Chapter 5

　　Amara's POV

　　The encounter with Eleanor Wolfe left me feeling like I'd been scrubbed raw with steel wool. I stayed in my studio until the sun dipped below the horizon, the golden light turning into long, eerie shadows across the marble floor. I didn't want to leave. In this room, surrounded by silk and pins, I was Amara the Designer. Outside those doors, I was a ghost haunting a billionaire's halls.

　　Hunger eventually forced me out. My stomach had been knotted all day, but now it was a dull, insistent ache.

　　I made my way down the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous foyer. The house was too quiet. It lacked the smells of a real home—there was no scent of garlic or simmering soup, only the sterile fragrance of expensive floor wax and fresh lilies.

　　I found the dining room, but the table was cleared. Not even a glass of water remained.

　　"Looking for something?"

　　I jumped, spinning around. A woman in a black-and-white uniform stood by the sideboard. Her name tag read Mrs. Gable. She was the head housekeeper, and her expression was a perfect mirror of Eleanor Wolfe's: cold and unimpressed.

　　"I missed dinner," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I was wondering if I could get a sandwich or some fruit?"

　　Mrs. Gable folded her arms. "Dinner is served at seven. Mr. Wolfe is very particular about the schedule. The kitchen staff has already finished for the night."

　　I blinked. "It's only 8:30. Surely there's something in the refrigerator?"

　　"The kitchen is off-limits to residents after hours to ensure it is pristine for the morning prep," she said, her voice dripping with artificial politeness. "Perhaps you should have checked the handbook Mr. Thorne provided."

　　"A handbook for eating?" I felt a flash of heat in my chest. "I'm not a guest, Mrs. Gable. I live here."

　　"Of course, Madam," she said, the title sounding like an insult. "But even the mistress of the house must follow the rules."

　　She turned and walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing in the dark dining room. The disrespect was subtle, but it was there—a quiet rebellion from the people who were supposed to serve me. They knew what I was. They knew I was bought.

　　The Midnight Encounter

　　I ended up in the kitchen anyway. I didn't care about the handbook. I found a carton of yogurt and a spoon, sitting on the edge of the darkened island and staring out at the moonlit terrace.

　　"I thought I told you the kitchen was off-limits after hours."

　　The deep, gravelly voice made me nearly drop my yogurt. Adrian stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked less like a CEO and more like a man—dangerous, tired, and devastatingly handsome.

　　"Mrs. Gable already gave me the lecture," I said, scraping the bottom of the carton. "I'm a rebel. I eat at 9:00 PM."

　　Adrian walked into the room, the movement fluid and predatory. He didn't turn on the lights. He moved through the shadows as if he owned them—which, I suppose, he did. He stopped a few feet away, leaning against the counter.

　　"My mother was here today," he said. It wasn't a question.

　　"She's a delight," I replied dryly. "She compared me to a stray dog and a smudge on the family name. I think we're going to be best friends."

　　Adrian's jaw tightened. "She's protective of the brand. Ignore her."

　　"The brand? Adrian, she was talking about me. As a human being." I stood up, the yogurt carton hitting the trash can with a decisive thud. "Is that what I am to you? A smudge you have to manage?"

　　He stepped closer, invading my space. The air between us suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that wasn't just anger. Up close, I could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes.

　　"To me, you are a solution to a problem," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But don't mistake my mother's bitterness for my own. You're here because I put you here. That makes you my responsibility."

　　"I don't want to be a responsibility," I whispered. "I want to be... I don't even know."

　　Adrian reached out. For a heartbeat, I thought he was going to touch my face. My breath hitched. His fingers hovered near my jaw, then shifted to pull a stray thread off the shoulder of my dress.

　　"You're a Wolfe now, Amara. Whether you like it or not." He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "And a Wolfe doesn't eat yogurt in the dark. If you're hungry, tell the staff to cook. If they refuse, tell me."

　　"I can handle myself," I said, my heart drumming against my ribs.

　　"Can you?" He leaned in, his scent—sandalwood and cold air—swirling around me. "We'll see. Tomorrow, we have our first public appearance as a couple. A charity gala for the children's hospital. Every camera in the city will be looking for a crack in our story."

　　He straightened up, the moment of intimacy—if that's what it was—shattering instantly.

　　"Wear something expensive," he added, turning to leave. "I want them to see exactly what my money can buy."

　　He left before I could tell him that his money hadn't bought all of me. Not yet.