Emily
I finished college on a Tuesday.
On Thursday, I became someone's fiancée.
No one asked how I felt about either.
The email confirming my graduation sat unopened on my phone while my stepmother stood across the kitchen island, smoothing imaginary creases from her blouse, already talking about dates and guest lists and what the Carter family would expect from us.
"They want something small," she said. "Family only. At their home."
Of course it would be at their home.
The Carters didn't come to people. People went to them.
I stared into my bowl of cereal, watching the flakes soften and sink. Milk always turned first, like it had given up. I felt a strange kinship with it.
"You should at least look excited," my stepmother added lightly, from where she leaned against the counter. "You've just finished college and you're getting married. Some girls would kill for that."
I didn't look up.
Some girls weren't me.
"Emily," my father said gently. "Did you hear your mother?"
"I heard," I said. My voice sounded calm. Detached. It always did.
What I didn't say was that this engagement had been decided long before I learned how to fake enthusiasm. Long before college. Long before Nathan Carter ever looked at me with polite disinterest and called it courtesy.
This wasn't romance.
It was inheritance management.
Everyone knew it, even if no one said it out loud.
The only real surprise was that I was the one chosen.
Not Lily.
Lily, with her perfect smiles and careful laughter. Lily, who knew how to touch Nathan's arm just long enough to suggest something without saying it. Lily, who had been raised by my stepmother to understand exactly what beauty was meant to do.
But Lily wasn't Robert Brown's biological daughter.
I was.
And to families like the Carters, blood mattered more than charm. Paper mattered more than desire. Emily Brown was the correct choice, even if she wasn't the preferred one.
That was why the engagement had to be with me.
Not my stepsister.
Not the girl Nathan actually looked at when he thought no one noticed.
Nathan and I didn't fight the decision. There was nothing to fight for. He tolerated me. I tolerated him. We understood the assignment.
So when my father cleared his throat later that afternoon and said the Carters had also suggested I spend the night after the engagement dinner, I wasn't shocked.
I was tired.
"It's improper," I said, because someone had to say it.
My stepmother gave a thin smile. "It's generous. And refusing would look ungrateful."
My father avoided my eyes. "They insist, Emily. They don't want you traveling late. Especially now."
Now that I belonged to them.
I nodded once. "Fine."
If I was going to be handed over like a sealed package, I might as well stop pretending I had fragile edges.
The Carter mansion looked exactly like I expected it to—large enough to intimidate, expensive enough to remind you you didn't belong. Stone walls. Black iron gates. A driveway that curved just long enough to make you feel small before you reached the front door.
Nathan opened it himself.
He kissed my cheek lightly, careful, like we were posing for a photo.
"You look nice," he said.
So did he. Perfectly styled. Perfectly distant.
"Thank you," I replied.
Inside, everything gleamed. Marble floors. Tall ceilings. Voices that stayed just below a certain volume, as if loud emotions were forbidden by the architecture.
This was family only, but family meant something different here. Aunts. Uncles. People who shared DNA and money and very little warmth.
I was adjusting the hem of my dress when I felt it.
That uncomfortable prickle at the back of my neck.
Being watched.
I lifted my head slowly.
He stood near the staircase, one hand resting on the banister like he owned it—which, judging by the way the room subtly oriented itself around him, he probably did.
He was older than Nathan, but not in a way that made him look worn. Just… solid. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. No forced smile.
He didn't look away when our gazes met.
Something in my chest tightened.
Nathan noticed my pause. "Oh," he said, following my line of sight. His jaw tightened slightly. "That's my uncle."
"Uncle?" I repeated.
"Yes. Adrian Carter."
The name landed heavier than it should have.
Adrian Carter inclined his head, just barely. Not a greeting. An acknowledgment.
I didn't know why, but my pulse picked up.
Dinner was unbearable in the way expensive things often were—beautiful, controlled, and suffocating.
I sat beside Nathan, smiling when required, answering questions about college, about my "plans," about when we might set a wedding date. I lied politely and often.
Across the table, Adrian Carter sat at the head.
He spoke less than everyone else, but when he did, the room listened. Conversations bent toward him like iron filings to a magnet.
I caught him watching me more than once.
Not openly. Not rudely.
Intentionally.
Each time I noticed, I looked away, pretending my interest was in my wine glass, my plate, the empty chair beside Nathan when he excused himself to take a call.
I hadn't realized how quiet the room could get until Adrian stood.
"I'd like to speak with Emily," he said calmly.
Not if he could. Just that he would.
My father nodded too quickly. Nathan wasn't back yet.
I rose, smoothing my dress, and followed Adrian through a side door and down a quiet hall. The sitting room we entered was smaller, darker, meant for privacy.
The door closed behind us.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at me—really looked.
"You don't want to marry my nephew," he said.
It wasn't a question.
My breath caught despite myself. "You don't know what I want."
"I do," he replied calmly. "Because if you wanted him, you'd be nervous. You'd be trying harder."
I crossed my arms. "That's none of your business."
A pause.
Then—almost a smile.
"In this family," Adrian Carter said softly, "everything is my business."
Something cold and electric slid down my spine.
I should have been offended. I should have been afraid.
Instead, I felt seen.
And that scared me more than anything else.