Zoe Carter, currently operating under the stage name Emily Miller, woke to the surreal reality of being Alexander Sterling's fiancée. The headlines screamed it from the tablet Marcus Wayne had thoughtfully left charging on her bedside table in the ridiculously opulent penthouse. "BILLIONAIRE TYCOON ALEXANDER STERLING ANNOUNCES SHOCK ENGAGEMENT TO MYSTERY BRUNETTE!" one blared. Another, more salaciously, queried, "FROM SMALL-TOWN SWEETHEART TO STERLING HEIRESS: WHO IS EMILY MILLER AND HOW DID SHE CAPTURE MANHATTAN'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR OVERNIGHT?"
Overnight is right, Zoe thought wryly, sipping cautiously at a cup of coffee that probably cost more than her weekly grocery budget back in Queens. If only they knew the half of it. Or, rather, the zero percent of it that's actually real.
The accompanying photos were a masterpiece of PR spin – mostly artfully cropped shots of Alexander looking broodingly handsome, with a softer, almost romantic filter. The few that included "Emily Miller" were clearly from some archive, perhaps a distant charity event Original Emily had attended, her face conveniently blurred or angled away. One particularly egregious one featured a hand – presumably hers, though Zoe couldn't be sure it wasn't a hand model – adorned with a diamond ring so colossal it could probably fund a small nation for a year. Zoe hadn't seen that ring yet. Presumably, it was part of the "costume" for tonight's gala.
A discreet chime from the intercom announced the arrival of her "transformation team." Zoe braced herself. This was it. The makeover montage, CEO-romance-novel style.
And what a team it was. Within minutes, the minimalist-chic living room of her gilded cage was transformed into a bustling backstage area. There was Serge, a flamboyant hair stylist with a Russian accent thicker than borscht, who declared Emily Miller's current mousy brown hair "a tragedy of epic proportions" before immediately setting to work with scissors and a bewildering array of potions. Then came Giselle, a makeup artist whose own face was a flawless canvas, tutting over Emily's "provincial" lack of a skincare regimen. A stern but impeccably dressed woman named Ms. Davies – no relation to the lawyer, Zoe fervently hoped – introduced herself as an etiquette and deportment coach, her gaze sweeping over Zoe's current attire (borrowed silk pajamas that felt like a second skin) with thinly veiled disapproval.
And finally, there was Victoria, Alexander's head of personal PR, a blonde ice queen in a power suit who radiated an efficiency that bordered on terrifying. She was the director of this entire charade.
"Miss Miller," Victoria began, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth, handing Zoe a slim, leather-bound folder. "This is your briefing for this evening's Sterling Foundation Charity Gala at The Plaza. And for your… new public persona."
The folder contained a meticulously crafted narrative of Emily and Alexander's "whirlwind romance." According to the script, they had met "serendipitously" a few months prior at an art gallery (true, for Original Emily, at least), shared an instant connection (false), and had been dating discreetly due to Alexander's desire for privacy (hilariously false). The engagement was a "spontaneous, deeply romantic decision."
"You will memorize this," Victoria stated, not asked. "Every detail. Your first 'date' was at a private showing at The Met. You share a love for obscure Renaissance painters. He proposed during a quiet, candlelit dinner at his penthouse after quoting Shakespeare. Sonnet 18, naturally."
Zoe almost choked on her coffee. Sonnet 18? Alexander Sterling? The man whose emotional range probably spanned from 'mildly annoyed' to 'incandescently furious'? This PR team had a better imagination than the author of Manhattan's Ice King.
"There are also notes on key attendees," Victoria continued, flipping to another section. "Pay particular attention to the Sterling family members – Mr. Sterling's parents, Richard and Catherine, will be there, as will his Aunt Caroline, whom you've… briefly encountered. His younger brother, Julian, is also expected. Be deferential, charming, but not overly familiar. You are the ingénue, remember? Sweet, a little overwhelmed by the sudden attention, but deeply in love."
The next few hours were a blur of prodding, plucking, painting, and endless coaching. Serge worked miracles with her hair, transforming the mousy brown into a rich chestnut, styled in soft, elegant waves that framed a face Giselle had subtly sculpted with highlights and shadows, making Emily Miller's pretty-but-forgettable features somehow… luminous. Ms. Davies drilled her on posture, a graceful glide (not her usual Queens power-walk), the correct way to hold a champagne flute, and how to make polite, vapid conversation about the weather or modern art without sounding like a complete idiot.
Zoe, a seasoned professional in the art of feigning competence from her marketing days, played her part. She listened intently, nodded at all the right places, asked "clarifying" questions that were just intelligent enough to show she was engaged but not so sharp as to arouse suspicion. Internally, she was taking copious mental notes, filing away every scrap of information about the Sterling dynasty and the viper's nest she was about to be thrown into. This wasn't just a makeover; it was recon.
Finally, a gown was presented. A breathtaking creation of midnight-blue silk that shimmered with an almost liquid light, its cut deceptively simple but clearly costing a fortune. It fit as if it were spun for her. And then, the ring. The one from the press photos. It was indeed colossal, a square-cut diamond that flashed with cold, blue fire. Sliding it onto her finger felt like shackling herself to a very expensive, very sparkly cannonball.
