Chapter 3 Third

The jet hummed steadily beneath Amara's feet, a low vibration that made her nerves thrum. She sat by the window, arms folded, eyes on the clouds but mind racing through a hundred different exits that didn't exist.

Across from her, Luka sat in silence, reading documents in Italian. He hadn't said much since they boarded. It was as if he didn't need to. His presence alone filled the cabin-solid, unbending, unreadable.

A flight attendant appeared with a tray. "Mrs. Daniels, champagne?"

Amara flinched.

Luka didn't even look up.

"No, thank you," she said quickly.

Mrs. Daniels.

That name again.

She wasn't sure if it stung more because it was technically true-or because some part of her hadn't truly let it go.

"You should drink something," Luka said without glancing up. "It'll be a long flight."

"I'm fine."

He looked up now, meeting her eyes. "No, you're not."

Amara's jaw tightened. "Don't act like you care."

"I don't act. I decide."

She turned away. "Right. Like deciding to trap me in a fake marriage for a business deal."

"It's not fake. It's just... unfinished."

She laughed bitterly. "You always were good at rewriting truth."

Luka closed the file. "Tell me, Amara-if I'd signed the papers, would you have been happier?"

"Yes."

"That's not what your eyes said last night."

Her heart thudded.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said coldly.

But the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

He didn't press. Instead, he picked up another document and resumed reading, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a commercial break.

---

Three hours later, they landed in Milan.

The city greeted them with warm sun and the kind of old-world charm Amara used to dream about when she was a broke intern pouring over law journals in a stuffy studio apartment.

A black Mercedes waited at the tarmac. Luka's driver opened the door for her.

They rode in silence through narrow cobblestone streets, the Duomo passing like a ghost in the background.

They stopped in front of a luxurious hotel, carved into a restored villa. Amara didn't recognize the name, which meant it was likely the kind of place only billionaires and diplomats stayed.

As they stepped inside, she heard a voice call out-fast, sharp Italian.

"Luka! Finalmente!"

A tall man in a tailored navy suit strode toward them with outstretched arms.

"Marco Ilari," Luka said smoothly. "Meet my wife, Amara."

Amara blinked. That word again. Wife.

Marco kissed both her cheeks. "Bella. I have heard much."

"Only the good things, I hope," she replied, forcing a smile.

"Of course. Luka said you were strong, brilliant... and very private."

She laughed awkwardly. "That's accurate."

"Dinner tonight," Marco said. "Eight. My estate."

"See you then," Luka replied, taking Amara's arm.

As Marco disappeared into a waiting car, Amara turned to Luka. "You told him we were married."

"We are."

"Stop saying that like it means something."

"It means everything. Especially in business. To him, a man with a wife is a man who keeps his promises."

"And to you?"

He looked at her, unreadable. "A man who doesn't let go of what matters."

---

Their suite took up the entire top floor. One bed. No guest room. Of course.

Amara dropped her purse on the marble counter. "You said I'd have my own space."

"You do," Luka said. "There are three rooms. I'll sleep in the study."

"I want that in writing."

He smiled faintly. "Still don't trust me?"

"You threatened my career, blackmailed me into pretending, and ruined my relationship. Take a guess."

He turned away, unbothered. "Dinner's at eight. Wear something soft. Marco's wife likes elegance, not flash."

"I'll wear what I want."

He shrugged. "Then I'll do the same."

She blinked, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You'll see."

---

By seven-thirty, she was ready. A silk, pale blue gown with an open back and delicate straps. She tied her hair up, added simple pearls, and applied lipstick with shaking hands.

Why was she nervous?

She found Luka in the living room, dressed in a dark navy suit-clean, powerful, the perfect mask of control.

He looked at her and stilled.

"I said soft," he murmured.

"This is soft."

He stepped closer, and something shifted in his expression. "You're beautiful."

She didn't respond.

He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it. Because she had to.

Because somewhere deep inside, she was scared of what might happen if she wanted to.

---

Marco's estate was breathtaking. Twinkling lights wrapped around stone arches. Laughter filled the garden. Dozens of elite guests sipped wine under olive trees.

Amara smiled, laughed when expected, spoke fluent Italian when needed. She was poised, confident.

But inside, she was a storm.

Halfway through dinner, Marco stood to make a toast.

"To family. To loyalty. And to old promises kept."

Everyone clapped.

Then Marco added, "And to the Daniels-proof that love may stumble, but never falls."

The guests applauded again.

Amara blinked. Luka's hand slipped into hers beneath the table.

And for a moment, she didn't pull away.

---

Back at the hotel, she threw her clutch on the couch and turned to him. "You told him we'd reconciled."

"It made the deal cleaner."

"You used me."

He walked past her. "You agreed to be used."

"I didn't agree to be kissed on the hand. Or to smile like I'm in love."

"Then stop smiling."

She grabbed his arm. "Don't pretend this means something to you."

He looked at her, gaze hard. "Everything means something to me, Amara. I don't waste time on what I don't want."

She froze.

Then, quietly: "Then why did you let me go?"

A pause. A long one.

Then Luka whispered, "Because you left before I could admit I needed you."

Amara stepped back. "That's not love. That's ego."

And then she walked to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

She stood against it, breathing hard, heart pounding, his words echoing in her head.

For the first time, she wasn't sure if he was lying-or if the man she once loved still existed beneath all that power.