The night stretched on like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
Amara sat in front of the vanity in her bedroom, her crimson gown pooling around her like spilled blood. The mirror reflected a queen, but the woman staring back at her didn't feel like royalty. She felt like a storm—a wild, unstoppable force that could tear down everything in its path.
He touched me.
Her fingers brushed her chin, the ghost of his grip still searing her skin. The memory burned, sending heat spiraling through her veins. Rage. Desire. Confusion. A dangerous cocktail that tasted like poison and honey.
The door swung open without a knock.
Michael strode in, his presence filling the room like a shadow at midnight. He hadn't changed out of his suit; the black fabric clung to his frame like sin. His tie was gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the carved lines of his chest.
Amara's pulse stuttered, but she didn't move. She didn't flinch. She met his gaze in the mirror, her expression a mask of ice.
"Ever heard of knocking?" she asked coolly.
He ignored the jab, his eyes dark and burning as they locked with hers in the reflection. "Pack a bag."
Amara blinked, turning slowly to face him. "Excuse me?"
"We're leaving," he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument.
She rose from the chair, the silk of her gown whispering around her legs. "And where exactly are we going, Michael? Or do you just like giving orders without explanations?"
His jaw tightened. "You'll find out soon enough. Be ready in ten minutes."
Amara laughed—a soft, dangerous sound that coiled through the air like smoke. "You really think I'm going anywhere with you after tonight?"
He closed the distance in two strides, his hands slamming against the vanity on either side of her, caging her in. His scent—rich, dark, intoxicating—wrapped around her, stealing her breath.
"Careful, Amara," he murmured, his voice a silken threat. "You're still wearing my name. And as long as you do, you'll go where I tell you to go."
She tilted her head back, her chin lifting in defiance. "Try and make me."
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, taut as a wire about to snap. Then—he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Predatory.
"Oh, I intend to."
Before she could retort, he gripped her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to remind her who held the power—and pulled her toward the wardrobe.
"Michael—"
"Choose something appropriate," he cut in, his voice clipped. "We're meeting someone."
Amara stilled, her eyes narrowing. Meeting someone? At this hour?
"Who?" she demanded.
He didn't answer. He just released her and walked to the door, his broad shoulders tense, his every movement radiating control.
"You have five minutes." And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving her seething in the echo of his command.
Meeting someone. The words throbbed in her mind like a warning bell. Who could be important enough for Michael Adewale to drag her out of the house in the dead of night?
She crossed to the wardrobe and yanked the doors open, her mind a whirlwind of suspicion and strategy.
Fine, Michael. You want me to play along? I will. But on my terms.
She chose a black silk dress—sleek, elegant, lethal in its simplicity—and paired it with stiletto heels sharp enough to kill. When she stepped into the hallway ten minutes later, she was no longer the wife being ordered around. She was a queen walking into battle.
Michael was waiting by the door, his expression carved from granite. His eyes swept over her once, darkening almost imperceptibly, before he turned on his heel and led the way.
The night outside was thick with shadows as they slid into the back of the sleek black car waiting at the curb. The driver didn't speak; he didn't need to. One look at Michael, and silence became law.
The car glided through the city like a phantom, the glow of streetlights flickering across Michael's face in shards of gold and darkness. Amara sat rigid beside him, her pulse thrumming like a war drum, her mind racing with questions she didn't dare ask.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the car slowed before an imposing glass tower in the heart of the city.
Michael stepped out first, his hand reaching back—an unspoken command. She hesitated, then placed her fingers in his, the contact sending a jolt through her veins.
Inside, the building smelled of money and power. Security men lined the marble lobby, their gazes sharp and assessing as they scanned her from head to toe. Michael ignored them all, leading her to a private elevator that hummed softly as it ascended to the top floor.
When the doors slid open, Amara's breath caught.
The penthouse was a temple of opulence—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, art worth fortunes adorning the walls, the scent of expensive whiskey curling through the air like sin.
And then—she saw him.
A man stood by the window, his silhouette cut against the city lights. Tall, elegant, his suit tailored within an inch of perfection. When he turned, the smile that curved his lips was pure charm—but his eyes… his eyes were ice.
"Michael," the man drawled, his voice smooth as silk dipped in poison. "And this must be the wife I've heard so much about."
Amara's spine stiffened as he approached, his gaze sweeping over her with clinical precision before landing on her face.
"Amara, isn't it?" he said, extending a hand that felt like a test. "I'm Adrian Kole. A friend of your husband's… and perhaps yours, too."
The way he said it—like an invitation wrapped in a threat—sent a chill skittering down her spine.
Michael's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained calm, controlled. "We're here to talk business."
Adrian's smile deepened, his eyes glinting with something dark. "Of course. But then—business and pleasure often go hand in hand, don't they?"
Amara felt it then—the shift in the air, the weight of something dangerous looming over this meeting.
And for the first time tonight, she wondered if walking out of that house with Michael had been a mistake.