The Blackwood penthouse had grown quieter in the days following the gala, but not more peaceful.
Amara noticed the silence was sharp now, not soft. As if something in the air had shifted since that night on the rooftop, since she'd stood so close to Ethan she could hear his heartbeat slow, controlled, but not entirely steady.
Each morning she awoke in a room that felt increasingly unfamiliar, her name on the lips of every tabloid, her face becoming something she barely recognized. And Ethan? He moved like a man bracing for an earthquake, every step calculated, every interaction clipped.
Then came the letter.
It arrived late, folded in a thick envelope tucked under the gold-handled door of her suite. No stamp, no address, no sender.
Only one line, in neat, black ink:
You don't know who you married.
Ethan barely reacted when she showed it to him in his study the next morning. He scanned it, set it down on his desk like a memo, and returned to his screen.
"Don't give it power," he said.
"You're not surprised."
"I get worse in my inbox daily."
"But it's addressed to me, Ethan."
"That's exactly the point. They want you shaken."
Amara stared at him. "Who?"
He stood and walked to the window. "Enemies. Former competitors. People I outmaneuvered. Old ghosts."
"I'm your wife now. Shouldn't I know your ghosts?"
He turned, his expression unreadable. "No one ever wants to know the ghosts. Not really."
Later that day, while Ethan disappeared into meetings with his legal team, Amara wandered into the library. She'd been avoiding it something about its untouched elegance made her feel like an imposter.
But she needed air. Or history. Or maybe just silence.
Rows of leather-bound books stood like soldiers on parade. At the far end was a wall of framed photographs black and white family shots, mostly old, some cracked with age. But among them, one image pulled her in: a boy on a porch, staring at the camera. Big, haunted eyes. A scorched house behind him.
Ethan.
She traced the edges of the photo with her fingers.
"You found it," he said from the doorway.
She turned. "Is that the house?"
He nodded. "My mother died in that fire. I was ten. I survived because I'd sneaked out to play piano at the neighbor's house."
Amara swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"She used to play every night. After she died, I never touched the keys again."
They stood in silence.
Then he said, "The people who sent that letter probably think they're peeling away a mask. But I haven't worn one in years."
She shook her head. "You wear a thousand, Ethan. You just forget which ones you put on."
He tilted his head, studying her. "And what about you?"
"I didn't have the luxury of masks," she said. "I was too busy surviving."
That night, the first wave of headlines hit the internet like a bomb:
"Marriage of Convenience? Ethan Blackwood's Contract Leaked!"
"Love or Legal Loophole?"
"Who is Amara Blackwood really?"
Amara stared at her phone in horror as article after article flooded her screen. Images of the wedding shoot those curated smiles, that temple kiss flashed across every platform, now exposed as orchestrated lies.
Ethan found her pacing in the hallway.
"It was a hack," he said. "My email server. The contract was never meant to go public."
"But it did."
"I'm shutting it down. My PR team will reframe it."
She turned on him. "You think this is a game of optics? My life is trending for the wrong reasons!"
"People forget."
"I won't," she whispered.
He stepped closer. "I'll fix this."
"You can't fix me being humiliated. You can't fix strangers thinking I married you for money. Or that I'm disposable."
Ethan paused, then said softly, "I never thought you were disposable."
For a beat, neither spoke.
Then she asked, "Why me?"
He hesitated.
"You could've picked anyone. So why me?"
He looked away. "Because you said no."
"What?"
"The first time I offered help. You turned it down. You didn't flinch. You didn't beg. You had steel in your voice."
She blinked. "That's it?"
He stepped closer. "That was everything."
Over the next forty-eight hours, their world spiraled.
Reporters camped outside. Threats appeared in Amara's inbox. Her old university peers messaged her with disbelief, confusion, even mockery. She ignored most of it until one message made her freeze:
"I know who he really is. He ruined my family. Don't trust him."
It came with a photo. Ethan, younger, with an older man in a boardroom. The caption: Martin Locke, bankrupt by Blackwood Holdings. 2016.
She didn't show Ethan the message. Not yet.
Instead, she asked Mrs. Whitcomb for a driver and headed into the city alone.
She went to her old neighborhood. The small corner café she used to work at. The library where she'd studied late nights. The park where Leo had played. She needed to remember who she was before Ethan.
She needed to breathe.
As she sat on a rusted bench beneath a sycamore tree, a familiar voice startled her.
"You look like you escaped a movie set."
Layla.
Amara's best friend dropped down beside her, grinning. "I saw the headlines. You okay?"
"No."
"You want to run?"
"I can't. Leo's still under their care. And part of me... part of me wants to stay."
Layla studied her. "Do you like him?"
Amara hesitated. "I see parts of him no one else does. The broken pieces. The man behind the machine."
"Dangerous territory, girl."
"I know."
They sat in silence.
Then Layla said, "Whatever happens, don't lose yourself. Not for any man. Not even a billionaire with gray eyes and emotional baggage."
When Amara returned to the penthouse that night, Ethan was waiting.
He handed her a file.
"What's this?"
"Everyone who might've leaked the contract. We narrowed it down to three suspects."
She opened the folder. Inside were names, photos, connections.
He said quietly, "And a choice. If you want out, I'll let you walk. No press. No lawyers. I'll pay for Leo's care. No strings."
She looked up.
"And if I stay?"
"We fight this together."
She closed the folder.
And slowly, she nodded.
"I'm tired of running," she said. "Let's fight."
For the first time since the chaos began, Ethan smiled not the cold, PR-perfect smile. But something softer. Real.
As if beneath the mirror-glass surface, he'd finally found someone worth showing his reflection to.