OOPS I MARRIED A BILLIONAIRE

Chapter Ten: New Emotions

Amara

Sunlight spilled through the slightly parted curtains in thin golden streams, slicing directly across my face like the universe had decided I needed an extra dose of punishment for simply existing. I groaned dramatically, rolling over and burying my face deeper into the ridiculously soft silk pillow. The fabric smelled like expensive detergent and faint traces of cedarwood—probably worth more than my entire previous wardrobe.

Bad idea.

The moment my eyes closed, my brain replayed last night in vivid, unwanted HD. The balcony. The cool night air. Ethan’s jacket settling over my shoulders with surprising gentleness. The warmth of his body standing so close behind me that I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. That heavy, charged silence where, for one completely insane moment, I actually thought he might kiss me.

Me. Amara. The walking disaster who had spilled wine on a socialite and compared his business rivals to rabbits.

“Oh my God,” I mumbled into the pillow, dragging it fully over my head as if it could smother the memory. My stomach flipped violently, a confusing mix of embarrassment and something warmer I refused to name. Because Ethan Blackwood didn’t do spontaneous romance. Men like him calculated every move. Even breathing probably came with a five-year strategic plan and three contingency options.

I slowly lowered the pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling, tracing the elegant crown molding with my eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Amara,” I whispered to myself. “This isn’t a fairy tale. You’re here because of a contract, not destiny.”

Still, the memory lingered. That silence on the balcony hadn’t felt calculated. It had felt real. Heavy. Almost intimate.

I pressed both hands over my heated cheeks and groaned again. “This is exactly how women in horror movies die. You start imagining the emotionally unavailable billionaire secretly likes you, and the next thing you know, you’re buried in his wine cellar under a pile of vintage Bordeaux.”

My phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, nearly launching me into cardiac arrest. I snatched it up, heart racing, only to see Williams’ name lighting up the screen. Relief flooded through me instantly.

I answered with a weak smile already forming. “Hey, girl.”

“How’s life as Mrs. Billionaire Blackwood?” Williams exploded through the speaker, his voice dripping with theatrical drama. “Have you developed a rich people accent yet? Are you emotionally suffering in luxury while the rest of us peasants eat instant ramen?”

Despite the chaos in my head, I laughed. The sound loosened the tight knot in my chest just a little. I sat up in bed, the massive room stretching out around me in soft creams and golds, more like a five-star hotel suite than a bedroom. Crystal chandeliers, a seating area bigger than my old apartment’s living room, and windows overlooking perfectly manicured gardens.

“Not as terrible as I expected,” I admitted quietly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Ethan’s… slightly less terrifying now.”

“Slightly?” Williams gasped. “Progress! Should I alert the media? ‘Ice King of Blackwood Empire Thaws One Degree for Chaotic Wife.’”

I smiled faintly as I padded across the thick carpet toward the bathroom. “He’s still cold. Like, emotionally constipated cold. But sometimes… I don’t know. There’s something underneath all that ice. Moments where he looks at me like he’s actually seeing me.”

Williams hummed knowingly on the other end. “Oh babe. Men like Ethan Blackwood are the worst kind.”

“The worst kind?”

“The secretly soft kind,” he said confidently. “The emotionally damaged ones who glare at the world but start acting weird around one specific girl. Justin told me Ethan hasn’t willingly tolerated another human being this long in years. Yet you’ve embarrassed him publicly multiple times and you’re still breathing. That’s practically a love confession in billionaire language.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s concerning,” I countered, but warmth still crept into my cheeks.

The conversation shifted as I reached the bathroom. Williams’ tone softened. “How’s Paul?”

My chest tightened painfully. “I sent the money for rent. He’s still asking when I’m coming home from my ‘business trip.’”

“I’ll visit him soon,” I whispered, though the words tasted uncertain. Home used to be that cramped apartment with leaky faucets and the constant worry of bills. Now it was this mansion where I slept beside a man who barely tolerated my presence. The contrast made my head spin.

After ending the call, loneliness settled back in. I sank into the enormous bathtub, letting the hot water soothe my nerves while steam curled around me. By the time I emerged, my thoughts felt marginally quieter.

I wandered into the massive walk-in closet and felt immediately overwhelmed. Rows upon rows of designer dresses, shoes that probably cost a month’s rent, and jewelry that sparkled like stars. Everything organized by color and season. It was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like me.

I reached for the most comforting items I could find: oversized grey joggers and a large white t-shirt shoved toward the back. The second I pulled the shirt over my head, a familiar scent enveloped me—clean, dark, and undeniably expensive. Ethan’s scent.

My stomach flipped. I lifted the collar to my nose just to confirm. Yep. Definitely his.

I tied my damp hair into a messy bun and stared at my reflection. This version of me felt safer. Just Amara. Not the fake wife trying to fit into a world of luxury.

Stepping into the hallway, I froze. Ethan stood several feet away, holding a coffee mug. Black joggers hung low on his hips, and a fitted white t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and chest in a way that should have been illegal before breakfast. His dark hair was slightly damp and tousled from his shower. The sight short-circuited my brain for a full second.

