Morning crept into the Knight mansion like a secret—it didn't announce itself with brightness but slipped through velvet curtains in slender streams. Emily lay awake in the vast bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her thoughts were louder than ever.
The night at the gala had gone well—at least in appearances. But appearances were Alexander Knight's specialty. She hadn't missed the subtle power plays, the veiled threats, the way Victor's eyes had lingered on her just a second too long.
She got up and padded barefoot across the cold marble floor. The opulence was no longer shocking. Now, it felt like a cage gilded in gold. A beautiful prison.
Downstairs, the house was already stirring. Staff moved like shadows—polite, quiet, efficient. One of them handed her a folded note sealed with the Knight family crest. It simply read:
Meet me in the library. - A
Her pulse quickened.
She had only entered the library once. It was the most secluded room in the mansion—paneled in dark oak, filled with ancient books and secrets that smelled like tobacco and old ambition.
When she entered, he was there. Alexander. Still in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled, a glass of something amber in his hand—at 8 a.m.
"You don't sleep?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"Sleep is a luxury," he replied, not looking at her. "One I can't afford."
She folded her arms. "Why did you want to see me?"
He finally turned. "You did well last night. Better than I expected."
"Because you thought I'd fall apart?"
"Because I thought you'd care too much."
Emily stepped closer. "And what about you? Do you care about anything? Or is this all just… a game to you?"
He studied her, eyes sharp like glass. "You want honesty? Alright. Everything in my world is strategy. You weren't chosen by chance, Emily. You were… a calculated move."
The words hit her like a slap. But he didn't stop.
"My enemies are watching. They needed to believe I could care for someone. Be human. You're the proof. The mask."
"And what am I to you, privately?" she asked quietly.
He stepped forward until there was barely a breath of space between them.
"A risk," he whispered.
Her breath hitched. Not because of the closeness, but because of the truth she saw in his eyes—haunted, guarded, aching beneath the cold exterior.
Before she could respond, a knock interrupted them. Miranda's voice called from behind the door. "Emily, darling. You have an appointment. Fashion shoot for Elite Society Weekly. Don't be late. It's your first solo feature."
Alexander's gaze remained fixed on her. "Welcome to the real role, Mrs. Knight. The spotlight doesn't dim here—it blinds."
She left the room without another word, the door clicking softly behind her.
---
Later that day, the photo shoot was in full swing. Flashbulbs popped, stylists swarmed, and Emily was draped in couture gowns worth more than her childhood home. Cameras captured her every angle, but none caught the unease in her chest.
She was becoming someone else.
In between shots, a journalist approached—young, clever-eyed, too observant.
"So, Mrs. Knight," he asked, pen poised, "what drew you to Alexander? Love at first sight?"
Emily paused. Then smiled.
"Sometimes love doesn't knock. It barges in."
The journalist laughed, but Emily's smile didn't reach her eyes.
---
That evening, back at the mansion, Emily passed Victor's name on a whispered call from the hallway.
She's too clever, Keep an eye on her.
The voice wasn't Alexander's.
Chills ran down her spine.
Unseen threads were weaving around her, binding her to a story deeper than she could yet understand.
And Emily Knight—whether she liked it or not—was no longer just playing the part.
She was part of the game.