Chapter Three- The Scarred King

Amelia POV

 

The night stretched on endlessly. The clock on the wall ticked louder with every passing second, and its glowing numbers—12:15 a.m.—mocked me with their stillness. Maxwell wasn’t home. Again. It’s been two days since we got married and I haven’t seen him.

 

I paced the room, the vastness of the mansion swallowing every sound except my restless footsteps. The staff moved about with mechanical efficiency, their faces betraying nothing. No one seemed worried about Maxwell’s absence, almost as if his late-night disappearances were a routine.

 

But for me, this wasn’t normal.

 

I hated how the unease coiled in my chest. I hated that I was waiting up for him, a man who had made it painfully clear that he wanted nothing to do with me. But most of all, I hated how my heart clenched at the thought of him out there, battling demons I didn’t yet understand.

 

I didn’t know why I waited for him. I thought to myself, “Could it be out of duty, or maybe I just wanted to get to know the stranger I married a little”.

 

The creak of the front door cut through my thoughts like a knife. I froze, straining to listen.

 

Footsteps.

 

I stepped into the hallway, and there he was—Maxwell Cole. My enigmatic husband stood in the dim light, his suit rumpled, tie askew, and the faint scent of whiskey trailing him like a shadow.

 

“You’re awake.” His voice was low, and rough, as his dark eyes flicked to mine for the briefest of moments.

 

I hesitated, searching for something to say that wouldn’t provoke him. “Do you want something to eat? Or… a shower, perhaps?”

 

His lips curled into a bitter smirk. “Don’t start playing the perfect wife now. We both know what this is.”

 

The sharpness of his tone stung, but I kept my expression neutral. “I was just—”

 

“Don’t,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Don’t think. Don’t assume. And don’t try to help. I don’t need anything from you.”

 

Then he said in a mean tone, “It’s not like you have any to offer me though!”

 

His words landed like slaps, but what struck me most was the weariness beneath them. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, his steps unsteady as he moved past me. My eyes instinctively dropped to his leg—his limp was more pronounced tonight.

 

Before I could stop myself, I reached out. “You’re going to fall.”

 

He whirled around, his glare icy. “I’d rather fall than let you touch me,” he spat, his voice laced with venom.

 

The rejection pierced deeper than I cared to admit.

 

He stood there for a moment as if daring me to speak again, before limping toward his room and slamming the door shut behind him.

 

I returned to my room, tears burning in my eyes. My chest felt heavy, the weight of old memories pressing down—my mother’s cruel words about my inadequacies, Lisa’s mocking laughter ringing in my ears. Rebecca’s cruel taunts and now Maxwell’s scorn had simply added another layer to wounds I thought had long scarred over.

 

But as much as I tried to push him from my mind, I couldn’t. His limp, the bitterness in his eyes, the scar I’d glimpsed on our wedding day—it all lingered, begging to be understood.

 

The next morning, I woke early, determined to maintain some sense of dignity. Knock softly. Be polite, Amelia. Don’t intrude. That was my mantra as I rapped on Maxwell’s door before stepping inside.

 

What I saw stopped me cold.

 

Maxwell stood by the window, shirtless, the morning light casting a golden glow over his sculpted frame. But it wasn’t his physique that caught my attention—it was the long, jagged scar running down his back.

 

Before I could stop myself, I gasped.

 

He turned sharply, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a mix of anger and vulnerability. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, averting my gaze and stepping back.

 

He crossed the room in three strides, his presence overwhelming. His hand gripped my arm, firm but not painful. “I don’t need your pity. Do you hear me?”

 

“I wasn’t—”

 

“Don’t lie,” he growled, his face inches from mine. “Stay out of my way, Amelia. This is the last warning I’ll give you.”

 

I nodded, swallowing hard, and he released me. I fled the room, my heart pounding. But the image of his scar stayed with me, an unspoken story etched into his skin. I couldn’t help but wonder about the history behind the scars on his back and left cheek. And also the limping.

 

Later that afternoon, Maxwell returned from wherever he’d been, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he tossed a garment bag onto the bed.

 

“Get dressed,” he said curtly.

 

I unzipped the bag to reveal an elegant black dress, the fabric cool and smooth beneath my fingers. It was stunning, far too extravagant for someone like me.

 

“I don’t think I’m the right—”

 

“You’ll do what I say,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. “This is business, not pleasure. You’re my wife, at least on paper, so you’ll play the part.”

 

His words were clipped, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of frustration, or perhaps regret?

 

Two stylists arrived shortly after to do my hair and makeup. They worked silently, transforming me into someone I barely recognized. My reflection in the mirror was almost foreign—a woman with soft waves cascading down her shoulders, her face glowing with confidence I didn’t feel.

 

When Maxwell came to check on me, he didn’t offer a compliment. Instead, his gaze swept over me briefly before he said, “Don’t embarrass me tonight. Be on your best behavior”.

 

The event was lavish, the room buzzing with energy and the scent of wealth. I stayed close to Maxwell, acutely aware of every eye on us. His hand rested lightly on my lower back, guiding me through the crowd with practiced ease.

 

“Smile,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

 

I tried, but the effort felt hollow.

 

Then I saw her—Lisa. She was draped on her boyfriend’s arm, her lips curling into a cruel smile as her eyes landed on me.

 

“Well, well, if it isn’t Amelia,” Lisa drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “Playing dress-up, are we?”

 

I opened my mouth, ready to respond, but Maxwell beat me to it.

 

“Lisa,” he said coolly, his tone sharper than I’d ever heard. “If you have something to say to my wife, I suggest you think carefully before speaking.”

 

Lisa’s smirk faltered and I could sense fear radiating from her. “I was just joking—”

 

“Don’t,” Maxwell interrupted. “Not here. Not ever.”

 

His hand tightened on my waist, drawing me closer. Then, to my shock, he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was brief but deliberate, a message to everyone watching.

 

As he pulled back, his voice softened just enough for me to hear. “Keep your head high, Amelia. You’re my wife, and no one gets to disrespect you.”

 

The room spun around me as I tried to process his words and his actions. For the first time since our marriage, I wondered: was there more to Maxwell than the cold, unfeeling mask he wore?

 

Or was this just another part of his game?