The black Bentley rolled to a smooth stop before a towering iron gate, opening slowly as if welcoming royalty.
Except Amara felt nothing like a queen.
She sat stiffly in the backseat, dressed in a simple cream blouse and jeans—the only decent outfit she had—while the mansion before her looked like something out of a fantasy. Marble columns. Crystal lights. A fountain taller than her old apartment building.
Her heart pounded as the driver opened the door. She stepped out, clutching her small travel bag like a lifeline.
Liam stood by the grand entrance, hands in his pockets. No smile. No greeting. Just a curt nod.
"This is where you'll live," he said, walking ahead without looking back. "Follow me."
Inside, the mansion was colder than the outside air. Modern. Expensive. Lifeless. Like a museum that forbade emotions.
A tall woman in a navy uniform appeared from the hallway.
"This is Mrs. Holmes," Liam said. "She runs the house. Whatever you need, ask her."
Mrs. Holmes gave Amara a once-over, her gaze icy. "You'll be staying in the west wing. The staff has been instructed not to disturb you unless summoned."
Amara offered a polite smile. "Thank you."
Holmes didn't smile back.
Liam's voice interrupted the awkward silence. "There are rules."
Of course, there are.
"Don't enter the east wing. Don't touch anything in my office. Don't ask questions."
"And how long are we pretending to be married?" she asked softly.
He paused. "As long as it takes."
Before she could reply, a voice laced with poison cut through the air.
"Oh… you must be the charity case."
Amara turned to see a tall, elegant woman descending the stairs. High heels, designer dress, red lips—and eyes full of fire.
"Sabrina," Liam said, tone sharp. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you. And I find this standing in your house?" She looked Amara up and down like she was a stain.
"Leave, Sabrina," Liam warned.
"I thought you were smarter than this, Liam," she spat. "Is this what desperation looks like? Marrying a nobody to protect your little empire?"
Amara's fists clenched, but she stayed silent.
Sabrina walked up to her and leaned in, whispering just loud enough, "Don't get comfortable, sweetheart. This marriage? It won't last."
Then she smiled sweetly at Liam and strutted out.
Amara didn't wait for Liam to speak. "She's lovely," she said, deadpan.
He glanced at her, unreadable. "Ignore her."
She turned to face him fully. "You're hiding something. Why me?"
His jaw tightened. "You'll find out when I'm ready."
Before she could press further, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
"Congrats, Mrs. Rochester. You're now part of a game you don't understand."
Her blood ran cold.
Amara stared at the message, her fingers numb as the words burned into her mind.
"Congrats, Mrs. Rochester. You're now part of a game you don't understand."
She glanced around the hallway, suddenly hyper-aware of the shadows, of the silence between each tick of the grandfather clock near the staircase.
Was someone watching her?
She looked up. Liam was already walking away, his footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.
"Liam," she called, voice sharper than she intended.
He paused but didn't turn.
She caught up to him, holding her phone out. "Someone just messaged me. From an unknown number."
He barely glanced at the screen before replying, "Block it."
"That's all you have to say?"
"People will talk. Gossip. Threaten." He shrugged. "You'll get used to it."
Her brows furrowed. "That message wasn't gossip. It sounded like a warning."
Liam's eyes flickered, and for a brief second, she saw it—concern. Real, sharp, and instantly buried beneath steel.
"I'll look into it," he said finally. "But for now, don't respond. And don't mention it to anyone."
He turned again, and this time, Amara didn't follow.
She found her new room in the west wing easily enough. It was massive—twice the size of her old apartment. A queen-sized bed draped in ivory sheets, a walk-in closet she didn't need, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline.
But Amara didn't feel rich.
She felt trapped.
She sat on the bed and re-read the message, then opened her call log. No number. No trace. Whoever it was didn't want to be found.
Or… they didn't need to be.
A knock broke her thoughts.
Mrs. Holmes entered without waiting for a reply. "Mr. Rochester requests your presence at dinner. Seven sharp. Don't be late."
Amara blinked. "Dinner? Like… together?"
Mrs. Holmes gave her a cold look. "You are his wife, are you not?"
She left before Amara could respond.
At 6:55 PM, Amara stepped into the dining hall, dressed in the only formal dress she owned—a simple black number that hugged her waist. Her heels clicked against marble as she approached the long, gleaming table.
Liam was already there. Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He looked up as she entered.
"You clean up well," he said simply.
She sat across from him. "Thanks. I guess being dressed like a person makes the cage feel nicer."
He didn't respond.
Their dinner arrived—salmon, roasted vegetables, and wine. Amara barely touched hers.
"Why me, Liam?" she asked finally, setting her fork down. "There are a thousand women who would've lined up to marry you—fake or not. Why choose someone who had nothing to offer?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly, "Because I needed someone with nothing to lose. Someone who wouldn't betray me for more."
Her chest tightened. "And what makes you think I won't?"
He met her gaze. "Because you already gave up your freedom for someone you love. That's not something a person like Sabrina would ever understand."
Before Amara could reply, the dining room lights flickered. Just once. Brief, but unsettling.
Liam tensed.
"I'll have the generator checked," he muttered, standing abruptly. "Dinner's over."
He left before she could speak again.
And Amara? She sat alone in that sprawling, cold room, slowly realizing the truth—
She wasn't the only one keeping secrets in this house.
And whatever game Liam was playing…
She was already knee-deep in the middle of it.