OOPS I MARRIED A BILLIONAIRE

Chapter Seven: Meet the Blackwoods

Amara

I couldn’t stop pacing.

The beautiful white-and-gold room that was now supposedly mine felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. My bare feet padded back and forth across the plush carpet as my heart hammered wildly against my ribs. Just a few hours ago, I had tried to convince myself I could handle this. Now that dinner with Ethan’s parents was only minutes away, every ounce of fake confidence had evaporated.

Eunice stood quietly near the vanity, watching me with calm, patient eyes. I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my nails dug into my palms, reciting the affirmations Williams had drilled into me over the years.

You are enough. You are worthy. You can do hard things.

The words tasted hollow.

Williams wasn’t here. No one was here to catch me if my mouth ran wild or if I ruined everything with one careless sentence. I was completely on my own.

I stopped abruptly and looked at Eunice, my face twisted with anxiety. “Do I really have to be there?” My voice came out small and pitiful, almost childlike.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied gently, offering that soft, unwavering smile of hers. “You’re his wife.”

His wife.

The title still felt like a cruel joke.

I let out a shaky breath and placed my hands on my waist, trying to steady myself. “Does it help?” I asked quickly. “When you smile like that… does it actually ease the tension?”

Eunice tilted her head slightly, then let out a small, warm laugh. “For me, it does. It reminds me to breathe.”

I envied her so fiercely in that moment — her calm aura, her composure, the way she carried herself like she belonged in this world of wealth and perfection. I could never steal that. I could only fake it.

“Okay,” I whispered, forcing my lips into a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’m going to plaster a smile on my face the entire dinner. Fake it till I make it, right?”

Eunice nodded encouragingly.

I walked over to the massive walk-in closet, my fingers trailing over fabrics that cost more than I used to make in six months. Rows of designer dresses hung like silent judges. I didn’t belong here. Not even a little.

Fear twisted in my stomach again, sharp and nauseating, but I kept smiling.

Smiling helps the tension.

Eunice selected a elegant floral white dress — delicate yet sophisticated, with soft embroidery that caught the light beautifully. It looked like it would hug my slim, curvy figure perfectly.

“How did they even get my size right?” I murmured, staring at the dress in awe.

“Williams helped,” Eunice said softly, noticing my confusion.

A small wave of relief washed over me. At least my best friend was still looking out for me from afar. I almost laughed imagining him running around, picking out clothes for me while Justin probably rolled his eyes.

“I can dress you now, ma’am?” Eunice asked.

I nodded. The sooner this night was over, the better.

When I finally stood in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognized myself.

The floral dress fit like it had been made for me, flowing gracefully over my body. My dark hair fell in soft, messy curls around my shoulders, and my makeup was minimal — just enough to enhance my features without hiding me. I slipped on white platform heels that gave me height without being painful.

I looked… expensive. Polished. Like a billionaire’s wife.

But inside, I still felt like the same Amara John who had been kicked out by her brother and fired for a duck. The girl who ruined everything she touched.

I stared at my reflection, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. From nearly homeless to pretending to be Mrs. Ethan Blackwood in one day. The contrast was almost laughable.

My phone suddenly rang on the vanity. Thinking it was Williams, I snatched it up without checking the caller ID.

“Hi, Williams!” I answered, my voice bright with desperate hope.

“You went on a business trip and didn’t settle the rent?”

My blood ran cold.

The fuzzy, hopeful feeling in my chest collapsed instantly. My brother’s voice — cold, dangerous, and laced with barely contained anger — sliced through me like ice.

“Hi… brother,” I whispered, my throat tightening.

“I don’t need that bullshit, Amara!” he snapped. His voice cracked with fury. I could almost see him pacing, beer bottle in hand. “You think because you’re suddenly moving with big boys you can forget your responsibilities?”

My hands began to shake. “I’ll… I’ll send you the payment tomorrow. I promise.”

“You better,” he growled. “Or you know exactly what happens next.”

The line went dead.

I stood frozen, staring at the phone in my trembling hand. The familiar wave of shame and fear crashed over me, drowning the small spark of excitement I’d managed to hold onto. No matter how beautiful the dress or how luxurious the room, I was still the same screw-up who couldn’t even pay rent.

