Chapter 5: Amaya's POV
1724 Words
They woke me at six.
Six in the damn morning—for an eight p.m. dinner. A dinner I didn’t want to attend. A dinner with a man I didn’t want to see. But of course, this wasn’t about what I wanted. It never was.
The maids came in like soldiers, snatching the blankets off my body like I’d committed a war crime by sleeping. My first protest—quiet, half-mumbled—was ignored. My second, firmer, earned me a glare and a dismissive, "We have a lot to do."
I was scrubbed within an inch of my life. Exfoliated, moisturized, lotioned, oiled. Then came the facial steam, some stinging laser, and a jab in my arm with something they refused to name—“for brightness,” they said. Brightness. As though I were a surface they needed to polish.
My faux locs were ripped out with all the delicacy of a prison escape. One of the stylists clicked her tongue when my natural hair was revealed. Thick, dark curls—type 4a with some 4b patches—coiled defiantly in every direction.
“Mon Dieu,” one whispered under her breath.
“This’ll take forever,” another complained.
They didn’t ask what I wanted. They didn’t even look me in the eye. Just reached for the heat tools like my scalp wasn’t attached to a living person.
“Too coarse,” someone said.
“Hard to manage,” another added.
There it was. The string of microaggressions I knew were coming. Soft enough to go unchallenged. Sharp enough to cut.
They straightened it into a stiff, shiny sheet that looked nothing like me. Burned my edges in the process, but apparently, that was the price of beauty.
“Her skin tone makes it hard to match foundation,” a makeup artist whispered.
“Her body won’t fit the size two,” someone else sighed.
I didn’t speak. I sat still.
Calm.
Composed.
Dead inside.
My measurements were 34-26-38, but they looked at me like I was obese. My ass and hips weren’t proportions—they were problems. My lips weren’t features—they were exaggerations. One of the stylists actually asked if I’d had injections.
“You’re naturally this… full?” she asked, squinting.
“Yes,” I replied, staring her down.
She looked away.
When they finally zipped me into the dress, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror.
Red.
Satin. Skin-tight. A second skin.
It clung to me like it was in love with me. Cinched my waist. Dropped to the floor. Dipped low in the back. The neckline teased my collarbone, sharp from all the stress. The heels added inches I didn’t need. The necklace was borrowed. The confidence was fabricated.
“Smile,” someone said.
I didn’t.
They said I looked stunning. Breathtaking. Like a goddess.
I felt like a hostage.
But I was used to that.
They wanted a Leclerc? I’d give them one. I might not be the Leclerc they wanted . But I sure am the Leclerc they are getting.
If they have an issue, they should locate Amanda and tie her to the altar.
---
Before I could even step out of the house, I had to endure a full hour of my uncle’s performance.
He stood in front of me like a commander before a reluctant soldier, arms folded, tone drenched in forced elegance.
“You will not embarrass this family tonight,” he said. "You’re already enough of a stain."
Charming.
He told me not to act like my mother. Not to behave like a woman raised around noise and ghetto habits. Not to be loud, confrontational, opinionated—anything that felt too Black, too American, too... alive.
“You are to be composed. Gentle. Elegant,” he continued. "You wanted this arrangement, did you not? You signed the contract yourself."
Yes. I signed it. A clean line for a clean break.
After the wedding, I would be free of this family. Entirely. No debts. No ties. No fake smiles.
It was worth it. I kept telling myself that.
Even as my head spun.
I was dizzy from hours without food, my blood sugar on the floor. I knew I needed to eat something or I'd faint. A maid handed me an apple. I bit into it, just enough to hold myself together.
I wanted to order Chinese takeout so badly, but the glare my aunt sent from across the room reminded me who I was dealing with. No rice boxes tonight. No comfort.
Soon, I told myself.
Soon, I’ll be out.
---
The dinner was on a cruise ship.
I blinked when I saw it. Not because I was surprised he had access to one—my future husband, whoever he was, came from the Moreau family, after all. They collected assets the way some people collected stamps. But still... the effort.
The soft lights. The way the ship sparkled like a chandelier floating on water. The scent of fresh roses. The careful decorations woven into the rails. Someone had tried to make this beautiful.
For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. Just a second. It reminded me that I used to like nice things, before I learned how many people used them to dress up cages.
A maid guided me through the entrance and toward the deck where the dinner was set.
