Emily sat across from Alexander in the black SUV, the silence between them heavier than the city traffic. The night air outside was buzzing with life — honking horns, blurred neon lights, laughter from rooftop bars — but inside the car, everything was cold steel and restraint.
She stared at the glowing screen of her phone. Dozens of missed calls from her mother. Three from her ex-fiancé.
She ignored them all.
Alexander, perfectly composed in his tailored suit, didn't say a word. His gaze was fixed out the window, jawline clenched like stone.
Finally, Emily broke the silence. "So, this gala. Who are we pretending for tonight?"
He didn't look at her. "Everyone."
"Charming."
"You're not required to be charming. Just... convincing."
Emily turned slightly to face him. "You're unbelievable, you know that? You treat this like a business merger. A robotic exchange."
He finally looked at her. "That's exactly what it is."
His voice was flat, unapologetic. But his eyes — if she looked closely — held something behind them. Something tired. Guarded.
Emily leaned back in her seat. "Fine. Then let's discuss the deal. We're married on paper. What does that look like in public?"
Alexander replied without hesitation, like he'd rehearsed this before. "We arrive together at events. Hold hands when necessary. Smile for the press. You'll speak politely, dress accordingly, and avoid emotional displays."
She scoffed. "Do I get bathroom breaks, too?"
His lips curved slightly, the ghost of a smirk. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you."
"It's all I have left," she murmured, almost to herself.
The car turned into the driveway of the Astoria Grand Hotel — glittering chandeliers glowing through tall windows, a red carpet stretched out like blood across the marble entrance.
As the car slowed, Alexander spoke again. "Remember the rules."
Emily rolled her eyes. "Smile. Obey. Pretend."
"No," he said, and turned to her fully. "Don't fall in love."
Her heart stuttered for a moment.
Then the door opened, and the flashing cameras swallowed them whole.
The ballroom was a vision of excess. Gold trim, velvet drapes, laughter polished to perfection. Emily took Alexander's arm as they descended the stairs, every step echoing through the chandeliered hall like a scene from a movie she didn't want to be in.
People watched. Whispers spread.
"That's Emily Ross? She's with Alexander Knight?"
"I thought her family lost everything…"
"Maybe he bought her, like he buys everything."
Emily smiled — gracious, elegant — as if she didn't hear a word. But inside, every whisper sliced her skin.
Alexander leaned down toward her ear.
"You're doing well," he murmured.
"Don't compliment me," she said through clenched teeth. "It might sound like affection."
He chuckled softly. "Point taken."
They made their way through the crowd — hands shaken, small talk exchanged, fake laughs perfected. Emily let her mind wander, locking eyes only when necessary, counting how many steps it would take to run from this entire façade.
And then she saw him.
Nathan Blake.Her ex.
He was standing by the bar, glass of champagne in hand, with the same smug confidence that once charmed her into believing he loved her.The same man who walked away when her family fell.The same man who proposed to her, then vanished when the money did.
He looked surprised. And then amused.He walked over.
"Emily," he said smoothly. "Didn't expect to see you... here. And looking so"—his eyes flicked to her gown—"expensive."
Before she could respond, Alexander stepped in.
"She's with me."
Nathan blinked. "I see that. I just didn't realize you were into charity these days, Knight."
Emily froze.
Alexander's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Be careful how you speak. You're standing on property I helped finance."
Nathan laughed, raised his glass, and walked away.
Emily exhaled slowly. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Alexander said. "But I wanted to."
She looked at him, really looked at him. For a moment, she saw something crack through his carefully sculpted exterior — something protective. Human.
Then he turned away, the moment gone.
Later that night, back in the penthouse, Emily peeled off her gown and makeup like battle armor.
She stood barefoot on the marble floor, staring out at the New York skyline.
Alexander walked in, jacket off, tie loosened. He leaned against the doorway, silent.
"I didn't ask for your protection," she said.
"I didn't offer it."
She turned to him. "Then why step in? Why not let Nathan humiliate me?"
Alexander shrugged. "Because if anyone's going to make your life difficult, it will be me. No one else."
She blinked. "That's your version of kindness?"
He smirked. "Don't get used to it."
A silence settled between them. He moved to the minibar and poured two glasses of whiskey. Handed one to her.
Their fingers brushed. A spark — no, static. Just nerves.
She drank.
He drank.
And for the first time that night, the air between them didn't feel cold. It felt... heavy. Waiting.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Knight," he said, voice low.
Emily turned to face the city again, not trusting herself to speak.
When she finally whispered, "Goodnight," he was already gone.