THE BILLIONAIRE'S HIDDEN VOW

The first time Amara Vale saw the man in the black car, she was running from the rain. Not the gentle kind of rain that people romanticized in movies. This rain came down hard, turning the streets into silver rivers and soaking through her thin blouse within minutes. Amara had never understood why people called rain beautiful. At that moment, it was ruining her shoes, destroying the last few pages of her job application, and making her hair stick to her face. “Perfect,” she muttered, rushing beneath the narrow roof of a closed pharmacy. “Just absolutely perfect.” She stood there, breathing heavily, while water dripped from the ends of her hair. Her phone vibrated. Amara looked down. Mum. She hesitated before answering. “Hello?” “Amara, where are you?” Her mother’s voice was already tense. “Outside. I’m coming home.” “Come home quickly.” Amara frowned. “Why? What happened?” There was a pause. Not a normal pause. The kind of pause that made the hairs on the back of Amara’s neck rise. “Your aunt called.” “And?” “She asked about you.” Amara looked out at the rain. “Why would she ask about me?” Another pause. “Your mother?” Amara asked. Her mother sighed. “Just come home, Amara.” The call ended. Amara stared at her phone. That was the problem with her mother. She always did that. She would say something strange, refuse to explain it, and then expect Amara to forget about it. But Amara had never been good at forgetting things. Especially things that felt wrong. She stepped out from beneath the pharmacy roof and began walking. Her apartment was only fifteen minutes away, but the rain made the journey feel longer. Cars passed her, splashing dirty water onto the pavement. She pulled her bag closer to her chest and kept her head down. She was halfway across the street when she heard the sound of an engine. It was quiet. Too quiet. A black car rolled slowly beside her. Amara glanced at it. The windows were tinted so darkly that she couldn't see inside. She kept walking. The car continued beside her. Her steps slowed. The car slowed too. Amara stopped. The black car stopped. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then the back window lowered. A man sat inside. He was dressed in a black suit, though it was obvious he had not dressed for the rain. His hair was dark, his expression unreadable, and there was something about his face that made Amara feel as if she had seen him before. Not in person. Somewhere else. A magazine. A television screen. A newspaper. She couldn't remember. The man looked at her. Not at her clothes. Not at her face. At her. As though he had been searching for her. Amara took one step backward. The man spoke. “Amara Vale.” Her heart stopped. The rain continued falling around them. She stared at him. “How do you know my name?” He did not answer immediately. Instead, his eyes moved over her face with an expression she couldn't understand. Recognition. Pain. And something that looked dangerously close to anger. Then he said, “You shouldn't be here.” Amara's brows pulled together. “What?” The man's jaw tightened. “You should never have come back.” Amara stared at him. “Come back from where?” For the first time, something changed in his expression. It was barely there. A flicker. But she saw it. Fear. The man looked away from her. “Drive.” The car began to move. Amara stood frozen in the middle of the pavement. Then anger finally replaced her confusion. “Hey!” The car continued. Amara ran after it for a few steps before stopping. The black car disappeared around the corner. She stood there, soaked and breathless. Who was he? And why had he spoken to her as if she had returned from somewhere? Amara had lived in the same city her entire life. She had never left the country. She had never met that man. At least, she was almost certain she hadn't. Almost. By the time Amara arrived home, her clothes were completely wet. The moment she opened the door, she knew something was wrong. Her mother was sitting in the living room. Not watching television. Not cooking. Just sitting. Waiting. Amara slowly closed the door behind her. “Mum?” Her mother looked up. The colour drained from her face. For one second, she stared at Amara as though she had seen a ghost. Then she stood up quickly. “Where have you been?” “Walking home.” “Did anyone speak to you?” Amara froze. The question came too quickly. “What?” “Did anyone speak to you?” Amara stared at her. “Why are you asking me that?” Her mother looked away. “Mum.” “Go and change your clothes.” “Who was he?” Her mother stopped. The silence that followed was answer enough. Amara's heart began beating faster. “You know who I'm talking about.” Her mother slowly turned around. “Who did you see?” “The man in the black car.” Her mother's face changed. Amara had never seen her look so afraid. Not angry. Not surprised. Afraid. “Describe him.” “Why?” “Amara, describe him!” Amara took a step back. “He was tall. Dark hair. He was wearing a suit. He had this—” She stopped. She couldn't explain the look in his eyes. Her mother closed her eyes. “It's him.” Amara's stomach tightened. “Who?” Her mother didn't answer. “Mum, who is he?” The older woman walked toward the window and pulled the curtain aside. Outside, the street was empty. But her mother kept looking. As if she expected the black car to appear again. Finally, she whispered: “Damien Blackwood.” The name meant nothing to Amara. But the way her mother said it made it sound like a curse. “Who is Damien Blackwood?” Her mother turned to her. “You need to stay away from him.” Amara gave a disbelieving laugh. “That's it? You know a strange man who somehow knows my name, and your advice is just to stay away from him?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because he is dangerous.” “Dangerous how?” Her mother said nothing. Amara stared at her. The silence became unbearable. “Who is he?” Her mother walked over to the old cabinet near the wall. For a moment, Amara thought she was going to open it. Instead, her mother placed one hand against the wooden surface. “Some people are rich because they worked hard,” she said quietly. “And some people are rich because they know how to destroy anyone who stands in their way.” Amara said nothing. “Damien Blackwood is the second kind.” Amara's mind returned to the car. The cold expression. The strange familiarity. The words. You should never have come back. She swallowed. “Mum…” Her mother looked at her. “Promise me you won't go near him.” Amara wanted to say yes. She really did. But then her phone vibrated. Both of them looked down. A message. Unknown number. Amara opened it. There was no greeting. No explanation. Only a photograph. Her fingers went cold. The photograph was old. Very old. It showed a young woman standing outside a large mansion. The woman was smiling. Beside her stood a man. Amara stared at the picture. She knew the woman. She had seen her face every single day of her life. Her mother. But the man standing beside her was a stranger. Amara slowly looked up. “Mum?” Her mother's face had gone completely pale. Amara turned the phone toward her. “Who is this?” Her mother didn't answer. Amara looked at the photograph again. Then she noticed something. The man was holding a little girl. A little girl who looked exactly like Amara. Her breath caught. At the bottom of the photograph, someone had written a date. Twenty years ago. Amara looked at her mother. “Mum…” Her voice shook. “Who is that man?” Her mother took a step backward. And then, for the first time in Amara's entire life, her mother told her a lie. “I don't know.” At that exact moment, another message arrived. Amara opened it. This time, there were only six words. Ask your mother who your father is.