FATED TO A STRANGERS REGRET

Amara Jackson had never stepped into anything this quiet before. Not even her mother’s graveyard silence compared to this , the stillness that wrapped around the El-Amin estate like a velvet noose. The gates had barely closed behind her before the air felt heavier. The driver hadn’t spoken a word on the two-hour ride from the city. She wasn’t even sure he’d blinked. He’d simply held out a small file folder as she exited the car ; her contract. Again. Just in case she’d forgotten what she’d signed. A fake marriage. 2 years . No questions. No photos. No talking to the press. No wandering. And no love. Amara had signed it with trembling hands, her brother’s face burned into her mind. The tubes. The bills. The deadline the hospital gave her like a death sentence. So she said yes to a stranger’s ring. To Zayn El-Amin. Reclusive billionaire. Tech god. Rumor magnet. Ghost. And now, her husband. The mansion loomed in front of her, draped in ivy and shadow. It looked less like a home and more like a secret someone forgot to bury. A maid opened the door before she could knock, her expression unreadable. Amara offered a polite smile, but the woman looked past her as if she wasn’t there. “You’ll be shown to your room,” the woman said in a voice tight as thread. Amara followed her up winding stairs and through hallways that never seemed to end. Doors everywhere ; most of them shut. Some with strange locks and cold, gleaming handles. She didn’t ask. Not yet. The room was beautiful ; lavish but oddly bare, like a stage set that no one ever used. No photos. No perfume. No signs of life. “Dinner is at eight. You’re expected to eat alone. Mr. El-Amin doesn’t dine with anyone.” Amara turned. “Not even his wife?” The maid didn’t respond. Just left. ⸻ That night, Amara couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the silence. Or the strange creaking in the walls. Or the way the wind outside sounded like someone whispering her name. She lay curled beneath the silk sheets, eyes flickering toward the door every few seconds. And then she felt it. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just… presence. She turned sharply ; and saw him. Zayn El-Amin stood in the doorway, half silhouetted by the hallway light. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, watching. His eyes met hers. Cold. Curious. Like he was searching for something inside her face. And then ; he was gone. Vanished down the hallway like he’d never been there at all. ⸻ The next morning, Amara wandered downstairs, trying to shake the memory. Maybe she’d imagined it. Maybe stress was getting to her. She passed by the kitchen on her way to the garden ; then paused. Whispers. Two of the housekeepers stood by the pantry, speaking fast and low in a dialect she barely caught. “…looks just like her…” “…shouldn’t be here…” “…he’ll lose it again…” Amara froze. Her? But before she could step closer, one of them noticed her. The woman’s face went pale. “We weren’t talking about you,” she said quickly, grabbing the other’s arm. “Please don’t ask questions.” They hurried away before she could say a word. ⸻ Something wasn’t right. She could feel it in the walls. In the glances. In the way even the mirrors seemed afraid to show her reflection too clearly. She was only meant to be a transaction . A stand-in. A temporary name on a certificate. But now, walking through the halls of Zayn El-Amin’s home, she could feel something tightening around her. Not love. Something deeper. Something darker. Something obsessed.