THREAD OF TRUST
2051 Words
The shrill tone of Dimitrus’s alarm broke the early morning quiet. He reached over, trying to wake Amera gently, but she didn’t stir. Only when the alarm persisted did she finally open her eyes.
“Good morning,” Dimitrus said, his voice calm but carrying a hint of command. “Get ready for breakfast… and dress elegantly.”
Amera sat up slowly, still shaking off the heaviness of sleep. Dimitrus was already propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone, not looking at her as he spoke. She stole a quick glance at him before slipping out of bed and heading toward the walk-in closet.
Inside, she searched through her clothes but found nothing that matched his idea of “elegant.” With a small sigh, she stepped back into the room.
“I don’t have anything elegant,” she admitted.
Without looking away from his phone, he replied, “What about the purple one?”
Her brows furrowed. “You… you’ve seen my clothes?” she asked, surprise lacing her voice.
Dimitrus didn’t answer, simply swiping his screen as if he hadn’t heard her.
Amera hesitated, then turned back to the closet. A few minutes later, she stepped into the room again. Dimitrus’s eyes lifted—and his gaze drifted slowly from her head to toe. He didn’t rush — he took in everything like a man studying a masterpiece. The soft sweep of mascara framing her lashes, the kajal deepening her gaze, the faint touch of pink blush warming her cheeks, the light shade of lipstick drawing his attention to her lips. Her long hair, with its gentle waves, fell almost to her hips, catching the light when she moved. The crisp purple shirt was perfectly ironed, paired with a pure white shalwar — as if elegance was second nature to her. For a moment, everything else blurred. Only she remained in focus.
Her dupatta slipped slightly from her shoulder, and his heart nearly followed it. She tilted her head, breaking his trance.
“Let’s go,” she said casually.
It took him a beat too long to answer. “Y-yeah…” He cleared his throat, composing himself, and walked toward the table where a box was placed. H pick that box and take out the ring out, extend it toward Amera
Amera breath hitched at the sight the square diamond was shining bright under the sunlight. It was simple yet elegant . Totally her style.
She grab it and slip it on her ring finger to her surprise it fit perfectly.while Demitrus move toward the door.
In the corridor, Nico stood with a wheelchair in his hands. Amera frowned, wondering why he was holding it. She didn’t understand until Demitrus calmly walked over and sat down in it. Her eyes widened in shock, her lips parting with a question — but before she could speak, he said in a low voice, “One of my secrets. I hope you’ll play along.”
Still processing, she nodded, and they continued down the hall together.
They had breakfast in the sunlit dining room, waiting for Maxim to appear, but he didn’t. All around them, the maids whispered in hushed tones, glancing at Amera with open curiosity. No one seemed to believe she was truly Demitrus’s wife.
When the plates were cleared, Demitrus turned to Madame Louise. “Tell everyone Amera is my wife. And tell my father I’m waiting for him in the living room. I have a surprise for him.”
Madame Louise nodded respectfully. Demitrus wheeled himself toward the living room, the faintest hint of anticipation in his expression.
Amera followed Dimitris into the living room, her steps slow, uncertain. She could feel the weight of whatever was about to happen pressing down on her chest. Dimitris wheeled himself forward with an unhurried calm, as though he had been planning this moment for days. She stayed just behind him, her hands curled into fists to keep them from trembling.
The door opened a short while later. Maxim walked in, eyes on his phone, his tone clipped.
“You called for me?”
“Yes,” Dimitris replied evenly, not turning his head. Then, with a quiet satisfaction that cut through the air, he added, “I wanted you to meet my wife.”
Maxim glanced up—and froze. His eyes locked on Amera, and the shift in his expression was almost imperceptible but impossible to miss. Shock flared for the briefest second before it hardened into something darker. His jaw tightened, his gaze sharpening like a blade.
From his chair, Dimitris’ lips curved faintly, a taunting glint in his eyes.
“Isn’t she pretty?” he said, the mockery unmistakable.
Amera’s stomach knotted. She felt Maxim’s stare like a physical weight, burning against her skin. She dropped her gaze instantly, focusing on the back of Dimitris’ head, trying to block everything else out. But the silence between the three of them was suffocating, stretching too long.
Maxim took a slow, deliberate step forward.
“Amera,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with unspoken meaning. “Look up.”
Her heart pounded painfully in her ears. She hesitated, then lifted her gaze, inch by inch, until their eyes met. His were cold and unyielding, but beneath the surface she saw a flicker—anger, disbelief, and something more calculating, as if he were already deciding what to do about this.
“This…” Maxim said slowly, every word deliberate. “…is this right?”
Her throat was dry, her voice lost somewhere deep inside her. All she could manage was a small, trembling nod.
Maxim’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening with barely contained rage. Without warning, he strode toward Amera.