His eyes moved over me slowly, then stopped on the shirt.

“My shirt,” he said flatly.

Heat exploded across my body. “Oh my God, I didn’t know! I just grabbed the first comfortable thing and—”

“It’s fine.” Cold. Dismissive. He turned away without another word.

The rejection stung sharper than I expected. I stood there, watching his retreating back, hurt blooming in my chest. How did he make me feel so insignificant with so few words?

Fine. If words didn’t work, maybe actions would. I could do something nice. Something wife-like. Breakfast. Wives in movies always cooked breakfast to win over their husbands.

My confidence lasted exactly three seconds—until I reached the kitchen and remembered I was a culinary disaster.

I once burned instant noodles. Actual noodles. In water.

Still, how hard could scrambled eggs and toast be?

Thirty chaotic minutes later, the luxurious Blackwood kitchen looked like a war zone. Eggshells scattered across marble counters. Flour dusted the floor like fresh snow. A cracked bowl sat in the sink beside a suspiciously melted spoon. Smoke curled lazily from a pan containing what could only be described as aggressive, traumatized eggs.

My appearance matched the destruction. Ethan’s once-pristine white shirt was now a Jackson Pollock painting of milk, butter, flour, and an unidentifiable orange substance. My messy bun had collapsed, with strands of hair plastered to my sweaty forehead.

Eunice stepped into the kitchen and froze, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. The destroyed counters. The smoking pan. The flour on my cheek. Then her gaze landed on me.

“Ma’am…” she said carefully, fighting a smile. “What exactly are you doing?”

“I’m cooking,” I announced with forced confidence.

Right on cue, the burning smell intensified. I spun around in panic, nearly slipping on flour, and lunged for the stove. “The eggs! Oh my God—”

Eunice pressed her lips together tightly to contain her laughter as I salvaged what little remained.

“I was trying to make scrambled eggs,” I explained weakly. “And toast. For Ethan. As an apology for… everything.”

She assessed the damage with gentle amusement. “You wanted to do something nice for Sir?”

I dropped my forehead dramatically against her shoulder. “I’m trying so hard to be a good wife, but the universe keeps humbling me. I think the toaster has a personal vendetta.”

Footsteps echoed from the hallway—deep, measured, controlled. My stomach plummeted. Ethan appeared in the doorway, one hand resting casually against the frame, the other still holding his coffee. He wore the same black joggers and white t-shirt from earlier.

He stared at the kitchen. Then at me.

Eunice quietly excused herself, sensing the shift in the air.

Silence stretched between us, but it felt different this time. Less icy. More curious.

“What happened here?” he asked calmly. The even tone scared me more than shouting would have.

I started rambling immediately. “I wanted to make breakfast and apologize properly because I keep ruining things and embarrassing you and the eggs attacked me and I think the appliances are possessed—”

“You tried to cook for me?” His voice cut through mine, quiet and almost disbelieving.

I stopped, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I did.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. I braced for the cold dismissal. Instead, a low chuckle escaped him—soft, deep, and unexpectedly warm. The sound short-circuited my brain entirely. I had never heard Ethan Blackwood laugh before.

“You’re… laughing?” I asked in shock.

His mouth twitched, as if he regretted letting the sound slip. “I’m not angry, Amara.”

I blinked. “What?”

He stepped further into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves before setting his mug down. Up close, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning light, while I resembled a rejected bakery worker.

“You heard me,” he said. “I’m not angry.” His eyes flicked to the burned pan with mild amusement. “Though I am mildly concerned for the eggs.”

Was this the same man who had threatened me in the car just yesterday? This version felt almost… human.

“I just wanted you to forgive me,” I admitted softly, looking down at my ruined shirt.

Something unreadable crossed his face. “If you want my forgiveness,” he said slowly, “you’ll have to earn it.”

“Anything,” I replied instantly.

That pulled a real smile from him—small, but devastating. It softened the sharp lines of his face, transforming the cold billionaire into something dangerously beautiful. My heart stuttered.

“There’s a private dinner tonight,” he continued casually. “Elite guests. Business partners. If you survive one evening without causing a public catastrophe, we’ll consider ourselves even.”

I stared at him. “That’s the challenge?”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed playfully. “For you? I’m not entirely convinced.”

I gasped in mock offense. “That’s rude.”

“It’s realistic.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped when I realized he was still smiling. The moment felt strangely intimate.

“Sure,” I stammered, suddenly aware of how messy I looked. “I can do that.”

“Good.” He picked up his coffee and turned toward the door, then paused. Without looking back, he added, “And Amara? Next time you want to apologize… try flowers instead of attempted arson.”

He walked out, leaving me standing in the flour-dusted chaos with my heart racing wildly.

Eunice peeked back moments later. Seeing my flushed face and dazed expression, she grinned knowingly. “Oh dear.”

“What?” I touched my burning cheeks.

“You’re staring at the doorway like a woman in love.”

“I AM NOT!” I protested, but the denial sounded weak even to my own ears.