Three days later, Emily was standing in front of a full-length mirror inside the penthouse suite of one of London's most exclusive hotels. For a long moment, she barely recognized the reflection staring back.
Céleste—the stylist Alexander had arranged—was a brisk Frenchwoman with sharp eyes and sharper instructions. She moved with military precision, snapping out orders in her clipped accent while wielding curling irons and brushes as if they were surgical instruments. By the time she finished, Emily hardly knew herself.
The gown alone felt unreal. Midnight-blue silk clung to her frame before spilling into a train that whispered over the marble floor. Under the crystal chandeliers, the fabric caught light in waves, like liquid starlight. Diamonds glittered at her neck and wrists, so bright they almost hurt to look at. Her hair was pinned into a sleek chignon that revealed the curve of her neck, while her makeup had that elusive "effortless" quality—the kind that actually required hours of painstaking work.
"Magnifique," Céleste announced, stepping back as though admiring a completed canvas. "Monsieur Drake will be pleased."
Emily's stomach twisted. The words landed wrong; she wasn't sure she wanted to be described as something designed to please Alexander. Still, the truth was hard to deny—she looked like she belonged on a red carpet, as if she'd been raised in diamonds and couture.
And that terrified her.
"The premiere begins in thirty minutes," Céleste reminded her, sweeping tools into her case. "The car is waiting downstairs. Shoulders back, chin high. Do not meet the cameras' eyes unless Mr. Drake directs you."
When the door shut behind the stylist, silence filled the suite. Emily stared at herself again, trying to absorb the surreal shift in her life. A week ago, she'd been pouring lattes in a Brooklyn café. Now she was preparing to walk into Leicester Square as the woman on Alexander Drake's arm—wearing jewelry that might be worth more than her parents' entire house.
A knock at the door pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. She opened it to find Alexander in the hallway. Even after everything, seeing him in a tuxedo managed to steal her breath.
The suit was flawless—black with satin lapels, cut perfectly across his shoulders and lean frame. Yet what unsettled her wasn't the tailoring. It was his gaze. He looked at her with the kind of possessive admiration that should have offended her… but instead made her skin burn in ways she wished it wouldn't.
"You look extraordinary," he said, his voice low, carrying through her chest.
"I look like I'm playing dress-up," Emily muttered, though the conviction in her tone wasn't as strong as it had been back in Monaco.
"You look like you were born for this." He stepped closer, the warm spice of his cologne curling around her senses. "Ready to make your debut?"
The drive through London blurred by in a haze of flashing lights and nerves. Their sleek Bentley glided through evening traffic, parting the streets like royalty was inside. Crowds were already packed behind barriers, even blocks away from the venue. The film—a major Hollywood thriller—was the event of the season, drawing every photographer in Europe.
"Nervous?" Alexander asked when he noticed how tightly she was gripping her clutch.
"Terrified," she admitted. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"Follow me. That's all you need," he said, placing his hand over hers with unexpected warmth. "Walk when I walk. Smile when I do. And remember—you'll be the most beautiful woman on that carpet tonight."
The compliment sent an unwanted rush through her chest. Before she could reply, the car slowed to a stop at Leicester Square. Beyond the tinted windows, chaos reigned—reporters clutching microphones, photographers raising cameras like weapons, security carving narrow pathways through a sea of faces.
"Showtime," Alexander murmured.
He stepped out first, met instantly by a storm of flashes and questions shouted over one another. Emily watched him move with effortless command—acknowledging the cameras just enough to feed them, while keeping the distance of someone untouchable.
Then he turned back, extending his hand to her.
Emily placed her hand in his. The moment her heel touched the carpet, the world detonated into noise and light. Camera flashes burst like fireworks. Reporters' voices tangled into a roar. Strangers speculated aloud, their words floating above the frenzy.
"Who's she?"
"Is that his girlfriend?"
"What's her name?"
"She's stunning!"
Emily lifted her chin. There was no turning back now.
Alexander's hand rested at the small of her back as they stepped forward. His touch was steady, guiding her down the carpet with the kind of confidence that left no doubt they were connected—even if Emily wasn't sure what that connection meant anymore. She tried to remember Céleste's instructions. Shoulders back. Chin up. Don't meet the cameras head-on. Simple rules, yet nearly impossible under the barrage of flashes and noise.
"Breathe," Alexander murmured against her ear while they paused for a photo. "You're doing fine."
And strangely, she was. The panic that had gripped her in the car slowly began to dissolve. In its place came something dangerously close to exhilaration. Her gown whispered around her legs, diamonds burning under the lights, and for the first time, Emily felt as if she truly belonged on that red carpet.
The photographers ate it up. Alexander slipped an arm around her waist, and when he whispered something ridiculous enough to make her laugh, the cameras caught it. To anyone watching, they must have looked like the ideal couple—his dark magnetism paired with her luminous elegance, a picture designed for magazine spreads.
