Chapter 2 – Red Silk, Cold Smiles
1169 Words
Chapter 2 – Red Silk, Cold Smiles
Amara stood in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room of Lucien’s penthouse, staring at the reflection of the woman she barely recognized.
The red silk gown clung to her curves like a secret, slit high on the thigh and plunging low at the back. Her hair was pinned into a soft bun, the makeup bold but elegant. She looked like one of them—those heiresses and wives in magazines, the kind Lucien probably dated by the dozen.
Except she wasn’t playing dress-up. This was her life now.
“Turn,” came Lucien’s voice from behind her.
She didn’t. “Why are you watching me like I’m merchandise?”
“Because you’re part of the brand now,” he said, stepping inside. He wore a black tuxedo, crisp and cruelly perfect. His tie was already in place, his cufflinks gleaming.
Amara finally turned to face him, eyes sharp. “I’m not your product.”
“No. You’re my wife.”
The word made her pulse race for all the wrong reasons.
Lucien walked closer, stopping just inches from her. His hand lifted—not to touch her, but to reach for a diamond necklace he carried. Without asking, he clasped it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin.
“You’ll wear this tonight. It belonged to my grandmother.”
“And this is supposed to make me feel what—honored? Owned?”
Lucien’s lips twitched. “It’s just a necklace.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Nothing is ever just anything with you.”
Their eyes locked. And for a moment, the space between them pulsed with something electric.
Then Lucien straightened and extended his arm. “Shall we, Mrs. Valezco?”
She didn’t take it. But she walked beside him anyway.
The Galvez Gala was held in the grand ballroom of The Astoria, one of Manila’s oldest and most exclusive hotels. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, champagne flowed like water, and laughter echoed among marble columns and string quartets.
But as soon as Amara stepped through the entrance with Lucien at her side, all eyes turned.
Whispers followed them like shadows.
That’s the Del Fierro daughter.
She married him?
Arranged. Obviously.
She’s beautiful. He’s dangerous.
Poor girl.
Amara kept her chin high.
Lucien, on the other hand, moved through the room like a king on his battlefield. Calm. Strategic. Lethal. He offered nods and handshakes, cool smiles that meant nothing, and words that sounded polite but cut like blades.
He only touched her when absolutely necessary—a hand on her back, a palm at her waist. It was all for show. But every touch left a mark.
When they finally stopped near the VIP lounge, Lucien turned to her. “Smile. You look like you’re about to murder someone.”
“I might,” she muttered. “Preferably you.”
A low chuckle escaped him. “You’re good at this. Better than expected.”
She sipped her champagne, then gave him a practiced smile. “I took acting in high school.”
Lucien leaned in slightly. “Careful, Amara. The more convincing you are, the more they’ll believe we’re in love.”
Her smile faltered, just slightly. “You really think that’s possible?”
His voice dropped. “I don’t believe in love. But I do believe in power.”
“And I believe in surviving,” she shot back. “So don’t test me.”
Before he could respond, a sharp voice cut through the crowd.
“Lucien!”
A woman approached, tall and willowy, dressed in emerald. Her red lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Amara recognized her instantly—Celeste Montenegro. International model. Lucien’s ex. The one the tabloids swore he almost married.
Celeste looked her up and down. “So this is the wife.”
Amara extended her hand with the same energy she might use to slap someone. “Nice to meet you.”
Celeste ignored it. “Lucien never mentioned how young you were.”
“And you’re exactly how I imagined,” Amara said sweetly. “Tall. Jealous. Slightly bitter.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Ladies—”
Celeste didn’t back down. “Don’t worry, darling. He gets bored easily.”
Amara’s eyes narrowed. “So I’ve heard. But he seems to get bored of models faster than wives.”
Lucien took a long sip of champagne, amused. “If you’re both done, I’d like to survive this evening with minimal bloodshed.”
Celeste gave him a long look, then turned and walked away without another word.
Amara exhaled slowly. “She’s… lovely.”
Lucien glanced down at her, something unreadable in his expression. “You handled her well.”
“I wasn’t handling her for you.”
“No. You did it for yourself,” he said, admiring her in that calculating way again. “And that’s exactly why I chose you.”
Later that night, after hours of smiles, fake laughs, and endless conversations, they returned to the penthouse in silence.
Amara peeled off her heels the moment they stepped inside, wincing. “How do you do this every weekend?”
“I have expensive shoes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”
Lucien loosened his tie, then poured himself a drink at the bar. “You held your own tonight. Better than I expected.”
“Why do you always sound surprised when I do something right?”
“Because you’re unpredictable.”
“Because I’m not one of your robots?”
Lucien turned to her, expression unreadable. “Because I don’t know what to do with someone like you.”
The silence stretched.
Then Amara stepped forward, slowly. “What would you do… if I kissed you right now?”
Lucien didn’t move. “Are you going to?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Why?”
“To test a theory,” she whispered.
“What theory?”
She moved even closer. Their bodies just inches apart. She could smell the cologne on his skin—dark, expensive, intoxicating.
“That you don’t feel anything,” she said softly. “But I do. And that’s dangerous.”
Lucien’s eyes flicked to her lips. For the first time since they met, something cracked in his expression.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t test it.”
“Maybe I should.”
But before she could close the distance, Lucien stepped back.
“This marriage is a contract,” he said tightly. “Not a fantasy.”
And just like that, the fire between them iced over.
Amara turned away, jaw clenched. “Good night, Mr. Valezco.”
He didn’t answer.
But long after she disappeared down the hallway, Lucien stood there—drink untouched, tie loose—still staring at the spot where she’d almost kissed him.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he was still in control.
- Writer