She instinctively stepped back, but there was nowhere to go. His hand shot out, fingers like iron as they clamped around her wrist.
Pain seared through her arm. Her breath hitched, and she tried to twist free, but his grip only tightened. She bit her lip hard, willing herself not to punch him—but the tremor in her shoulders, the flicker of pain across her face, gave her away.
Her gaze darted toward Dimitris. For a split second, her eyes pleaded with him—not in desperation, but in a quiet, stubborn way, as if asking, *Will you let him do this?*
“You little piece of—” Maxim began, his voice dripping venom. “I’ll—”
“Father.”
The single word came like a blade through the air. Dimitris’ voice was calm—too calm—but beneath it ran a cold current that made Maxim pause mid-sentence.
“Let her go.”
Maxim’s head snapped toward his son, his grip faltering but not releasing entirely.
“Don’t you have shipments to oversee today?” Dimitris added, his tone even, but his gaze sharp enough to cut.
For the briefest moment, surprise cracked through Maxim’s fury. How did Dimitris know? His eyes narrowed further, but the anger in them had shifted—hotter now, directed at both of them.
With a sharp jerk, he released Amera’s wrist. She stepped back instantly, rubbing the reddening skin, her breath still uneven. She kept her eyes on Maxim, but her awareness was fixed on Dimitris—the one who had made him stop.
Maxim turned his attention toward the doorway. “Madame Louise! Lock Amera in the east wing—now!”
A guard appeared. Maxim shoved Amera toward him so hard she stumbled, catching herself at the last moment.
“And lock Dimitris in his room,” he snarled.
Dimitris’ lips curled into a smirk, his voice low but edged. “Oh, grandmother won’t like that.”
Maxim stopped mid-stride. Slowly, he turned back. Anger burned hot in his face, his chest rising and falling with uneven, rapid breaths. His fists clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened. For a heartbeat, the air in the room felt heavier.
“I’ll handle you later,” he said, his voice low, almost shaking with restrained fury. He signaled the guard to step back.
Then he stormed out, each step sharp and heavy.
When he entered the study, the restraint shattered.
A violent sweep of his arm sent books, papers, and glass crashing to the floor. He grabbed a crystal decanter and hurled it at the wall—shards exploded across the carpet. A porcelain vase followed, smashing into fragments. His breath came fast, almost ragged, and his eyes were wild with rage.
He slammed his fist into the desk—once, twice—until the wood groaned under the force. The room smelled of spilled liquor and fresh destruction.
Snatching up the phone, he barked into it, “Get in here ivan—now.” His voice was low, dangerous, and shaking with rage.
Maxim’s secretary entered the study, the door creaking open to reveal a scene of chaos—shattered glass on the floor, papers strewn everywhere, a chair knocked over. His eyes widened at the wreckage, but before he could speak, Maxim was on him in two long strides.
Maxim’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar and yanking him forward so violently the secretary almost lost his balance.
“How does he know about the shipment?!” Maxim roared, his voice echoing off the walls.
The secretary—Ivan—stammered, his lips trembling. “I… I don’t know, sir… I swear—”
Maxim’s grip tightened, his face inches away, fury radiating from every taut muscle. Then, with a sharp jerk, he shoved Ivan back, sending him stumbling against the desk.
“I will not let him destroy it,” Maxim hissed, his voice low but venomous, eyes blazing with murderous intent.
Ivan’s throat bobbed nervously as Maxim turned away, pacing like a caged predator, each breath ragged, each movement charged with barely restrained violence.
Meanwhile, in the quiet of the east wing room, Amera sat on the sofa, her fingers absently rubbing the spot where Maxim’s grip had left an angry bruise. A few scratches stung along her arm from when he had shoved her toward the guard.
The door opened softly, and Dimitris entered, a small first-aid box resting on his lap. Without a word, he wheeled closer, then carefully shifted to sit beside her on the sofa. His presence carried a strange calm—steady, unhurried—yet Amera could feel his attention entirely on her.
He took her hand gently, his touch warm and deliberate, and began applying a soothing cream to the darkening bruise. Amera’s eyes wandered over his features—the defined jawline, the way the light caught in his eyes, the quiet strength in his expression. There was no denying it; he was strikingly handsome, in a way that made her pulse skip.
“I’m sorry,” Dimitris murmured, his voice low.
Amera’s brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”
“For letting you get hurt,” he said, not looking up from her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin as if to erase the pain.
She gave a small, soft smile. “It’s alright.”
At that, their eyes met. The air seemed to still, the world narrowing to the space between them. Their faces were only inches apart now—close enough for her to notice the faint scent of his cologne, for him to feel the warmth of her breath. Something unspoken lingered in the quiet—a pull neither of them moved to break.
- Writer