Closer to the dining area, I heard it.
Laughter. High, chaotic. Unhinged.
Great.
My fiancé was dramatic. Manageable, I told myself. I’d dealt with worse.
And then I saw him.
He looked like he came out of a fantasy drama, all 190 cm of limbs, cheekbones, and pure, blasphemous fashion.
The outfit? Ridiculous.
It looked like someone raided a Victorian ghost’s boudoir and said, “Yes, but make it Studio 54.”
Head-to-toe sheer lace. Lavender. Shimmering. Ruffled cuffs big enough to swat away shame. Bell-bottoms that fanned out like satin tulips around his legs—legs that, to be fair, went on for centuries. The shirt? Tight at the chest like it was trying not to burst from the pressure of his pecs, and it tied at the neck with this limp, tragic little bow like he was the prize at a cursed auction.
And the lips.
Bright red.
Like K-pop idol meets seductive vampire meets “I stole my auntie’s MAC Ruby Woo and didn’t look back.” So glossy, so loud, it almost deserved its own spotlight.
I should’ve laughed.
I wanted to laugh.
But then he looked at me.
And everything made sense—or maybe nothing did.
Because his face? That face was illegal. Angelic, dangerous, and stupidly beautiful. Long blonde hair, artfully tousled like he woke up from a dream where he was the main character, and those watery eyes? Baby, those eyes had the audacity to shimmer.
Suddenly, the outfit wasn’t wearing him—he was wearing reality.
And somehow, he ate.
He was not the one in the file they gave me.
And for some reason... He still had that weird look on his face.
Absolutely petrified. Like he’d seen a ghost. A haunted, tax-evading, back-from-the-dead ghost with unfinished business and a grudge against men in lace blouses.
I tilted my head slightly.
He didn’t blink. Not once. Just stood there, 190 centimeters of frozen limbs and sheer lavender fabric, looking like he was one intrusive thought away from peeing his pants.
I’d received many looks before—lustful, confused, condescending, even reverent. But never this. No one had ever looked at me like this.
Like I was something his nightmares forgot to mention.
Fascinating.
I almost wanted to lean in and ask, “Did I murder your ancestor in another life?”
Instead, I said, “Nice outfit.”
A diplomatic compliment. A peace offering, if you will. It wasn’t sincere. The outfit was very ugly. I’d seen couch upholstery with more self-respect. But rich people had strange taste. I wasn’t one to judge—I’d once eaten a banana with mayonnaise in the middle of a depressive spiral, so we all had our moments.
But somehow, my words made it worse.
His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched like he was considering jumping off the side of the ship. I watched, genuinely curious, as the compliment landed in his soul like a flaming meteor. A polite, harmless phrase — and yet he looked insulted. Or afraid. Or both.
I shifted my weight onto one hip, suddenly unsure.
Did he really love Amanda? Was he about to mourn her absence with opera and opium? Or was this something else?
Was he… was he just terrified of me?
The thought crept in like a draft: Is he petrified because I’m Black?
I didn’t want to think it. I didn’t like to jump to that conclusion—it felt lazy. Unfair. Convenient. But the way his blue eyes darted, like he’d been caught in an alley by something he didn’t know how to understand? It was hard to ignore.
Maybe it wasn’t about me.
Maybe it was about the idea of me.
His Amanda had been white. Blonde. Delicate. Probably whispered instead of speaking. Probably clutched crystals when stressed.
I was not that.
I was caramel-skinned, sharp-tongued, tired-eyed. My hips were too loud for the dress, my hair was flattened into submission, and my lips were painted with a shade called “Bossy,” because I was.
Skin color doesn't define softness. Unlike the ghetto stereotypes black ladies are associated with, many black girls do soft feminity.
But I don't .
And maybe that was terrifying.
To him. To his world. To the expectations wrapped around this ridiculous contract like Christmas ribbon no one bothered to untangle.
He still hadn’t said anything.
Just blinked—finally—and took a step back like I’d pressed a knife to his chest. Maybe I had. Just by existing.
My jaw tightened.
“Well,” I said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my dress. “Should we sit? Or would you prefer I disappear like the last one?”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Then opened again, soundlessly, like he was rebooting.
This was going to be a long dinner.
I followed the waiter to the table without waiting for his answer.
If he wanted to gawk, let him do it from across the napkins
- Writer
