Trey's POV
The echo of the front door closing still lingered in the hall when the headlights disappeared down the wet driveway. I stayed by the banister, fingers pressing into the carved wood until the sharp edge bit into my skin. The storm muttered against the windows. Somewhere below, the engine of the car purred, then faded into the night.
I had meant to hand her the keys and walk away. Simple. Controlled. Keep her on my schedule, keep her punctual, keep everything contained.
But the moment her fingers brushed mine, electricity shot through me. A sharp, unexpected flash. And the look in her eyes when she met mine was defiant and untamed. She was nothing like the girl I remembered, and that unsettled me.
How had Amara become this woman?
She had grown up under our roof, moving through the marble halls of my family's mansion, slipping into rooms she was never meant to enter. Her eyes were always filled with questions, her mouth never afraid to challenge. Even then, she had presence.
I knew she was bold at fifteen. Sharp-tongued. Bright-eyed. Too alive for the quiet corners of our world. But this was different. She did not just walk into a room anymore. She claimed it. Her voice was low and steady, her presence striking like a match in a dark cathedral.
And her body. God.
The girl I remembered had been all angles and elbows, hiding behind oversized hoodies and shy smiles. The woman she was now was all danger and promise, a slow burn that settled deep in my chest. It was not just her beauty that caught me off guard. It was the fire she had always carried, now sharpened and refined into something undeniable. She was not just fire anymore. She was gravity too. Heat and pull combined. And without realizing it, I had started orbiting her again, just as helpless as the first time.
But I was not the same boy she once followed through these halls.
Years had shaped me into something steadier, harder, more disciplined. I knew how to lock the storm behind my ribs now. I knew how to control myself.
And I knew she was off-limits. Not only because she had been raised under my father's roof, but because of the years between us. A gap of time and propriety that I had no right to cross.
Pauline's face surfaced in my mind. My fiancée. My future. I was marrying her, and that decision was final. Whatever pull Amara stirred in me, whatever temptation lingered in the air between us, I would crush it. I would make it clear. I would remind her of the mistake she made once before and ensure it never happened again.
In my eyes, she was still that girl in the mansion halls. And I would do whatever it took, even lie to myself, even break something inside me, to keep her from reaching for me again.
Still, standing there and watching her glow under the chandelier, all that discipline felt paper-thin.
A door closed softly behind me.
Tessa's reflection appeared in the hall mirror as she climbed the stairs, her arms folded tight across her chest. "You didn't have to do it like that," she said quietly.
I turned, letting the familiar cold mask slide back into place. "Do what?"
"Humiliate her. She's here to work, Trey."
"She's here to handle the biggest wedding of my life." My voice stayed level, though impatience coiled beneath it. "You know how I am about deadlines. You saw her car. She would break down halfway up the hill and blame the weather."
"She's not a kid anymore," Tessa shot back. "She's—"
I stopped her with a look. "You think I don't know who she is? I know exactly who she is."
I started down the stairs, each step measured. "And I know how this works. Every supplier, every staff member, every guest will judge her the second she walks into a room. If she arrives late, soaked, and exhausted, they will tear her apart. I will not allow that."
Tessa's eyes flashed. "You didn't want her here," she accused. "You wanted a planner, but not her."
I stopped at the landing, my jaw tightening. "You're right. I asked you for the best. Someone with a reputation. Someone who's handled galas in Milan and Dubai." I exhaled sharply. "Not Amara Castillo."
She flinched but stood her ground. "She's better than half the names you worship. She earned every client she has. She's the only one I trust."
My gaze hardened. "You went behind my back. You made a decision about my wedding without telling me who you were hiring. That was out of line."
For a moment she looked like she might shrink. Then she straightened. "You're out of line," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "Stop making her feel small. You already did that once. Under the roses. You think I don't remember how she cried? You're doing it again."
The words struck hard.
"That was years ago," I said quietly. "We were kids."
"No," she said. "She was a kid. You were twenty-five. And you broke her heart in one sentence. You've treated her like the maid's daughter ever since."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The storm rattled the windows around us.
