Of course, Golden Flame 🔥📖
Here comes **Chapter Three** of *Married to the Cold
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### **1. Smoke and Silence**
There was something about silence in a mansion like this—it didn't feel peaceful. It felt heavy.
As though the walls were listening.
As though the shadows knew secrets.
Amara sat curled on the white couch in her private wing, scrolling mindlessly through old messages on her phone. She wasn't reading. Just trying not to feel.
The photos from the gala were everywhere. Blogs, Twitter, gossip channels. Some comments called her stunning. Others said she "wasn't his type."
Some asked if she was pregnant.
Most called her a gold digger.
> *"Professor Stone Finally Falls—Weds Mysterious Student Bride."*
She tossed the phone aside.
This wasn't what she signed up for.
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### **2. The Unexpected Call**
The next morning, she received a call from Zainab.
> "You're scheduled for a media training session today. Mr. Stone insists you're prepped."
> "For what?"
> "For the possibility of a televised interview. If it ever comes."
> "I didn't agree to interviews."
> "Your contract says you will not damage Mr. Stone's reputation. That includes public appearances. Get dressed."
Amara stared at the call log for a full minute after it ended.
She was beginning to understand what being his wife truly meant.
Not love.
Not partnership.
Just silence.
Control.
And obligation.
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### **3. Coffee and Conversations**
The media trainer was a posh British-Nigerian woman named Laila. She had sleek locs and a clipboard thicker than a novel.
Amara sat across from her in a reading room with floor-to-ceiling shelves. For two hours, they rehearsed possible answers to imaginary questions.
> "What's your love story?"
> "How did he propose?"
> "What made you say yes to such a private man?"
Laila smiled as she read through Amara's dry responses.
> "You're not selling it. You sound like a victim."
> "That's because I am."
> "You married a billionaire professor. At least *act* like you're in love."
Amara crossed her arms. "You're asking me to perform."
> "No, darling. I'm asking you to *protect yourself.* If the media turns on you, this little contract won't mean a thing. And trust me—Mr. Stone knows how to handle fire. You don't."
That struck a nerve.
Later, as she walked out, she found Damian standing near the spiral staircase, dressed in a simple black turtleneck and slacks, arms folded.
> "How was it?" he asked.
> "Eye-opening."
> "Meaning?"
> "Meaning if this gets any more real, I'll need hazard pay."
He raised a brow, something like amusement flickering in his eyes.
> "You're adapting faster than expected."
> "I had to."
A brief pause. His expression grew unreadable.
> "Good. You'll need it for tomorrow."
> "Tomorrow?"
> "Family dinner. At my mother's house."
Amara froze. "Your mother?!"
> "Yes."
> "You didn't think to mention this earlier?"
> "I didn't want to give you time to panic."
> "Oh, how thoughtful."
> "Wear something elegant. Don't let her scare you."
> "Why would she scare me?"
> "Because she hates everyone."
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### **4. The Matriarch**
The Adewale mansion in Ikoyi was old money wrapped in colonial guilt.
Grand chandeliers. Velvet curtains. Oil paintings that stared too hard.
Damian's mother, Lady Ireti Stone-Adewale, was everything her name suggested—graceful, sharp, and dangerous.
She welcomed them with a cold smile.
> "So this is the girl you married in secret."
Amara tried to offer a polite smile.
> "Ma, it's an honor to meet you."
Lady Ireti's eyes moved over her like she was scanning for defects.
> "You're prettier than I expected. Still... the media thinks you're not fit. What do you think?"
Amara blinked. "I think the media doesn't pay our bills."
Silence.
Damian's lips twitched.
> "She has a tongue. At least it won't be boring."
Dinner was a tense affair.
Every fork scrape, every sip of wine, every passive-aggressive jab from Lady Ireti felt like navigating a minefield.
She asked about Amara's background, her orphan status, her grades, and finally:
> "So. No parents. No pedigree. No money. What exactly did you bring into this marriage?"
Amara straightened her shoulders, hands folded gently in her lap.
> "Dignity. Loyalty. And enough fire to survive any room you try to burn me in."
Damian looked up sharply.
Ireti tilted her head, eyes gleaming.
> "Interesting."
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### **5. Unspoken**
That night, they returned to the estate in silence.
Damian walked her to her wing. Just before she turned the handle, he said:
> "You were impressive tonight."
> "I didn't say what I said to impress you."
> "I know."
She looked at him, long and hard.
> "Why did you really choose me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then:
> "Because you don't pretend to need saving."
She blinked.
> "That's the first compliment you've ever given me."
> "Don't expect more."
> "I don't."
> "Good."
And yet they both stood there, unmoving.
Something was shifting between them—something unspoken.
Before she could read too much into it, he turned and walked away.
She entered her room.
And for the first time since the wedding, she didn't feel entirely like a stranger here.
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### **6. Whispered Storms**
Days passed.
Amara began to settle into the rhythm of her new life: online classes, silent meals, media rehearsals, and rare appearances.
But something kept changing.
Damian.
He wasn't warm. Not even close. But sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking, his eyes lingered.
He began to speak softer.
He left books by her door that aligned with her coursework.
He had her sister's birthday marked in the household calendar.
He never explained these things.
And Amara never asked.
Because once you gave a name to unspoken things… they became real.
And this marriage was never supposed to be real.
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