Isabelle Thorne's voice, dripping with a saccharine venom that could curdle champagne, cut through the ambient buzz of the Plaza's grand ballroom. "Alexander, darling! And this… this must be Emily?" Her perfectly sculpted lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her glacial blue eyes. "You look… surprisingly well, dear. Considering."
Zoe Carter, currently inhabiting the impeccably dressed but internally quaking form of Emily Miller, felt Alexander's arm tense almost imperceptibly beneath her hand. Showtime. This was Isabelle's opening gambit, a beautifully delivered passive-aggressive jab designed to unsettle and undermine. Original Emily, according to the dog-eared pages of Manhattan's Ice King, would have flushed, stammered, and probably burst into tears.
Zoe, however, channeled every ounce of her marketing-executive-who'd-survived-countless-hostile-client-meetings composure. She offered Isabelle a tentative, slightly shy smile – the kind befitting a small-town girl thrust into the societal deep end.
"Miss Thorne, how lovely to see you again," Emily (Zoe) said, her voice a soft, breathy imitation of the ingénue she was supposed to be. "And thank you. I feel surprisingly well too, considering how wonderfully Alexander has been looking after me." She tightened her grip on Alexander's arm, gazing up at him with what she hoped passed for doe-eyed adoration, but which internally felt more like a silent plea for him to play along with her ad-lib. "He's just so… considerate."
The subtext was clear: Considering what, Isabelle? Considering you tried to ruin me in Suite 1808? Considering you're probably a sociopath in Chanel?
Isabelle's smile tightened a fraction. The "poor, overwhelmed victim" script she'd anticipated wasn't quite playing out. This Emily Miller, while still projecting an air of naivete, had a new, unexpected flicker in her eyes – and she'd just neatly lobbed the conversational grenade back into Isabelle's court, all while praising Alexander.
Alexander, true to his Ice King persona, merely inclined his head coolly towards Isabelle. "Isabelle. Always a pleasure." His tone suggested it was anything but. He didn't elaborate, didn't give Isabelle the satisfaction of a prolonged engagement. Instead, his hand covered Zoe's on his arm, a possessive, almost proprietary gesture that was undoubtedly part of their "united front" charade, yet it sent a jolt through Zoe nonetheless. "Emily, darling, I believe Mrs. Astor is trying to catch our eye. We mustn't keep her waiting."
With that, he smoothly steered Zoe away, leaving Isabelle standing there with her perfect smile frozen in place, a silent fury simmering in her eyes. Zoe didn't dare look back, but she could feel Isabelle's gaze burning into her spine. Round one to… well, not exactly me, but at least not to Isabelle, she thought, a small, internal sigh of relief escaping her.
The next hour was a blur of air kisses, polite murmurs, and the careful navigation of a social minefield. Alexander, it turned out, was an expert guide, effortlessly introducing "his fiancée, Emily Miller" to a seemingly endless stream of New York's A-list. There were ancient matriarchs dripping in diamonds who appraised Zoe with the keen eyes of a hawk circling its prey; sleek, powerful businessmen who offered Alexander hearty congratulations while giving Zoe a dismissive once-over; and a bevy of younger, razor-thin socialites whose smiles were as sharp as their stilettos, their eyes filled with a mixture of envy and disdain.
Zoe played her part. She smiled demurely, murmured appropriate responses ("So lovely to meet you," "The Sterling Foundation does such wonderful work," "Alexander has told me so much about you – all good things, of course!" – a little white lie she was sure Alexander's PR team would approve of). She drew on every acting class she'd ever half-heartedly attended, every character study she'd ever done while hate-reading romance novels. She was Emily Miller, the sweet, slightly overwhelmed, art-student-turned-billionaire's-fiancée, deeply in love and utterly devoted.
Internally, however, Zoe Carter was a whirlwind of sarcastic commentary and strategic analysis.
Okay, that's Mrs. Vanderbilt, the one whose third husband 'mysteriously' fell off their yacht. Smile sweetly, Emily, don't make eye contact with her new boy-toy.
Mr. Chen, CEO of Chen Global. The novel mentioned Alexander was trying to secure a deal with him. Nod, look interested, maybe mention that one obscure artist you know he collects – thank you, random art history elective!
And that's where things got… interesting. During a conversation with the aforementioned Mr. Chen, a notoriously gruff but influential tech mogul, Alexander was discussing a recent acquisition. Mr. Chen made a passing remark about the challenges of integrating a new, younger workforce into an established corporate culture.
Before Zoe could stop herself, a thought she'd had while working on a similar (though much smaller scale) problem for a client back in her marketing days slipped out. "Perhaps," Emily Miller said, her voice still soft but with a new note of thoughtful engagement, "it's less about forced integration and more about creating a symbiotic ecosystem? Where the established structures provide stability, but also actively cultivate and reward the innovative disruption the younger talent brings? Like a coral reef, rather than a… a hostile takeover of their creative space?"
Silence. Mr. Chen, who had been about to dismiss her with a polite nod, paused, his sharp eyes fixing on her with a new intensity. Alexander, beside her, went very still. Zoe wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Crap! Too much Zoe Carter, not enough Emily Miller! Coral reefs? What was I thinking? Original Emily probably thought a symbiotic ecosystem was a particularly friendly petting zoo.
