chapter 2
923 Words
Kian didn’t speak to her for the rest of the evening.
Not a word.
Amani wandered through the penthouse with wide eyes, occasionally talking to the furniture just to fill the silence. “So many chairs,” she mumbled, brushing her fingers over the velvet. “All of them stiff. Just like him.”
She set her tiny bag down in a corner of the guest room—so spotless it didn’t feel real—and sat on the edge of the bed like she was afraid to wrinkle it. This wasn’t home. It wasn’t anything close.
Still, she smiled. Because that’s what she did. Especially when no one else would.
By morning, the silent treatment turned into subtle jabs.
“You don’t need to cook,” Kian said coolly as she pulled a pan from the cabinet. “This isn’t your village.”
“I know,” she replied cheerfully. “Your kitchen doesn’t even have real fire.”
“It has a private chef.”
“I don’t trust people who wear white to cook. It makes me nervous.”
He didn’t answer. Just walked away like she didn’t exist.
Later, when she brought him a cup of tea—ginger, the way her grandfather liked it—he took one sip and winced.
“What is this?”
“Tea.”
“Is there...grass in it?”
“Lemongrass,” she said proudly. “For your heart. And stomach. And stubbornness.”
He set the cup down without another word.
By the third day, he’d started introducing her to his employees with a tight smile and one repeated phrase: “She’s just helping out around the house.”
Amani didn’t argue. But it stung more than she let show.
When a woman in heels and red lipstick came to his office and asked who Amani was, he shrugged and said, “She’s...temporary.”
Amani smiled at the woman and waved. Then went straight to the bathroom and sat on the floor until her chest stopped aching.
That night, she laughed with the maid over a badly dubbed soap opera. Her laugh echoed through the halls like wind chimes in a storm.
Kian stood by the doorway and watched her silently. Not smiling. Just...watching.
And when she caught him and called out, “My husband! Come join us!”—he turned away and disappeared back into his room.
She told herself it didn’t hurt.
But the ache was starting to
---
The next morning, she made him breakfast again.
He didn’t ask for it.
Didn’t want it.
But there it was, waiting on the kitchen island: flatbread rolled with honey and cheese, with a little flower plucked from the balcony garden placed neatly on the side.
“What is this?” he asked, eyeing the plate like it was an accusation.
“Food,” she said with a bright smile. “I made it with my hands, but I promise I washed them.”
“I don’t eat bread.”
“Then just eat the honey,” she said, sliding the plate closer. “It’s sweet. Like me.”
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked finally.
“Because you’re my husband.”
“I’m not.”
She tilted her head. “You are. Until I go back.”
“I didn’t agree to this marriage.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t agree to the name Amani, but here we are.”
He stared at her.
She stared back, completely unfazed.
“You don’t act like someone who’s been forced into a billionaire’s house.”
“You don’t act like someone who’s used to people being nice to him,” she replied. “Maybe we both need adjusting.”
He left the kitchen.
She hummed as she washed the dishes.
The days passed like that—Amani filling every silent corner of the house with her voice, her footsteps, her laughter. She opened windows he hadn’t opened in years. Rearranged the fruit bowls. Lit incense in the hallway because she said the house smelled too rich and not enough “alive.”
She even talked to his dog—an old German shepherd that barely moved anymore.
“Sir Maximus,” she called him, even though his real name was Max. “You have kind eyes. Unlike your owner.”
One evening, Kian came home to find her singing in the bathtub. Not her own. His. With bubbles. And a loofah shaped like a duck.
He nearly lost it.
“This is my room,” he snapped.
She peeked out from behind the bubbles, soap in her hair. “I know. Your tub is bigger.”
“You’re not allowed in here.”
“I asked Max. He didn’t mind.”
He stormed out without another word.
The next morning, she was in his office, watering his plants.
“You’re touching my stuff now?”
“They were thirsty.”
“You’re not my wife.”
“I’m not a thief either,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ll confess, I did take one of your cookies.”
“I don’t eat cookies.”
She smiled. “Then I’ll eat yours. Look at us, sharing already.”
He sighed and turned back to his computer, but even as she left the room, her humming lingered in the air like a song he couldn’t quite forget.
Amani was a storm in sunshine’s clothes.
And she didn’t even know the chaos she left behind.
- Writer
