Chapter 4 Fourth

Amara didn't sleep.

Not because of the jet lag. Not because of the foreign bed.

But because of Luka's voice still echoing in her head.

"Because you left before I could admit I needed you."

She hated that her heart reacted. That some tiny part of her had waited years to hear those words. She pressed a pillow over her face to muffle a frustrated scream.

She wasn't here for Luka's confessions. She was here to survive thirty days and get her freedom back.

That's it, she reminded herself.

---

By morning, Luka was already gone.

A note sat on the breakfast table in his sharp handwriting:

Meet me at the Ilari headquarters by 10 a.m. You're expected. Wear confidence.

– L.D.

She rolled her eyes. Of course he signed with initials. Still controlling. Still smug.

But as she read it again, she found herself smoothing the note flat. Keeping it.

---

Ilari's headquarters looked more like a palace than an office. Marble floors, gold trim, and a receptionist who spoke five languages and looked like she belonged on the runway.

Amara entered the boardroom, and the room stilled.

Luka was already at the table, seated beside Marco. He rose when he saw her.

So did every other man in the room.

"Gentlemen," Luka said, "this is Amara Daniels. My wife-and corporate counsel for the Daniels Group."

Her stomach dropped. What?

"Counsel?" she said under her breath.

"You studied corporate law," he murmured back. "I thought I'd give you a chance to use it."

She wanted to scream. But not here. Not in front of these people.

Instead, she took the empty seat next to him and whispered, "You ambushed me."

"You'll be fine," he replied, without looking.

And infuriatingly, she was.

The presentation began. Financials, market strategies, legal compliance. Amara followed easily. When the Ilari legal advisor made a subtle mistake regarding Italian contract law, she corrected him-politely, confidently.

The room nodded in agreement.

When the meeting ended, Marco clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Luka was right. You're a weapon."

Luka smirked. "She's always been."

---

Later, as they stepped into the waiting car, Amara snapped.

"You humiliated me."

"You impressed them."

"You put me in a spotlight without asking."

He turned to her. "And you lit it up."

She stared at him, stunned. "I don't need your approval."

"No," he said. "But I think you forgot you were capable of more than just surviving."

The words landed harder than she wanted to admit.

---

Back at the hotel, Luka stepped into the shower while Amara paced the living room.

Everything was unraveling.

Her guard. Her anger. Her clarity.

She spotted his briefcase on the floor, half open.

She hesitated. Then gave in.

Inside was a leather folder. She pulled it out and flipped through.

Emails. Contracts. Old letters.

And then-something that made her breath catch.

A photo.

Their photo.

From five years ago. A candid shot of her laughing on a beach in Cape Town, Luka's arms around her. It wasn't posed. It wasn't planned.

He kept it?

Why?

And underneath it... the divorce papers.

Unsigned.

Untouched.

Still dated five years ago.

Her name was there. Her signature. But his side was blank.

She closed the folder quickly as the bathroom door opened.

Luka walked out, towel around his waist, rubbing his hair dry. He froze when he saw her near the briefcase.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

"I was looking for a pen," she said quietly.

He didn't believe her. But he didn't press.

Instead, he said, "You kept that scarf. The old one. The red one. I saw it in your bag."

Her heart skipped. "It's just a scarf."

"It was the one you wore when we had our first real fight. You cried all night."

"And you made me soup," she said, voice softening.

He nodded. "I didn't know how else to fix it."

There was silence. The air between them was heavier now. Softer. Dangerous.

"Why didn't you sign them?" she asked suddenly.

Luka didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "Because I couldn't sign away the only thing that ever felt real."

She swallowed hard. "You don't get to say that."

"Why not?"

"Because you were never there. You were married to work. To control. I was just convenient until I wasn't."

He stepped closer, eyes fierce. "You were never convenient. You were chaos. Fire. And you scared me."

"Good," she snapped. "Then you know how I felt."

He reached for her hand-but she stepped back.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

"You already are."

She turned away, trembling.

"Thirty days," she said. "That's all."

He nodded once. "Then let's make them count."

---

That night, as she lay in bed, sleep wouldn't come.

Because she couldn't stop thinking about that photo.

And the fact that somewhere, Luka Daniels-the man who broke her heart-was still holding on to the one thing she thought he'd thrown away.

Her.

____

The next morning, Milan woke with grey clouds and the threat of rain. Fitting, Amara thought, for the storm building inside her.

Luka was already gone again. She didn't bother reading the note he'd left this time.

She spent the morning alone, sipping bitter espresso on the balcony, trying not to think about the photograph. Or the fact that Luka had kept the divorce papers, untouched, for five years. Or the words he said last night.

"You were never convenient. You were chaos. Fire."

And yet-he still hadn't said the one word she needed to hear: Sorry.

Instead, he gave her business meetings and bold declarations. The Luka Daniels method of love-transactional, strategic, intense.

And maddeningly effective.

She hated that she still felt anything.

----

By noon, a stylist arrived at the hotel.

"Mr. Daniels' instructions," the woman said in accented English. "Fitting and styling for the Ilari Gala tonight."

"I didn't agree to any gala."

"It's a celebration for the finalized deal," the woman explained. "You're on the guest list as his wife."

Amara stared at the gowns laid out on the bed. Each one more beautiful than the last.

And beneath them... a small black velvet box.

Inside it, a necklace-gold, fine, with a single diamond pendant. The exact design she had pointed out in a magazine years ago, on a trip to Paris she thought Luka hadn't paid attention to.

She held it in her hand, stunned.

He remembered?

But why now?