But then, Mr. Chen let out a surprising bark of laughter. "A coral reef, you say? Miss Miller, that's… a remarkably astute analogy. Remarkably." He looked at Alexander. "Sterling, this young lady of yours has a rather interesting mind behind that pretty face. You'd do well to listen to her."
Alexander's expression was unreadable, but Zoe could feel the weight of his gaze. He murmured something noncommittal to Mr. Chen, then smoothly guided her towards the champagne table.
"A 'symbiotic ecosystem'?" he said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur once they were out of earshot. "Not quite the conversation I expected from a small-town art student, Miss Miller."
Zoe's cheeks burned. "I… I read a lot," she stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. "National Geographic?"
His eyes, those stormy Atlantic pools, searched hers. There was no anger there, not exactly. But there was a new, sharp-edged curiosity. A re-evaluation. The same look he'd given her in the suite that morning when she'd started to negotiate terms instead of dissolving into tears.
He knows, she thought with a sinking feeling. He knows I'm not who I'm supposed to be.
Before she could spiral further, Isabelle Thorne reappeared, materializing at their side like a beautifully dressed phantom with a vendetta. Olivia Vanderbilt, her vapid but vicious sidekick, trailed in her wake.
"Emily, dear," Isabelle said, her smile all teeth. "I was just telling Olivia how… brave you are. Coming to an event like this, with so many… discerning eyes upon you. It must be terribly overwhelming for someone from… well, from where you're from."
The insult was clear, wrapped in a veneer of fake concern. This was Isabelle's forte.
Zoe (Emily) widened her eyes, affecting a look of innocent confusion. "Brave, Miss Thorne? I don't feel particularly brave. Just incredibly lucky. And Alexander has been so wonderfully supportive, making sure I feel comfortable." She beamed up at Alexander again. "Haven't you, darling?"
Alexander, to his credit, played along, his hand tightening on her waist in a gesture that could be interpreted as either possessive affection or a warning to Isabelle. "Emily is a natural, Isabelle. She charms everyone she meets."
Liar, Zoe thought, but she kept the adoring smile plastered on her face. But thank you for the assist.
"Oh, I'm sure," Isabelle purred, her gaze flicking over Zoe's gown. "That dress is… quite a statement. Vintage, is it? Or just… very simply cut?"
Zoe knew the dress was a current season, astronomically expensive designer piece selected by Victoria. Isabelle knew it too. The barb was aimed at Zoe's presumed lack of sophistication.
"It's a Sterling," Zoe (Emily) said sweetly, then, as if suddenly realizing her faux pas, she pressed a hand to her lips. "Oh, I mean, Alexander chose it for me. He has such impeccable taste, don't you think? He said the color reminded him of… what was it, darling? The twilight over a cornfield in Indiana, just before the fireflies come out?"
She'd made that last bit up on the spot, a ludicrously sentimental image designed to be so over-the-top it bordered on parody, yet just plausible enough for a besotted small-town girl.
Alexander's eyes, when she risked a glance at him, were unreadable, but she thought she saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement? Or was he about to have an aneurysm?
Isabelle's smile faltered again, a crack in her perfect façade. She clearly hadn't expected such a… creatively saccharine response. Olivia Vanderbilt just looked confused.
The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein. Isabelle and her cronies would launch subtle attacks, and Zoe (as Emily), fueled by adrenaline and an increasing, almost giddy sense of "what the hell, I'm already in a fictional universe," would parry them with a combination of feigned innocence, unexpected retorts cloaked in sweetness, and a surprising knowledge of things Original Emily Miller shouldn't have known (which Zoe attributed to "avid reading" or "a good memory for documentaries").
Each time, she felt Alexander's gaze on her, observing, analyzing. He said little, but his presence was a constant, a powerful, enigmatic force at her side. He was a shield, yes, but also a warden. And, increasingly, a puzzle Zoe Carter was disturbingly keen to solve.
As the gala finally began to wind down, Alexander made their excuses. They were among the first of the A-list to depart, a calculated move to appear a devoted couple eager to escape the spotlight, rather than a CEO and his contractual obligation making a hasty retreat.
In the silent, plush interior of the limousine heading back to Emily's gilded cage, the performative tension of the evening finally began to dissipate, replaced by a different, more personal kind of strain. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving Zoe feeling exhausted but strangely exhilarated.
She risked a glance at Alexander. He was staring out the window, his profile stern and unyielding against the backdrop of passing city lights.
"You handled yourself… adequately, Miss Miller," he said, without turning.
"Adequately?" Zoe echoed, a hint of her true Zoe Carter sarcasm slipping through. "Mr. Sterling, I believe I deserve at least a B-plus for that Oscar-worthy performance. Especially the 'twilight over a cornfield' ad-lib. That was pure gold."
He finally turned his head, and in the dim, flickering light of the car, she saw it clearly: a ghost of a smile, a genuine, almost imperceptible upward quirk of his lips, there and gone in an instant, but definitely there.
"Indeed," he said, his voice still a low rumble, but the icy edge had thawed, just a fraction. "You are… consistently surprising." He paused, his gaze holding hers, no longer just analytical, but something deeper, more searching. "Tell me, Emily Miller… who are you, really?"
The question hung in the air, a direct hit. The cannon fodder had officially been noticed. And the Ice King, it seemed, was beginning to melt. Just a little.