Inside, the premiere glittered like every fantasy she had ever associated with Hollywood. Stars she had only seen on screens now brushed past her in gowns and tuxedos, their confidence as natural as breathing. For them, wealth wasn't excess—it was background. Jewelry was an accessory, not an event. Gowns were uniforms. And Alexander moved among them as if he owned the air they breathed, introducing her to producers, directors, actors, always with the ease of a man too well connected.
By intermission, Emily excused herself. The ladies' room was polished marble and gold fixtures, elegant to the point of absurdity. She leaned toward the mirror, touching up her lipstick, grateful for a few stolen minutes without eyes on her.
That was when two women swept in mid-conversation.
"—can't believe he brought her here," one of them said, her accent clipped and aristocratic. "He's usually much more discreet about his acquisitions."
Emily froze. The word hit her like glass shattering.
"She's beautiful, though," the other replied. "Different from his usual type."
"Oh, darling, they're all beautiful. That's the point." A brittle laugh rang out, sharp as crystal breaking. "Alexander Drake doesn't collect plain things. But he grows bored so quickly. Remember Isabelle? The French model? Three months, wasn't it?"
"Two. And Katarina—the Russian's daughter—barely lasted six weeks."
Emily's hand trembled as she reapplied lipstick she no longer needed.
"The pattern never changes," the first woman went on, her tone casual, cruel. "He finds someone new—usually an outsider. Dresses her up. Shows her off. Makes her believe she's different. Special."
"And then?"
"And then he tires of her. But at least he's generous when he discards them. Isabelle walked away with a Paris flat. Katarina with enough diamonds to start a boutique."
They left in a swirl of perfume, leaving Emily staring at her reflection—her painted lips trembling, her complexion drained. Everything they had described sounded horribly, terrifyingly familiar.
Back in her seat, she felt fragile, as though she wore a mask made of glass. Alexander glanced at her, sensing something had shifted, but the lights dimmed before he could ask. She barely saw the rest of the film. Instead, she replayed every word, every gesture, every gift, trying to see the truth she had missed.
The after-party took place at a private club, all polished wood and leather chairs. Emily drifted through conversations, smiling where required, nodding when necessary, though inside she was unraveling. After two hours of champagne and chatter, she slipped away to the terrace.
London stretched before her, glittering and impersonal. The October air bit at her bare shoulders. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking that came from more than the cold.
"There you are." Alexander's voice was behind her, warm, threaded with relief. "I was starting to wonder where you'd gone."
Emily didn't turn.
"Emily?" He came beside her, too close, his presence pressing into her space. "Something's wrong. You've been distant since the break. What happened?"
"Different how?" she asked softly, though she already knew.
"Like you're somewhere else." His hand brushed her arm, and she recoiled.
Finally, she faced him. He was still devastating, still magnetic, but she could see the calculation in his concern. For the first time, she wondered how many women had stood exactly where she was, blinded by that same gaze.
"Tell me about Isabelle," she whispered.
He stilled, his expression flattening into neutrality. "Who?"
"The French model. Two months. Before you moved on to the next acquisition."
His eyes narrowed. "So you've been listening to gossip."
"Is it true?" Her voice gained strength as her chest burned. "Is this what you do? Find women, transform them, discard them when you're bored?"
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Then, with a bluntness that knocked the air from her lungs, he said, "Yes."
It felt like being struck.
"Three months, not two," he added with cold precision. "Katarina lasted six weeks. Before her, Elena—an artist from Spain. Nearly four months."
"Stop." Emily's voice cracked.
"You asked."
She stared at him, furious with herself for believing she was special. All the gifts, the gowns, the diamonds—it was a performance he had perfected through repetition.
"So what am I? Another name on your list?"
Alexander's expression shifted, some flicker of pain cutting through. "You're different."
Emily gave a bitter laugh. "I imagine you said that to all of them."
"No," he said quietly. "Not once. Because none of them were."
It should have meant something. It didn't.
"And what makes me so different? That I tripped over you at a gala? That I still believe people can be good?"
"The way you fight me," he said. "The way you make me want to be better than I am. The way you look at me like I could be saved."
God help her, she wanted to believe him. But the evidence was too damning.
"I want to go home," she said.
"Emily—"
"Back to New York. Back to myself. Away from all this."
His hand caught her wrist before she could move. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I? Then let me go. If I'm really different, if you truly mean what you say, prove it. Release me."
His jaw clenched. "I can't."
"Can't—or won't?"
"Both."
The word left her hollow. Whatever illusions remained crumbled.
And then—white light. A camera flash.
Emily spun. A photographer crouched behind the terrace's shrubs, his lens trained on them. The man had been there for minutes, maybe longer. Snap after snap, capturing her expression, Alexander's grip, the tension between them.
"Damn it," Alexander hissed, pulling her against his side in a gesture of possession. "Don't give him anything more."
But it was already too late. The man shouted their names, firing off questions, his voice feeding the chaos. By tomorrow morning, their confrontation would be plastered across tabloids, headlines dissecting every gesture.
Emily realized, with a hollow ache, that escape might no longer be possible. She wasn't just part of Alexander Drake's pattern now—she was about to become the story.