The next morning, Emily stood barefoot in the hallway outside Alexander's private office. The door, thick and always closed, now stood ajar. She hesitated. Voices murmured inside.
"…She's gaining attention. Too much, too fast," one said.
"Exactly why we need to control the narrative," came Miranda's voice, cool and poised. "Let her play the wife. The more the world watches, the harder it is for our enemies to touch her."
"And what if she learns too much?" the first voice asked.
There was a pause. Then Alexander's voice, deep and unreadable:
"Then we make sure she forgets."
Emily's breath caught.
She stepped back too quickly—her heel hitting the corner of a low marble pedestal. The sound echoed like a shot.
Silence inside.
Before she could move, the door opened and Alexander stepped out. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes told her everything.
He knew she'd heard.
He didn't speak. He simply stepped aside and gestured for her to walk past him. The air between them crackled with unspoken truths.
Down the hall, Miranda gave her a faint, rehearsed smile. "You have a dress fitting this afternoon. The designer is flying in from Paris. Very exclusive."
Emily nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.
She no longer felt like a player in Alexander's world—she felt like a piece on a very expensive chessboard.
---
That afternoon, at the fitting, Emily stood surrounded by mirrors. Silk was draped over her like water, but her reflection looked foreign.
"Do you like it?" the designer asked.
Emily forced a smile. "It's beautiful."
But the truth was, she no longer knew what she liked. Her tastes, her comfort, her voice—it was all being dressed, painted, and posed.
As she turned, she noticed something tucked beneath a garment bag on the fitting table—a file folder. Her name was on the tab.
Curiosity overpowered caution.
While the stylist stepped out to take a call, Emily reached for it and flipped it open. Inside were surveillance photos—of her. From before the marriage. At the bakery. Walking to the tube. Visiting her mother's grave.
Her hands trembled.
A note inside the file read:
"Confirmed. She fits the profile."
Emily's chest tightened. What profile?
Before she could scan more, the stylist returned and Emily quickly shoved the folder back under the garments.
She smiled through the rest of the fitting, but her mind was spinning.
---
That night, she found Alexander in the study, swirling a glass of something dark.
She didn't knock.
"What profile do I fit?" she asked, voice steady.
He turned slowly. You went through my things.
You had people following me. Watching me. Long before this marriage."
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was for your protection.
No, she said sharply. It was for your plan.
Alexander stepped forward, setting the glass down.
I chose you, Emily, because you were ordinary. Untouched. Unconnected to this world. You were a blank page.
She laughed bitterly And now you're writing your story on me.
He met her eyes. "You think I'm the only one playing this game? You're already a threat to powerful people, simply by being at my side. That gala? That was just the first move. They'll come for you—because they can't come for me."
She wanted to scream, but something in his voice—his eyes—stopped her.
He wasn't trying to hurt her.
He was trying to protect her by keeping her in the dark.
Too late for that now.
She turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"I may have been your blank page, Alexander," she said. "But I'm learning how to write back."
The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time since this arrangement began, Alexander Knight looked… unsure.
---
Outside, rain began to fall over London, washing the city clean.
Inside the Knight mansion, the lines between truth and performance, between survival and control, had begun to crack.
And Emily was no longer just surviving.
She was beginning to fight back.