Tessa's eyes glimmered, not with tears but with fury. "You say you're protecting her from the sharks. But the truth is you're still testing her. Still making her prove she belongs. And she's already survived worse than anything you're throwing at her."
I dragged a hand along my jaw, forcing the truth back down. "Get her quarters ready," I said at last. "Make sure she has everything she needs. She's staying here, not at her apartment."
"You're locking her in," Tessa whispered.
"I'm keeping her close enough to manage," I replied, turning toward the window. "And close enough to see what she's really made of."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The storm fractured my reflection in the glass.
Then Tessa asked quietly, "Why did you decide to marry Pauline?"
I stiffened. "What?"
"You heard me," she said. "Why Pauline? You don't even like her."
I exhaled slowly. "It's the right timing. The right alignment. Merging our families' holdings secures the Asian division. It's efficient."
She laughed bitterly. "Efficient for business. Not for life. You're unbelievable."
I met her gaze through the storm-lit window. "Love is an illusion. It makes people weak. Distracted. Vulnerable."
She stared at me like I'd struck her. "That's not strength. That's fear. And it's consuming you."
"I don't have time for this tonight," I said coldly.
"You're trading your life for a balance sheet," she warned. "And you're going to regret it."
I pressed my palms into the banister. "Get her quarters ready."
She stepped closer. "She's not the maid's daughter anymore. Stop treating her like she is. One day she'll walk out of here, and you won't see it coming."
I said nothing.
The storm roared louder. For one brief second, I imagined Amara gripping the steering wheel, her eyes blazing. I shut the thought down hard and turned away.
I moved to the window. The black car was gone, swallowed by mist and trees. But in my mind, I could still see her. Not the girl from the rose garden. Something sharper. Something dangerous.
Tessa spoke again. "The truth is, it's not her who's still stuck in the rose garden. It's you."
That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
Lightning flashed, and for a moment our reflections overlapped in the glass. Mine rigid and shadowed. Hers steady. And between them, the ghost of Amara's face.
"I have a wedding to plan and an alliance to secure," I said. "I don't have time for ghosts."
"Ghosts don't care about schedules," she replied. "They live in you whether you want them to or not."
Her footsteps faded, leaving me alone with the storm.
I stayed there, fingers against the glass. I saw Amara at fifteen, trembling under the roses. Then I saw her tonight, chin lifted, taking the keys like a challenge.
I told myself it didn't matter. This was business. Strategy. Control. Pauline was timing. Amara was logistics.
But the truth tasted like copper and rain. For the first time in years, I did not feel in control.
I straightened, the mask settling back into place. "Seven a.m.," I muttered. "Let's see if she's on time."
I turned toward my study, but sleep never came.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. The way she glowed under the chandelier. The echo of her laugh. By two in the morning, my pulse was still racing. I left my room barefoot and followed the quiet marble corridor to the kitchen.
The house felt almost sacred at night. The low hum of the refrigerator. The scent of polished wood and lingering perfume. I reached for a glass, hoping cold water would settle the heat in my chest.
Movement caught my eye.
Amara.
She stood at the counter, searching through a drawer. She wore silk that clung too closely, fabric that left nothing to the imagination. Her legs were bare against the cool tile. Her hair spilled down her back. In the soft kitchen light, she looked nothing like a girl who had once followed me through these halls.
For one brutal second, I just stared.
"Amara," I said sharply. "What are you doing?"
She straightened, startled. "I couldn't sleep," she said softly.
I cut her off. "This is still my family's home. There are standards here. Etiquette. You don't walk around dressed like that."
Hurt flickered across her face, but she didn't look away.
"Think," I said, harsher than I intended. "Remember where you are. Remember what's expected."
The words tasted like ash, but they were a shield.
I turned back to the sink, drained the glass in one swallow. "Go back to bed," I said without looking at her. "And cover yourself."
When she left, the kitchen felt colder. My hands still shook around the glass.