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back hard.

“We need to go now, ma’am,” Eunice said gently, still smiling like the world wasn’t collapsing around me. “Sir is waiting.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced another smile — the same fake one I’d practiced minutes ago.

Everything was not okay.

But I had no choice.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror — the elegant dress, the perfect hair, the terrified eyes — and whispered under my breath:

“Just get through tonight, Amara.”

Then I followed Eunice out of the room, my heart heavy with dread, wondering how long I could keep pretending before everything fell apart.

Going down the grand staircase felt like walking toward my own execution.

Ethan stood in the middle of the massive living room, looking like a dark prince carved from ice. He kept checking his watch every few seconds, clearly irritated that I had taken too long. The moment his eyes lifted and locked onto me, my heart slammed against my ribcage.

God, he was unfairly handsome.

The tailored black suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, and a few strands of his dark hair fell elegantly over his forehead. He looked expensive. Powerful. Completely out of my league.

For a brief second, our eyes held. His expression remained unreadable — cold, calculating, and completely blank. Then the spell broke.

“What the hell have you been doing?” he snapped, his voice low but sharp as he strode toward me. “My parents are already here.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me down the last few steps, pulling me hurriedly toward the dining hall. I nearly stumbled in my platforms.

“Hey!” I squeaked, more surprised than hurt.

He released me just meters from the entrance, quickly adjusting his suit jacket and smoothing his expression back into perfect composure.

“Behave, Amara,” he warned, his voice low and dangerously smooth. The sound sent an unwanted flutter through my stomach.

I bit my lower lip without thinking. Ethan noticed. He gave me a confused, slightly disgusted frown, like I had just grown horns.

“Sorry,” I muttered, cheeks burning with embarrassment as I looked away.

The massive double doors opened.

An older man entered first — tall, commanding, and dressed in an immaculate brown suit. He carried a sleek walking stick and radiated the kind of energy that screamed I own everything in this room. He looked like the human version of a “sugar daddy” warning label. Dangerous. Sophisticated. Terrifying.

Behind him walked a small, elegant woman. Mrs. Blackwood. She was beautifully dressed but moved like a shadow — quiet, head slightly lowered, radiating quiet submission.

“Father,” Ethan greeted, stepping forward to hug the man with stiff formality.

I forced my brightest smile and bowed slightly, just as Williams had taught me years ago during one of his “how to survive rich people” lectures.

“You look very beautiful, young lady,” Mr. Blackwood said, taking my hand and placing a dry kiss on the back of it. His grip was firm, almost testing.

“Thank you, sir,” I whispered.

Ethan moved toward his mother, but his father immediately pulled him away. “Show me to the table, Ethan.”

We all moved to the dining room. Ethan pulled out a chair for me — the perfect gentleman in public. I stared at him in surprise before quickly sitting. Mrs. Blackwood quietly pulled out her own chair and sat without any assistance.

“It’s so nice to finally meet the woman my son married in secret,” Mr. Blackwood said, smiling at me. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you too, sir,” I replied, avoiding direct eye contact as much as possible.

“So,” he continued as his wife began serving him rice with practiced precision, “where did you two meet?”

My brain short-circuited. “Huh… we, uh…”

“We met at a conference, Father,” Ethan cut in smoothly, not even glancing at me. “I already told you. She’s not much of a talker.”

I nearly melted with relief. My shoulders dropped. Ethan even reached over and filled my plate with rice and vegetables. For a split second, he almost looked like a caring husband.

Who was this man and what had he done with the ice king from the car?

I was just about to dig in when I noticed it.

The way Mr. Blackwood ate.

His cheeks puffed out slightly with every bite, his mouth moving in quick, continuous motions. He looked exactly like the pet rabbit we had when I was little — Mr. Fluffington. The resemblance was uncanny.

Everyone else ate with elegant restraint. Mrs. Blackwood barely touched her food, constantly watching her husband. Ethan remained silent and composed.

I tried. I really, really tried to hold it in.

