Emily stood before the full-length mirror in her suite, watching as the stylist adjusted the hem of her navy-blue gown. The fabric shimmered with each movement, catching the soft golden lights from the chandelier overhead. The dress was elegant, tailored to perfection—and yet, it felt like a costume. A disguise she wore to play the role of Alexander Knight's wife.
"Hold still, please," the stylist murmured, tucking a loose strand of Emily's dark hair into the intricate updo.
Emily didn't respond. Her thoughts were elsewhere, trapped in a loop of uncertainty and unease. She had been in the mansion for two days, moving through its gilded halls like a ghost. Meals were delivered on time, her laundry taken without a word, her presence acknowledged only when necessary. She hadn't seen Alexander since their conversation in the study, but his presence lingered in every corner of the estate—commanding, unyielding.
"There," the stylist said, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "You look like a queen."
Emily forced a smile. "Thanks."
As the stylist packed her tools and disappeared down the hall, Miranda stepped into the room, her ever-composed expression in place. "The car is ready, Mrs. Knight. Mr. Knight will meet you downstairs."
Emily exhaled slowly. Showtime.
Descending the staircase, she spotted him instantly. Alexander stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a black suit that looked as though it had been sewn onto him. His presence was magnetic, his expression unreadable.
"You clean up well," he said as she reached him.
"So do you," she replied, smoothing a nonexistent crease in her gown.
The drive to the event was quiet. Emily watched the city blur past through tinted windows, wondering what kind of man she was sitting beside. Alexander hadn't offered her any guidance beyond "look the part," and the silence between them crackled with unspoken tension.
When they arrived at the venue—a glittering hotel ballroom near Hyde Park—the crowd inside was already buzzing. Photographers lined the entrance, their flashes exploding like fireworks.
Alexander leaned toward her just before they stepped out. "Smile. Say little. Stay close."
Emily nodded, her pulse racing as the car door opened.
They walked the red carpet together, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. Cameras snapped furiously, and she heard the murmurs—"Who is she?" "That's Alexander Knight's wife?" "Since when?"
Inside, the ballroom was a kaleidoscope of chandeliers, designer gowns, and too much champagne. The elite of London society filled the space—politicians, business moguls, celebrities. Alexander moved through them effortlessly, his charm like a well-oiled weapon. Emily followed, smiling when necessary, nodding when spoken to.
She caught bits of conversation—deals being made, alliances hinted at, rumors passed like hors d'oeuvres. It wasn't just a party. It was a battlefield in silk and satin.
"You're doing fine," Alexander murmured as they paused by the bar.
She looked up at him. "Is this what your world always looks like?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "This is just the surface. The real game is beneath it."
Before she could press further, a tall man in a navy velvet suit approached them, his smile a little too polished. "Knight. Good to see you." He turned to Emily. "And this must be the new Mrs. Knight. Quite the surprise."
Alexander's grip on her waist firmed. "Emily, this is Victor Hale. He's in shipping."
Emily smiled politely. "Pleasure."
Victor's eyes lingered a little too long. "You've made quite an entrance tonight."
"She always does," Alexander replied coolly, steering her away.
As they walked off, Emily whispered, "He doesn't like you."
"No," Alexander said. "He doesn't trust anyone. And he's dangerous."
She frowned. "You're warning me?"
"I'm reminding you. This isn't a fairy tale, Emily. Everyone here wears a mask—including me."
The evening dragged on with introductions and thin smiles. Emily found herself playing the part well, even if her nerves screamed beneath the surface. But somewhere between the performances and photo ops, she caught a glimpse of something real—a flicker of exhaustion in Alexander's eyes, a pause in his carefully rehearsed answers. It lasted only seconds, but it was enough.
By the time they returned home, the exhaustion hit her like a wave. She kicked off her heels in the foyer and turned to thank him, but Alexander was already walking away.
"Good night," she called after him.
He stopped but didn't turn around. "You did well tonight."
Then he disappeared into the shadows.
Back in her suite, Emily sat on the edge of the bed, undoing her earrings. Her reflection in the vanity stared back at her—painted, perfect, a stranger.
She had played her part. But what would happen when the curtain fell?