Emma barely slept, haunted by the mysterious text. At breakfast, she studied Adrian across the long glass table. He read emails on his phone, seemingly oblivious. His crisp white shirt, the expensive watch on his wrist—every inch of him was polished perfection.
But now she saw the cracks: the tight lines around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly.
> If you want to survive this marriage, meet me tomorrow…
She forced a sip of coffee, trying to look casual. "Are you busy this afternoon?"
Adrian didn't look up. "Why?"
"Just wondering if we could… maybe spend time together. You know. For appearances."
His eyes flicked to hers. Sharp. Calculating. "I have meetings all day. Ellis can take you shopping if you need distractions."
Emma's stomach sank. "Right. Of course."
She spent the next hours pacing the penthouse. Every time she glanced at the clock, her anxiety doubled. By 2:30, she could barely breathe. She slipped out quietly, telling Ellis she needed air and would take a cab. If Adrian found out she'd lied—she shuddered to think.
Central Park was a riot of summer blooms. The fountain gurgled cheerfully, children squealing as they chased pigeons. It all felt cruelly normal.
Emma sat on the stone edge, scanning every face. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Her palms sweated.
Then a figure slid onto the bench across from her. A woman—maybe in her forties, sleek dark hair, tailored navy dress. Sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"You're Emma Holt," the woman said without introduction. Her accent was faintly European.
Emma swallowed. "Who are you?"
"A friend. Of sorts. I used to work for Adrian. Very closely." The woman's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I thought you should know what you've married into."
Emma's blood chilled. "We're not married yet."
"Oh, darling. You are. That contract means more than you think. It ties you to him—and his enemies—by blood."
"What do you mean?"
The woman leaned in, voice dropping. "Adrian's business is built on secrets. Powerful men have tried to ruin him for years. Some succeeded. Some… vanished. You're not the first woman he's used to secure alliances or cover scandals."
Emma's stomach lurched. "Cover scandals?"
"Think about it. Why else would a man like Adrian Blackwood marry a struggling baker? It's not romance. It's strategy." She stood abruptly, smoothing her dress. "Be careful. You're in deeper than you realize."
Before Emma could demand more, the woman melted into the crowd, leaving behind only confusion—and a gnawing terror that wouldn't let go.
When Emma returned to the penthouse, she found chaos. Her phone buzzed nonstop with dozens of missed calls and frantic texts—from her father, from old bakery friends.
Her heart raced as she opened the latest message.
> BREAKING: Adrian Blackwood's fiancée accused of fraud and theft—small-town baker's shady past exposed.
She sank onto the couch, vision blurring. Headlines screamed at her from every gossip site.
> "Cinderella or Con Artist? The Shocking Truth Behind Adrian Blackwood's Engagement."
They dredged up old tax filings from her father's bakery, exaggerated debts, twisted harmless oversights into criminal schemes. Photos of her at the bakery—laughing with her dad, dusted in flour—were paired with cruel captions.
"Small-time grifter hits Manhattan jackpot."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. How had this exploded so fast?
The front door slammed. Adrian strode in, fury radiating off him like heat. He tossed his phone onto the marble counter with a sharp crack.
"Care to explain this?" His voice was dangerously low.
"I—I don't know!" Emma stammered. "This is all lies! My father—he just made mistakes on taxes, it was never fraud—"
Adrian advanced on her, eyes black with rage. "You've embarrassed me in front of half the boardrooms in New York. Do you realize how this looks? I protect my reputation at all costs."
She flinched. "I didn't do anything—"
"Doesn't matter." He pinched the bridge of his nose, composing himself. When he spoke again, his tone was ice. "Pack your things. You're moving permanently into my estate in Westchester. If the press wants to hound you, let them do it behind iron gates."
Emma gaped. "I thought this was temporary—I thought after the wedding we'd still—"
"You lost that privilege when you became a liability." He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You want your father's bakery saved? Then you'll do exactly as I say. Smile at parties. Let them photograph us kissing on balconies. Be my perfect wife. Understood?"
Her heart crumbled, but she managed a nod. Anything to keep her father safe.
The Westchester estate was a fortress—high stone walls, iron gates, cameras on every post. Inside, it was colder than the penthouse, all dark wood and echoing halls. Staff bustled around her with tight, polite smiles, avoiding her eyes.
Adrian set strict rules immediately.
She was to stay inside the house unless escorted.
No interviews. No statements to press.
No snooping.
The first night, she stood on the balcony outside her bedroom, gazing at the moonlit grounds. Somewhere below, security guards made quiet rounds.
Trapped.
Her phone buzzed. A blocked number. Hesitating, she answered.
A woman's voice, trembling.
> "Leave him. Before it's too late. Before you end up like the last girl."
The line went dead.
Emma nearly dropped the phone.
> The last girl?
She rushed inside, heart hammering. As she locked her bedroom door, she caught a glimpse of movement in the garden below. A figure in a long dark coat stood by the fountain, watching the house.
Then it vanished into the trees.
The next morning, Emma tried to confront Adrian over breakfast.
"Someone called me last night—someone's watching the house. Don't you think we should—"
Adrian didn't look up from his coffee. "My security is handling it."
"What if I'm in danger?" Her voice cracked.
Now he looked at her, eyes hard. "You are in danger. Not from them—from me, if you keep testing my patience."
Emma recoiled as if slapped. Adrian stood, tossing his napkin on the table. He paused by her chair, bending close so only she could hear.
"You're under my protection now, Emma. Which means you follow my rules. Or I can't guarantee what happens next."
That night, she lay in bed unable to sleep, clutching her pillow like it was the only solid thing left in her world. The wind howled outside, rattling the old windows.
Suddenly, her bedroom door creaked open.
Emma bolted upright. "Who's there?"
No answer. Just darkness. Then a shadow moved—someone slipping inside.
A glint of something in their hand—metal, catching the moonlight.
Her scream tore through the silent house.