But then Mr. Blackwood took another bite and his cheeks puffed again.

A giggle escaped me.

I quickly covered my mouth, but it was too late. Ethan’s leg tapped mine hard under the table — a clear warning.

“You know, Sir Blackwood…” I started, ignoring Ethan’s death glare. “I just remembered something from when I was young.”

“Oh?” Mr. Blackwood looked genuinely interested. “Where did you grow up?”

“Koreatown. With my parents and my brother.”

“I would love to meet them someday,” Mrs. Blackwood said softly, smiling at me with genuine warmth.

“Oh, they’re dead,” I said casually.

The table went deathly silent for two painful seconds.

Mr. Blackwood took another generous bite of his rice, his cheeks puffing out slightly as he chewed with quick, efficient movements.

That was all it took.

A giggle escaped me before I could slap a hand over my mouth.

“What’s so funny, dear?” Mrs. Blackwood asked gently, tilting her head with concern.

“Amara,” Ethan warned under his breath, his leg pressing firmly against mine in a silent command to shut up.

I tried. I really did. But the image was burned into my brain.

“No, it’s just—” I wheezed, my shoulders already shaking with laughter. “I’m so sorry, but Mr. Blackwood, you eat exactly like the rabbit we had when I was little. All puffed cheeks and fast munching. It’s actually really cute!”

The table fell silent for a heartbeat.

Then Mr. Blackwood let out a deep, surprised laugh that boomed across the dining room.

“A rabbit?” He chuckled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Well, I’ll be damned. No one’s ever had the balls to say that to my face before.”

He pointed his fork at me, still laughing. “You’ve got guts, young lady. I like that.”

The tension shattered. Mrs. Blackwood smiled softly, and even Ethan’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction. For a few blissful minutes, dinner actually felt… normal.

But the peace didn’t last.

Mr. Blackwood turned his sharp gaze on his son. “You’ve been too soft lately, Ethan,” he said, his tone shifting from amused to cutting. “Weak. Hesitant. Always second-guessing yourself. If you continue like this, you’ll drive the company into the ground just like your useless uncle did. I didn’t build this empire so you could squander it with your mediocrity.”

The words landed like stones. Ethan’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white around his fork.

“Father,” Ethan replied, his voice low and controlled, but edged with steel, “the company is stable. The recent decisions I made were necessary for long-term growth—”

“Necessary?” Mr. Blackwood cut him off with a harsh laugh. “You’re making excuses. Just like you always do. Sometimes I wonder if I raised a son or a disappointment.”

Mrs. Blackwood shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her fingers tightened around her wine glass, and she kept her eyes fixed on her plate, clearly wishing she could disappear. The discomfort on her face was unmistakable.

I couldn’t stay quiet.

“Wow,” I said with a light, innocent laugh, trying to brush off the heavy atmosphere. “You just described yourself perfectly, sir.”

The table went deathly silent again.

Mr. Blackwood slowly turned his head toward me. “Excuse me?”

I blinked, still smiling, completely unaware of the landmine I had just stepped on. “Well… you’re the one who raised him, right? So if he’s weak, hesitant, and always making bad decisions…” I shrugged, giggling a little. “Doesn’t that mean he got it from you? Like father, like son?”

Mrs. Blackwood’s eyes widened in horror. She looked like she wanted to reach across the table and cover my mouth.

Mr. Blackwood stared at me for a long, dangerous second. Then he let out a short, cold laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan, however, looked murderous. His gaze burned into me with pure, barely contained fury.

I finally felt the shift in the air.

Oh… Oh no.

Mr. Blackwood stood up slowly, adjusting his suit jacket with deliberate movements. “We’ll be leaving now,” he announced, his voice dangerously calm. “Rachel.”

Mrs. Blackwood gave me one last sympathetic, almost pitying look before she obediently rose and followed her husband out of the dining room.

The heavy doors closed behind them with a final, ominous click.

The silence that remained was thick enough to choke on.

I sank back into my chair, my cheeks burning. “So…” I whispered weakly, “how do you think that went?”

Ethan didn’t reply.

He simply closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly — like a man praying for the strength not to commit murder.