Chapter Four- The Game Begins
1371 Words
It had been a week since the wedding night, and still, Ethan hadn’t come home.
The house was quiet, almost too quiet. Only Mrs. Penelope showed up during the day, tidying, arranging flowers, and restocking the kitchen. Amara didn’t mind the quiet. She liked the space. She liked the freedom. But for her plan to work, she needed Ethan around. He had to see her, speak to her, feel her presence… slowly get pulled in.
One sunny afternoon, the doorbell rang. Amara went to open it, expecting Mrs. Penelope. But it wasn’t her. It also wasn’t Ethan.
“Mrs. Beatrice!” Amara said, stepping aside with a smile. “Please, come in.”
Inside, the house seemed warmer with Ethan’s mother there. They sat down in the living room and gossiped about little things at first — neighbors, friends, harmless stories. But soon, Mrs. Beatrice’s attention turned.
“And Ethan?” she asked casually, her eyes sharp.
Amara’s chest tightened. She let her lips quiver, slowly letting the tears fall. Mrs. Beatrice’s smile immediately faltered.
“Oh, dear…” she said, reaching for Amara’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
Amara sniffled, her voice soft and sad.
“He hasn’t come home,” she said, her words trembling. “No calls. No… no sign of him. And… he hasn’t… slept with me.”
Mrs. Beatrice’s eyes widened, alarmed. “Ethan?”
Amara let a little sarcasm slip through her fake sadness. “I guess he’s too busy being a perfect husband somewhere else,” she murmured, letting her lips quirk up slightly.
Mrs. Beatrice tried to comfort her, but Amara let her fuss for a while before the older woman finally left.
Once alone, Amara moved to the kitchen, humming a soft tune as she set the table. She arranged everything perfectly — candles, silver, plates — knowing that tonight, her husband would finally come home. Dancing lightly to *I Wanna Dance With Somebody*, she let herself smile, imagining Ethan’s reaction when he walked in.
---
Meanwhile, Ethan’s day had been long and frustrating. After meetings, phone calls, and firm briefings, he headed to the Blackwood Hotel, hoping for a quiet night. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Amara — to the way she had kissed him, slow at first, then deep and deliberate. He cursed under his breath, trying to focus, but the memory refused to leave him.
At the hotel entrance, security stopped him.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not allowed in. Orders from Mrs. Beatrice,” one guard said.
Ethan cursed under his breath, frustration bubbling. He drove to another hotel, tried his card at the reception — declined.
Fuming, he called his mother.
“Mother,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, painfully polite, “why is my card locked? Why can’t I check in?”
Mrs. Beatrice sounded gentle, almost innocent.
“Oh, Ethan… last I checked, you got married. And don’t forget, you now have a home. Your wife is waiting for you with a lovely meal prepared just for you.”
She hung up before he could say another word. Ethan slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
*The only person who could let his mother do this was Amara Blackwood.*
And for the first time since the wedding, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect. She was clever. Too clever.
---
Ethan pushed the door open quietly, ready to walk past the living room and lock himself in a guest room.
But the moment he stepped inside, he stopped.
Amara was in the dining area, music playing softly from her phone as she swayed her hips and set the table. She didn’t notice him at all — she was too busy chewing at a lyric she clearly didn’t know, mumbling the words with confidence that made no sense.
Ethan let out a small chuckle before he could stop himself.
Amara turned sharply.
Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, a little messy from dancing. And she wore a tight red gown that hugged her waist and showed off just enough to annoy him — because it looked good. Too good.
She smiled, slow and bright.
“Oh? Someone finally decided to come home to his wife.”
The anger he came home with snapped right back into place. He walked toward her, and Amara didn’t flinch — she held her ground.
“What was that stunt you pulled with my mom?” he asked, leaning in close. Her perfume mixed with his earthy cologne, warm and sharp between them.
Amara tried to step away, but he grabbed her arm gently — just enough to keep her still.
“I’m talking to you… wife,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Amara let out a short laugh.
“I saw no harm in informing my mother-in-law that her son — also my husband — abandoned me on our wedding night.”
Ethan scoffed, but she wasn’t done.
“And,” she added softly, touching his jaw with her fingertips, “that he hasn’t come home since.”
He pulled her hand off immediately, jaw tightening.
Amara just rolled her eyes and walked to the table.
“I made your favorite—steak and mashed potato” she said, sitting down and pouring herself a drink.
Ethan’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten anything decent in days. Coffee. Bread rolls. More coffee.
“I’m not hungry,” he lied.
Amara didn’t even look up.
“Well… that leaves me no choice but to call your mom.”
She picked up her phone dramatically, pretending to dial.
Ethan hissed and dropped into his chair.
He could have ignored her — but he was starving.
The first bite hit him like heaven. Warm, tender, perfect. He ate more. And more. And more. He didn’t look up until he felt her gaze.
“So?” Amara said, smiling at him. “Admit it… you love my cooking.”
“It’s a shame old Mrs. Penelope cooks better,” he muttered.
Amara cursed him in her mind but kept smiling sweetly.
After dinner, Ethan got up and walked away without a word. Amara washed the dishes herself. Through the kitchen doorway, Ethan glanced back once.
For a split second, he thought of helping — but the way her short red gown clung to her curves made him decide staying far, far away was safer.
When Amara finished, she went to their bedroom expecting to find him. But it was empty.
She checked the guest room — and froze.
Ethan came out of the bathroom shirtless, wearing only pajama trousers, a towel hanging from his shoulder. Water still clung to his skin.
He frowned.
“What are you doing here?”
She folded her arms. “I should ask you the same.”
He looked confused for a second, then smirked.
“You must miss Lucas.”
The way he said Lucas — so casually cruel — cut deeper than she expected.
She swallowed the hurt.
“No, Ethan,” she said softly. “I don’t miss him.”
She walked toward him. His back brushed the wall.
Her fingers traced down his chest — slow, deliberate. Ethan sucked in a breath, his muscles tensing.
He had promised himself he wouldn’t touch her.
She was dangerous. Too dangerous.
And yet…
Amara lifted his chin and kissed him, slow at first. Waiting. Testing.
Something inside Ethan snapped.
He pulled her in and kissed her fiercely. Hard. Deep. He tasted the red wine still on her lips. Amara moaned — loud enough to break whatever control he had left.
And just like that, reality crawled back in.
“Get out,” he said, breathless.
She leaned in again, trying to speak, trying to tempt him more — but he pushed her away, gentle but firm.
He walked to the door, opened it, and pointed out.
Amara stood there for a moment.
She could leave hurt.
She could leave angry.
But instead, she smiled to herself as she walked out.
The game had officially begun.
And soon — she knew it — Ethan Blackwood would fall hopelessly in love with her.
And when he did…
She would strike.
- Writer
