Emma woke to the smell of expensive coffee and the sound of financial news drifting through walls that probably cost more than her old apartment. The bedroom Alexander had assigned her was larger than her entire studio, decorated in muted grays and whites that spoke of professional interior design and complete emotional detachment. She'd spent her wedding night alone in a king-sized bed that felt like sleeping on an iceberg.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan stretched endlessly in the morning light, but the view felt more like a beautiful prison than a dream come true. Somewhere in this glass tower, her new husband was probably already three hours into his workday, having forgotten he'd acquired a wife along with his morning coffee.
A soft knock interrupted her brooding. "Mrs. Knight?" A woman's voice, accented and polite. "Mr. Knight asked me to bring you breakfast."
Emma wrapped herself in the silk robe she'd found hanging in the walk-in closet—because of course Alexander had thought of everything—and opened the door to find a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"I'm Maria," the woman said, wheeling in a cart laden with silver serving dishes. "I've been Mr. Knight's housekeeper for eight years. Welcome to the family."
The word 'family' sat strangely in the air. Emma managed a smile. "Thank you, Maria. This is... a lot."
Maria began setting out the breakfast with practiced efficiency—fresh fruit, pastries that looked like they'd been flown in from Paris, eggs Benedict that smelled like heaven. "Mr. Knight wasn't sure what you liked, so he ordered everything." She paused, studying Emma with the shrewd gaze of someone who'd worked in wealthy households long enough to recognize the signs of a marriage that wasn't quite what it appeared. "He's a good man, you know. Underneath all the armor."
"Armor?"
"Grief changes people," Maria said quietly, arranging silverware with careful precision. "Some people let it soften them. Others..." She gestured around the sterile perfection of the penthouse. "Others build walls so high they forget there's a world outside them."
Before Emma could respond, Maria's expression shifted back to professional politeness. "Mr. Knight is in his office. He asked that you join him when you're ready. He has some things to discuss with you."
Emma's stomach knotted. "What kind of things?"
"The kind that come with being Mrs. Knight, I imagine."
Twenty minutes later, Emma stood outside Alexander's home office, her hand poised to knock. She'd chosen her clothes carefully—designer jeans and a silk blouse that she'd found hanging in the closet beside the robe. Everything fit perfectly, which was either impressive planning or deeply unsettling.
"Come in," Alexander's voice called before she could knock.
The office was a shrine to power and success—mahogany desk, leather chairs, walls lined with awards and photos of Alexander shaking hands with world leaders and celebrities. But Emma's attention was immediately caught by the painting hanging behind his desk.
It was one of hers.
"Surprised?" Alexander looked up from a stack of documents, his gray eyes unreadable. He was dressed casually—black slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. The informality somehow made him more dangerous, less like a businessman and more like a predator at rest.
"That's..." Emma stared at the canvas, painted in shades of blue and gold that captured the feeling of hope struggling against despair. "That's from the gallery show three years ago. I thought they were all destroyed when—"
"When I bought out the building?" Alexander's smile was sharp. "I kept a few pieces. This one spoke to me."
Emma's throat went tight. The painting was called "After the Storm," and she'd painted it during the darkest period after her father's death, when she'd been trying to find beauty in the wreckage of her life. That Alexander had bought it—had kept it—felt like violation and intimacy rolled into one.
"Why?" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"Because it reminded me that some things survive destruction." Alexander stood, moving around the desk with fluid grace. "Even if they're changed by it."
He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, could smell the subtle cologne that made her think of dark promises and dangerous desires. This close, the air between them felt charged with the same electricity that had sparked during their kiss at the courthouse.
"We need to discuss the rules of our arrangement," Alexander said, his voice pitched low enough to make her skin tingle.
Emma forced herself to step back, to break the spell of his proximity. "What kind of rules?"
"The kind that will keep us both alive." Alexander returned to his desk, but Emma could feel his attention on her like a physical touch. "My world isn't like the one you're used to, Emma. The people in it see weakness as an opportunity and kindness as stupidity."
"Like your sister?"
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Sophia is family. Complicated, but family. The real threats come from outside—business rivals who would love to see me fall, competitors who view my marriage as either an opportunity or a vulnerability."
He pulled out a file folder, sliding it across the desk toward her. "Richard Hale, for instance."
Emma opened the folder to find photographs of a man in his fifties, silver-haired and distinguished, with the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. "Who is he?"
"A rival businessman who's been trying to destroy my company for the better part of a decade. He sees you as my weakness now—the pressure point he can use to bring me down."
The casual way Alexander spoke about her as a weakness made Emma's chest tight with an emotion she couldn't name. "And am I? Your weakness?"
Alexander went very still. When he looked at her, something raw and unguarded flickered across his features before disappearing behind his usual mask of control.
"That remains to be seen."
The honesty in his voice hit Emma like a physical blow. Before she could process it fully, Alexander's phone rang, shattering the tension between them.
"Knight," he answered, his voice switching instantly to business mode. "What? When? I'll be right there."
He hung up, already reaching for his suit jacket. "There's a problem at the office. I have to go."
"What kind of problem?"
Alexander paused at the door, looking back at her with an expression she couldn't read. "The kind that proves my enemies don't waste time. Someone leaked our marriage certificate to the press three hours after the ceremony. The story breaks in thirty minutes."
Emma's blood went cold. "What does that mean?"
"It means the honeymoon is over before it started." Alexander's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Welcome to my world, Mrs. Knight. Try not to bleed on the marble."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Emma alone with her racing heart and the sudden, terrible understanding that she'd underestimated the danger she was walking into. Through the windows, Manhattan glittered in the morning sun, beautiful and merciless.
Somewhere in that urban jungle, Richard Hale was probably reading about Alexander Knight's surprise marriage and calculating how to use it against him. Somewhere else, Sophia Knight was likely planning her next move in whatever game she was playing.
And here, in this glass tower that felt more like a target than a home, Emma Knight—she was still getting used to the name—was beginning to understand that her year of pretend marriage might not be about acting at all.
Because the way Alexander had looked at her when he'd called her his potential weakness hadn't felt like acting. It had felt like a man staring into the abyss and realizing he was about to fall.
Emma walked to the windows, pressing her palm against the cool glass. Forty floors below, the city moved with its usual chaotic energy, oblivious to the small drama playing out in the penthouse above.
But as she watched, a black sedan pulled up to the building's entrance. Through the tinted windows, she couldn't make out the occupant, but something about the way the car lingered made her skin crawl.
The sedan pulled away after several minutes, but Emma remained at the window, a chill running down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
The war for Alexander Knight's empire had begun, and whether she liked it or not, Emma was no longer just a spectator.
She was the prize.