When she finally looked in the full-length mirror, Zoe Carter barely recognized the woman staring back. This wasn't Emily Miller, the small-town girl. This wasn't even Zoe Carter, the perpetually stressed marketing assistant. This was… a Sterling. Or, a damn good imitation of one. Sleek, polished, exuding an aura of quiet wealth and carefully constructed elegance. A beautiful lie.
"Perfect," Victoria purred, a rare flicker of something resembling approval in her cool eyes. "Mr. Sterling will be here to collect you at seven-thirty."
The pre-gala jitters were a swarm of angry butterflies in Zoe's stomach. This was it. Her public debut as Alexander Sterling's "beloved." She ran through the "official love story" in her head, trying to memorize the ludicrous details. Obscure Renaissance painters… Sonnet 18… Right.
At precisely seven-thirty, the chime of the private elevator announced Alexander's arrival. He stepped into the penthouse, a figure of dark, imposing elegance in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. His stormy Atlantic eyes swept over her, a slow, deliberate appraisal from head to toe. Zoe's breath hitched. For a moment, just a fleeting, almost imperceptible moment, she saw something flicker in their depths – surprise? Approval? Or was it just the cold calculation of a man assessing whether his latest acquisition was up to standard? Then it was gone, replaced by his usual impenetrable mask.
"You look… acceptable, Miss Miller," he said, his voice a low rumble. High praise, coming from him, Zoe supposed.
"Thank you, Mr. Sterling," she replied, her voice a soft, practiced murmur, just as Ms. Davies had coached. "You look very distinguished yourself." Distinguishedly like a brooding vampire about to attend his annual blood-donor gala, she added silently.
The ride down in the private elevator was thick with unspoken tension. Alexander didn't speak, merely stood beside her, radiating a controlled power that made the air crackle. Zoe focused on keeping her breathing even, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, trying to channel the "serenely in love" vibe Victoria had drilled into her. It was like trying to channel a tranquil lake while standing on the edge of an active volcano.
The lobby of the apartment building was, thankfully, clear. A sleek black limousine waited at the curb. As Alexander's security detail smoothly opened the doors, Zoe caught a glimpse of flashes a block away – paparazzi, already lying in wait. The Sterling PR machine might be good, but the city's hunger for scandal was insatiable.
"Ready for your close-up, Miss Miller?" Alexander murmured as he settled beside her in the plush leather interior of the limo, his voice laced with a faint, almost undetectable irony.
"As I'll ever be, Mr. Sterling," Zoe replied, trying for a demure smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
The Plaza Hotel was a fortress of opulence, its entrance a chaotic ballet of flashing cameras, shouting reporters, and impeccably dressed guests trying to navigate the velvet ropes. As their car pulled up, the frenzy intensified. Alexander's security formed a tight phalanx as he stepped out, then turned to offer her his hand.
Zoe took it, her fingers trembling slightly despite herself. His grip was firm, impersonal, yet undeniably there. A lifeline in this sudden, blinding storm of attention.
"Smile, Miss Miller," he instructed, his voice a low command meant only for her ears as he guided her onto the red carpet. "You're supposed to be deliriously happy."
And so, Emily Miller, nee Zoe Carter, began her performance. She smiled, a soft, slightly shy expression that she hoped conveyed "overwhelmed but blissfully in love." She clung to Alexander's arm, letting him steer her through the cacophony. The flashes were blinding, the shouted questions a meaningless roar. It was terrifying, surreal, and yet… a tiny, rebellious part of Zoe, the part that had always secretly loved a bit of drama, found it almost… exhilarating.
They finally made it into the relative sanity of the grand ballroom, a breathtaking space dripping with chandeliers and old-world glamour. Hundreds of New York's wealthiest and most influential were already mingling, a glittering sea of jewels and designer gowns. And as they entered, a hush fell. All eyes turned towards them. Towards her.
Zoe felt a blush creep up her neck. This was worse than any boardroom presentation. She could feel the weight of their gazes – curious, speculative, envious, and, from some corners, undoubtedly hostile. She spotted Aunt Caroline Sterling near a towering floral arrangement, her expression as frosty as a January morning, engaged in a hushed conversation with a woman who looked equally formidable.
And then, across the crowded room, Zoe saw her.
Isabelle Thorne.
She was a vision in emerald green, a stark contrast to Zoe's midnight blue, her blonde hair gleaming like a halo, her smile radiant. But as her eyes met Zoe's, that smile sharpened, became something predatory, a silent promise of battles to come. With the grace of a panther, Isabelle began to make her way towards them, a champagne flute held elegantly in one hand.
"Alexander, darling!" Isabelle's voice, when she finally reached them, was like honey laced with arsenic. Her gaze flicked dismissively over Zoe, then returned to Alexander, full of possessive adoration. "You made it. And this… this must be Emily?" Her eyes, cold and brilliant, settled on Zoe. "You look… surprisingly well, dear. Considering."
Zoe's carefully constructed smile didn't waver. Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Alexander's arm. The first public volley had just been fired.
Showtime, indeed, Zoe thought, a shiver of something that was equal parts fear and fighting spirit running down her spine. Let the games begin.