Chapter 9 Cracks in the Amor
874 Words
The rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy when Ava woke up. Alexander was already gone—probably buried in another meeting. The bed was cold on his side, the sheets barely disturbed, as if he’d barely slept.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders, staring at the empty space next to her. Last night’s kiss still lingered on her lips like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.
She hated how much she wanted to feel it again.
She hated how much she didn’t trust it.
Ava showered quickly, dressed in jeans and a simple sweater—her own clothes, not the designer ones he kept buying her—and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was spotless. Coffee was already brewed, two mugs waiting. A note sat beside them in his sharp handwriting:
*Board dinner tonight. Dress is in your closet.
I’ll be back by 5.
A*
No “love,” no “see you later.” Just facts.
She crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash.
She spent the day avoiding her own thoughts—scrolling on her phone, pacing the penthouse, staring out at the city that felt more like a cage every day.
By 4 p.m., she gave up and went to the closet.
The dress was midnight blue, floor-length, with a slit up the thigh and a neckline that dipped just low enough to be dangerous. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.
She stared at her reflection, diamonds glittering at her ears and throat—more gifts he’d left without asking.
She looked like his wife.
She didn’t feel like one.
When Alexander returned at 5 sharp, he found her waiting in the living room, heels in hand, hair pinned up, makeup flawless.
He stopped in the doorway, eyes darkening as they swept over her.
“You look…” He paused, voice low. “Perfect.”
She met his gaze. “For the board.”
“For them,” he agreed. “And for me.”
She didn’t smile. “Let’s go.”
The car ride was silent. His hand rested on the seat between them, close enough to touch, but neither moved.
The restaurant was the same rooftop venue as before—private room, candlelight, the board waiting like vultures.
Alexander pulled out her chair. His fingers brushed her back as she sat—deliberate, possessive.
The chairman smiled thinly. “Mrs. Blackwood. You clean up well.”
Ava smiled back, all teeth. “I try.”
Dinner began.
Questions came fast—how long they’d known each other, how serious they were, whether she understood the “responsibilities” of being married to a man like Alexander.
Ava answered every one with calm precision, but inside, she was screaming.
Alexander’s hand found her knee under the table. Warm. Steady.
She didn’t pull away.
Halfway through dessert, the chairman leaned forward.
“We’ve been watching, Alexander. The marriage looks… convincing.”
Alexander’s grip tightened slightly. “It is.”
The chairman’s eyes flicked to Ava. “And you, Mrs. Blackwood? Are you happy?”
The question landed like a slap.
Ava met his gaze. “I’m surviving.”
A ripple of tension around the table.
Alexander’s voice was ice. “She’s my wife. That’s all you need to know.”
The chairman smiled. “We’ll see.”
Dinner ended with handshakes and promises. The board left, satisfied—for now.
In the elevator down, silence again.
Ava stared at the doors. “They don’t believe us.”
“They will.”
She turned to him. “What if they don’t?”
His eyes met hers. “Then we fight harder.”
She laughed—short, bitter. “Fight for what? A contract?”
He stepped closer. “For us.”
She shook her head. “There is no ‘us.’ Not really.”
His jaw tightened. “There could be.”
The elevator dinged. Doors opened.
Ava walked out first.
He followed.
In the penthouse, she kicked off her heels, the dress suddenly feeling too tight.
Alexander loosened his tie. “Ava—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
She turned to him. “I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of the rules. I’m tired of wondering if any of this is real.”
He stepped closer. “It is real.”
“How do I know?” she whispered. “How do I know you’re not just waiting for the year to end?”
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek. “Because I’m asking you to stay.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I stay and you leave, it will break me.”
He cupped her face. “I’m not leaving.”
She opened her eyes. Tears threatened.
He kissed her—slow, gentle, like he was afraid she’d shatter.
She kissed him back—desperate, aching.
When they pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “I need time.”
He nodded. “Take it.”
She stepped back.
“I’m sleeping in my room tonight.”
He didn’t argue.
She walked away.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And for the first time since signing that contract, she cried.
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