Chapter 6

　　~ Amara ~

　　"You're late, Gideon," Helena Moore said without looking up from her plate.

　　The dining room at Moore Crest was a cavern of cold marble and high ceilings. The chandelier above the long mahogany table didn't provide warmth, only a sharp, clinical light. I sat on the edge of my velvet-cushioned chair, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide the fact that they were shaking.

　　Gideon pulled out his chair and sat down with a mechanical efficiency. He didn't look at me, and he didn't apologize to his mother. "The board meeting ran over," he said, his voice as flat as the silverware.

　　"A wife shouldn't have to wait for her husband's first dinner at home," Helena continued. She finally raised her eyes, but they didn't land on her son. They swept over me like a searchlight looking for a breach in a wall. "Then again, I suppose Amara is used to waiting. People from her background usually are."

　　I felt the familiar sting in my chest—the urge to look down, to become invisible. "I didn't mind, Mrs. Moore," I whispered.

　　"Helena," she corrected sharply. "And do try to speak up, dear. I can't tell if you're answering me or talking to your soup."

　　I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Helena."

　　"The soup is excellent, Maribel," Gideon said, addressing the head housekeeper who stood like a statue by the sideboard. He began to eat, his movements precise and rhythmic.

　　"Thank you, sir," Maribel replied. Her eyes met mine for a fleeting second, and I saw the same dismissive coolness that lived in Helena's gaze. In this house, the staff followed the master's lead. Since Gideon didn't acknowledge me, neither did she.

　　"I was looking at the guest list for the Charity Gala," Helena said, the clink of her spoon against the porcelain sounding like a gavel. "Selene mentioned that you haven't even picked out a dress yet. Is that true?"

　　I looked at Gideon, hoping for a lead, but he was focused on his meal. "I... I haven't had a chance yet," I said. "I wasn't sure what the protocol was."

　　"The protocol is to not embarrass this family," Helena said, her voice dropping an octave. She leaned forward slightly. "I've seen the photos of your father's little company parties in Linden Row. Those polyester blends might pass for 'fashion' there, but here, you are a Moore. Or at least, you are pretending to be one for the next three years."

　　The mention of my family felt like a physical blow. I thought of the photo in the hallway back home—the forty employees, the paper cups, the genuine laughter. It felt like a lifetime ago. "My father worked very hard for that company," I said, my voice trembling.

　　Helena let out a short, dry laugh. "Hard work is what people do when they don't have leverage. Gideon has leverage. You, on the other hand, have a contract." She turned to her son. "Gideon, really. Look at her. She's already shrinking. How do you expect her to stand next to you in front of the press?"

　　Gideon finally looked up. He didn't look at me with sympathy or anger. He looked at me the way he might look at a balance sheet that didn't quite add up. "She'll manage, Mother. Amara knows the terms. She's stable."

　　"Stable is a word for a horse, Gideon. Your wife looks like she's about to cry into the consommé."

　　"I'm fine," I said quickly, the lie tasting like ash.

　　"You're not fine. You're unimpressive," Helena snapped. "Your posture is terrible, your background is a liability, and your silence is becoming a bore. If you're going to be in this house, you need to at least try to match the decor."

　　I waited for Gideon to say something. Anything. I didn't need him to shout; I just needed him to stop her. He was my husband. He was the reason I was sitting in this cold room, being torn apart by a woman who valued a last name over a human soul.

　　Gideon took a sip of water. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and set it down. "The wine is a bit dry, don't you think?" he asked, looking at the bottle.

　　The silence that followed was worse than his mother's insults. It was a vacuum that sucked the air out of my lungs. He hadn't just ignored her cruelty; he had validated it by acting like I wasn't there to hear it.

　　"It is," Helena agreed, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "I'll have Maribel open the Bordeaux instead."

　　"That would be better," Gideon said.

　　I looked at my plate. The food looked beautiful and expensive, but I knew if I took a bite, I would choke. I was a transaction to him. A clean contract. A shield to keep his family and the board off his back. He didn't hate me, which almost made it worse. He simply didn't think I was worth the effort of protection.

　　"I think I'd like to be excused," I said, my voice barely audible.

　　Helena raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "We haven't even served the main course."

　　"I'm not very hungry."

　　"How typical," Helena sighed. "Drama to avoid a conversation. Go then. Maribel will have a tray sent to your wing if you change your mind, though I doubt you will. You seem the type to starve yourself for attention."

　　I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the marble. I looked at Gideon one last time. He didn't look up. He was watching Maribel pour the new wine into his glass.

　　"Goodnight," I said.

　　"Don't be late for breakfast," Helena called after me. "We have to discuss your fitting with the tailor. We can't have you looking like a charity case at your own debut."

　　I walked out of the dining room, my heels clicking a lonely rhythm on the floor. The hallway felt longer than it had an hour ago. Every shadow seemed to watch me, echoing Helena's words. Unimpressive. A liability. A guest.

　　I reached the east wing and closed the door to my suite. I didn't turn on the lights. I just leaned against the wood and listened to the silence of the house. It was a heavy, suffocating thing.

　　I thought about my brother, Noah. He had asked if I was safe. I had told him I could manage quiet. But as I stood there in the dark, I realized I hadn't understood what quiet really meant in the Moore household. It wasn't the absence of noise. It was the presence of a void where a husband's protection was supposed to be.

　　Gideon had said I understand the terms. He had said I would manage. But as I felt the first tear track down my cheek, I knew he was wrong. I wasn't managing. I was disappearing. And the man who had promised to clear my family's debts was the one holding the eraser.