The drive to his manor seemed like it would last forever. Yet it took only forty minutes.
Maybe it was the dread, but as she got closer and closer to the manor, she felt her body itch.
She pressed her forehead against the car window, watching the buildings grow shorter and houses turn into mansions and estates.
Damien was beside her, scrolling through his phone like it was just another Tuesday.
"So," Emma said, because the silence was suffocating. "Your family. What are they like?"
"You'll meet them soon enough."
"What type of answer is that?"
"The type you're getting."
This prick. Emma gritted her teeth in annoyance.
She turned back to the window, knots in her stomach.
The contract mentioned "extended family" at Cross Manor. She'd pictured maybe a parent. A sibling. Not whatever waited for her now.
The car turned through iron gates that looked centuries old.
Then she saw the house.
"Holy shit," Emma whispered.
It wasn't a house. It was a legitimate mansion. Three stories of grey stone with actual towers, windows everywhere catching the late sun, balconies overlooking the grounds like something from a movie.
"It's called Cross Manor," Damien said. "Built in 1892."
"It has a name. The house has a name."
"Most estates do."
A man in an actual butler uniform opened her door. Emma half-expected him to bow.
"Welcome home, Mr. Cross. And congratulations on your marriage, sir."
"Thank you, Henderson. This is Emma. She'll be in the east wing."
East wing. Like that was normal. Like houses just casually had wings.
She followed Damien to the house.
So she was going to live here?
She was still in her daydreams when…
"Damien!" A cold female voice echoed through the hall, "Is it true?"
An elderly woman walked down the stairs, elegantly. She looked like she was in a soap opera.
Seventies, maybe, but she moved like steel wrapped in designer clothes. Silver hair pulled back tight. Diamond earrings that could fund Tyler's surgery twice over. Eyes like blue ice locked onto Emma.
"Grandmother," Damien said flatly. "This is Emma. My wife."
The temperature dropped twenty degrees.
"Your wife." The old woman, Vivian, Emma remembered from the contract...looked Emma up and down like she was inspecting day-old fish. "You married this… girl?"
"I did."
"Looks like a maid."
Emma's face burned with embarrassment.
"Ni…Nice to meet..meet you too madam."
Vivian rolled her eyes.
"Don't you know basic education? Do you not know that you are not supposed to talk till you are spoken to?"
Emma said nothing and pursed her lips.
Then the woman turned to Damien;
"We need to talk. Now."
"Later. I'm showing Emma her room."
"I said now."
Damien's jaw tightened, but he turned to Emma. "Henderson will show you the east wing. I'll find you later."
Before Emma could protest, he was walking away with his grandmother, their voices fading down a corridor.
Great. Abandoned on day one.
"This way, madam." Henderson's voice was kind, at least.
Emma followed him through what felt like half a mile of house. Portraits of stern-looking people lined the walls, probably dead Cross ancestors judging her. Finally, Henderson stopped at double doors.
"The east wing, madam. I believe you'll be comfortable here."
He opened the doors and Emma's jaw dropped.
The bedroom was massive. A four-poster bed that could sleep a family. A sitting area with a fireplace. Windows overlooking gardens that went on forever. Through another door she could see a bathroom that looked like a spa.
"Jesus," Emma breathed.
"Dinner is at seven in the formal dining room. Mr. Cross requests formal attire." Henderson paused. "I took the liberty of having appropriate clothing delivered. The closet, madam."
He left before Emma could ask what "appropriate" meant.
She walked to the closet...of course there was a walk-in closet...and found it full of dresses. Designer labels she only knew from magazines. Shoes that probably cost more than her monthly rent used to be. Everything in her exact size.
He'd investigated her. Knew everything about her. Even her measurements.
What had she done? Sold herself to a man who bought her a wardrobe like she was a doll. Who had a grandmother who looked at her like trash. Who had a house with wings and staff and a world so far from hers they might as well be different species.
Her phone buzzed. Tyler.
Surgery tomorrow morning. Doc says it looks good. Thank you Em. I love you.
Emma read it three times. This was why. Tyler was going to live. That was all that mattered.
She could survive anything for twelve months.
Right?
...
Few minutes before dinner, Damien returned to her room. He had in his hand, a jewelry box.
Emma looked on curiously.
He opened the box and in it lay, the most beautiful sapphire necklace she had ever seen.
"Have this. It's a family heirloom that the madam of the house always wears."
"Oh no I can't accept this…it's too expensive.."
"You have to. My mother used to wear it, and so did my grandmother. And so will you."
"I'm only your wife for a year. I don't need…"
He didn't take No for an answer. He dropped the necklace on her bedroom table and left.
Emma stared at the necklace for while. Something that was worth millions of dollars. Why did he give it to her? A mere contract wife?
Was he testing her?
She decided not to use till they separated. It was too valuable. So she kept it in a safe place away from the world.
-----
Dinner was hell.
Emma chose the most expensive gown she had. A silk black gown.
But as she walked into the dining hall, she felt like she wore a potato sack inside a gala.
The hall was enormous and screamed luxury. A table that could seat thirty people. Another crystal chandelier. More dead ancestors on the walls. Candles everywhere like they were filming a period drama.
Damien sat at the head in a fresh suit looking bored. Vivian sat to his right, dripping diamonds and disapproval.
There was another woman at the table. A middle aged woman with rows and rows of jewelry around her hands and neck.
She had on a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Who was she?
"Emma," Damien said. "My aunt, Margaret."
Margaret looked Emma over with the same warmth you'd show a cockroach. "How… quaint. Damien, where did you find her?"
"She was serving wine at the Ashford party," Vivian said. "Spilled it all over Vanessa Whitmore. Very elegant."
Emma's hands clenched. "Nice to meet you, Margaret."
"Sit." Damien gestured to the chair beside him.
A servant appeared immediately to pour wine. Another placed food in front of Emma that looked too beautiful to eat.
"So Emma." Margaret cut her meat with surgical precision. "What do your parents do?"
"They died eight years ago. House fire."
Margaret raised a brow "Oh. How sad. And before that?"
"My father taught high school. My mother was a nurse."
"A teacher and a nurse." Vivian's voice dripped poison. "How wonderfully common. Did you finish college, dear?"
Emma's jaw tightened. "Two years at NYU. Had to drop out when my parents died."
"Of course you did." Vivian smiled like a shark. "And now you're a waitress who trapped my grandson. Very enterprising."