's handled."
Pause.
"She's alive because I let her be. Don't forget that."
The line went dead.
Amara's heart pounded so hard she thought it would echo. She stepped back too quickly and her foot brushed the door.
It squeaked.
Ethan turned.
"Amara?" His voice softened instantly, as if the steel in it had never existed. "Couldn't sleep?"
She forced a nervous laugh. "I thought I heard something."
He smiled. That slow, patient, terrifying smile. "You should've called me. You know I'd never let anything hurt you again."
His words wrapped around her like silk smooth, suffocating, impossible to escape.
When he finally went back to bed, Amara stayed awake by the window, staring at the city lights below and the stars in the sky.
Her hands trembled, but not from fea
r anymore.
She was done drowning.
He thought she was weak.
He thought she was broken.
Good.
Because no one ever suspects a broken woman.