The following week passed in a blur of suffocating inertia. Alexander's decree of "rest" translated to a form of luxurious house arrest. Mrs. Higgins became her shadow, her presence a constant, silent reminder of the new, invisible bars on her cage. Meals were precisely calibrated for optimal prenatal nutrition, delivered on trays with clinical punctuality. Proposed walks in the walled garden were vetted for weather conditions and scheduled like state appointments. The once-familiar cliffside mansion had transformed into a gilded sanatorium, and Amelia was its most closely monitored patient.
Alexander himself was a ghost, more absent than ever. He spent long hours at his corporate tower or locked in his study, the low hum of his late-night calls a constant reminder of the empire that now, in his mind, had a direct, biological stake in her womb. When they did cross paths, the air was thick with unspoken words and a tension that had morphed from sexual charge into something more complex and guarded. His gaze would linger on her midsection with a possessive, almost bewildered intensity, but he made no move to touch her, as if afraid that contact might shatter the fragile, new reality they inhabited.
So, when Mrs. Higgins informed her of the upcoming "Children's Future Foundation" annual charity gala, Amelia felt a spark of desperate hope. It was a public event, one of the most prominent of the season. Surely, even Alexander, in his newfound role as her warden, wouldn't dare keep her sequestered for this. It was a chance to breathe unfiltered air, to feel like a person again, not just a precious incubator.
Her hope was short-lived. Alexander summoned her to his study the evening before the gala. The room was a testament to his power, all dark wood, floor-to-ceiling screens, and a view that devoured the city. He stood before the window, a silhouette against the glittering skyline.
"The gala tomorrow," he began without preamble, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable. "You will attend. But the rules have changed."
"What rules?" Amelia asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"You will not drink anything that does not come directly from my hand or a trusted server. You will not wander off. You will remain by my side at all times. You will smile, you will appear serene and happy, and you will deflect any personal questions with vague pleasantries. The official story is that we are blissfully happy and privately celebrating the early stages of our marriage. There will be no hint of strain, and absolutely no suggestion of your… condition. Is that understood?"
His tone was that of a general briefing a soldier before a dangerous mission. There was no discussion, only directives. The spark of hope in her chest flickered and died, replaced by a cold lump of resentment. She was to be a prop once more, but this time, her performance had to conceal the most profound truth of her life.
"Understood," she replied, her voice flat.
The night of the gala, the preparation felt like arming for battle. The stylists arrived, but their choices were vetted by a newly hired, stern-looking woman introduced as her "personal wellness coordinator." The gown selected was a beautiful but modest empire-waist design in a soft lavender silk, its cut cleverly disguising any potential early changes in her body. The jewelry was understated. She looked every inch the serene, young society wife, a vision of controlled perfection. She felt like a doll being dressed for its final public appearance.
Alexander watched her descend the stairs, his eyes giving her the same swift, comprehensive assessment he might give a newly acquired company—checking for flaws, ensuring the presentation was flawless. He offered his arm, his touch through the layers of her dress and his glove feeling distant and professional.
"Remember," he murmured as their town car pulled up to the hotel, its entrance a blinding whirl of flashing cameras and screaming fans. "Serenity. Control."
The moment they stepped onto the red carpet, the spectacle began. The lights were blinding, the noise a deafening roar. Alexander's arm tightened around hers, a steel band of possession and support. She fixed the serene smile on her face, her body moving on autopilot, waving, turning when he subtly guided her. He was a master of this arena, deflecting probing questions with charming wit, pulling her close for the photographers in a way that looked tender but felt like a brand.
For a while, she managed the performance. She laughed softly at his jokes, her hand resting lightly on his arm. But inside, she was screaming. The constriction of her dress, the weight of the lie, the constant, vigilant pressure of his presence—it was all becoming unbearable.
It was during a quiet moment near the champagne fountain that Damian Vance found them, a serpent gliding through the crowd. His eyes, sharp with malice, swept over them.
"Alex, Amelia. You both look… remarkably well-rested," he purred, his gaze lingering on Amelia's untouched glass of sparkling water. "Abstaining, my dear? A new health kick? Or perhaps…" he let the implication hang, his eyes dropping meaningfully to her waistline for a fraction of a second too long.
Amelia felt a jolt of pure panic. How could he know? Was it a guess? Or had a member of the medical team been compromised?
Alexander's response was instantaneous and brutal. He shifted his body, subtly blocking Vance's view of her. "Amelia's choices are her own, Damian," he said, his voice a low, dangerous hum that cut through the party's din. "And my patience for your insinuations is at an end. If you value your standing in this room, you will walk away. Now."
The threat was palpable. Vance's smile tightened, but he didn't retreat. "So protective, Alex. It's almost… paternal."
The word hung in the air, a lit match thrown onto gasoline. Amelia felt the blood drain from her face. She saw Alexander's knuckles whiten around his glass. The carefully maintained facade was cracking.
Just then, a clumsy waiter, jostled by the crowd, stumbled, sending a tray of full champagne flutes crashing to the floor right beside them. The sound was explosive, a shattering of glass and gasps. It was a minor commotion, but in Amelia's hyper-strung state, it was a detonation.
She flinched violently, a startled cry escaping her lips before she could stifle it. Her hand flew to her stomach in an instinctive, unmistakable gesture of protection. It was a fleeting movement, lasting less than a second, but it was done in the full glare of dozens of cameras and the keen, predatory eyes of high society.
Time seemed to freeze. The smile on Alexander's face solidified into a grimace. Damian Vance's eyes widened with triumphant, unholy glee. And the cameras, sensing a shift in the narrative, began to flash with renewed, frantic intensity, capturing the entire sequence: her flinch, her protective hand, Alexander's frozen fury, Vance's smirk.
The serene mask had shattered. In its place was a raw, public display of something far more interesting than marital bliss: vulnerability, fear, and a secret desperately trying to stay hidden.
Alexander recovered first. His arm tightened around her, his grip almost painful. "We're leaving," he growled, the words meant only for her, but his voice was thick with a rage that felt like it could incinerate the entire ballroom.
He didn't wait. He began to propel her through the crowd, his movements sharp and forceful, ignoring the startled looks and the reporters shouting questions. "Mr. Blackwood! Is everything alright?" "Amelia, are you unwell?"
It was no longer a graceful exit; it was a retreat. A spectacle. Amelia, numb with humiliation and terror, could only stumble alongside him, the phantom weight of a thousand staring eyes and a thousand speculating minds pressing down on her. She had broken the one rule that mattered: she had failed to maintain control.
As he practically shoved her into the waiting town car, slamming the door shut on the chaos outside, the silence that descended was more deafening than the roar of the crowd. He didn't look at her. He stared straight ahead, his profile a mask of cold, unforgiving stone.
The public spectacle was over. But the private reckoning, she knew with a soul-deep certainty, was about to begin. And the walls of her gilded cage, she feared, were about to be reinforced with titanium.