Emma
Ethan Grayson's hand hovers between us, an invitation—or a command—depending on how you look at it. His dark eyes lock onto mine, challenging me to refuse. I hold back in doubt, not because I want to resist him, but because the very act of taking his hand feels like giving up completely the last shred of control I have left.
"I'm not going to bite, Emma," he says, his voice smooth and faintly amused. "Not yet, at least."
Heat moves forward to my cheeks, not from the state of being embarrassed, but from fury. This man thinks he owns me, and to some extent, he's correct. I sold myself to save my family. My pride no longer matters.
I force myself to take his hand. His grip is firm, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos inside me. "Let's get one thing right," I say, my voice low but steady. " I'm not doing this for you,but I'm doing it for my family. Don't confuse necessity with willingness."
His lips curl into a faint smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Noted."
The car ride to Ethan's penthouse is suffocating. His sleek black car moves through the city like a predator prowling its territory. Ethan sits across from me, his posture relaxed, as if this is just another transaction for him.
I hate how unaffected he seems, while every cell in my body screams at me to run.
"Do you always make business deals like this?" I ask, breaking the silence.
He looks up from his phone, his brows lifting slightly. "Like what?"
"By coercing women into marriage."
He chuckles, the sound low and infuriatingly smooth. "You weren't coerced, Emma. You signed the contract willingly."
"Willingly?" I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You didn't exactly leave me with a choice."
"Choices are rarely ideal," he replies, his tone maddeningly calm. "But they're still choices."
I cross my arms, refusing to focus my gaze at him. "You're not sufferable."
"And yet, here you are."
His words linger palpably, reminding me that regardless of how much I hate this arrangement, I'm already trapped in it.
The moment we show up at his penthouse, I'm struck by how different it feels from my family's old home. Where our penthouse was filled with rich colors,antique furniture and was warm and opulent. Ethan's is a tangible proof to modern minimalism. Steel and glass dominate the space, the sharp edges and muted tones a reflection of the man himself.
"Welcome home," he says, his voice sounding repeatedly in the vast, empty space.
"This isn't my home," I snap, stepping inside in a reluctant manner.
"It will be," he replies, his tone unbothered. "You'll adjust."
The casual attitude of superiority in his voice makes me want to scream. Instead, I take a deep breath, my intent look sweeping over the sterile surroundings. It's beautiful, in a cold, detached way. But it's not a home.
"Where's my room?" I ask, my voice clipped.
He smirks, as if my defiance amuses him. "You'll be staying in the master bedroom with me."
I freeze, my heart lurching. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says,drawing nearer. "We know this is definitely not a genuine marriage, however,we have to make it look convincing.It's non-debatable to share a room."
"You can't be serious."
His expression hardens, the humor vanishing from his eyes. "I'm always serious, Emma. You signed the contract. This is part of the deal."
The master bedroom is basically as cold and impersonal as the remainder of the penthouse. The king-sized bed overwhelms the space, its white bed sheets are unwrinkled and untouched. I drop my bag on the floor, refusing to meet Ethan's gaze.
"You'll find the closet fully stocked," he says, making gesture to a door on the far side of the room. "And if you need anything else, let Olivia know."
"Great," I murmur, folding my arms. "Anything else, Your Highness?"
His lips jerk, as if he's battling a grin. "Get some rest. We have a public appearance tomorrow."
I stare angrily at him, but he's as of now leaving, his footsteps reverberating down the hall.
When the entryway closes, I collapse onto the bed, the heaviness of the day crashing down on me. I feel like I'm drowning, each breath harder to take than the last.
Ethan
From the control room of my penthouse, I watch Emma through the security feed. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped, her head in her hands.
She's breaking.
Good.
That's what I need—her to realize how much power I hold. But watching her now, I can't ignore the small flicker of guilt in my chest.
I shake it off. Guilt is a luxury I can't afford.
"Still keeping tabs on her?" Olivia's voice cuts through the silence.
I glance at her, unamused. "It's called being thorough."
"It's called being obsessed," she counters, folding her arms. "You're playing a dangerous game, Ethan."
"I always play to win."
She sighs, her gaze softening slightly. "Just don't forget she's a person, not a pawn."
Her words linger long after she's gone, but I push them aside. Emma Whitmore is mine now, and I don't intend to let her forget it.
Emma
I barely sleep.
When the sun rises,to pull myself out of bed takes all my strength. I quickly shower, keeping away from the reflection in the mirror. I don't recognize the woman looking fixedly back at me—the woman who signed away her freedom for a man she looks down on.
Ethan is waiting, sipping coffee in the kitchen like he doesn't have a care in the world. He's impeccably dressed with his dark suit fashioned to perfection.
"You're late," he says without raising up his head to look at me.
"Good morning to you too," I mutter and pour a cup of coffee for myself.
"We're going to be present at a charity gala tonight," he says, "It's your first public appearance as Mrs. Grayson. You are expected to act the part."
I choke on my coffee. "Mrs. Grayson? You must be kidding."
His gaze sharpens. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"
I'm extremely nervous and worried,by the time evening rolls around, The dress Ethan's stylist picked out for me is strikingly impressive—an emerald green gown that hugs my curves and throws out sparks under the light. But no amount of luxury can erase the knot in my stomach.
Ethan waits for me by the door, his eyes raking over me with quiet approval. "You clean up nicely," he says.
"Don't get used to it," I snap, brushing past him.
He chuckles, following me to the waiting car.
The gala is worse than I imagined. Cameras flash as we step onto the red carpet, the crowd murmuring about the unlikely pairing of Ethan Grayson and Emma Whitmore.
"Smile," Ethan whispers, his hand resting on the small of my back. "You shouldn't appear as though you don't love me."
I force a grin and each muscle in my body shouts in protest.
Inside, the room is loaded up with New York's elite, each person more self absorbed than the last. Ethan introduces me to his business partners, his grip on my waist is firm and possessive.
But it's the woman who approaches us midway through the evening who truly makes my blood run cold.
"Ethan," she makes a sound like a pur, her red lips curving into a sly smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Vivienne," Ethan says smoothly, though I notice his jaw tighten. "Always a pleasure."
Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. "And who's this?"
"Emma," I say, forcing a polite smile. "Ethan's wife."
Her smile move waveringly, just for a moment, before she recovers. "Wife? Well, isn't that a surprise."
The tension between them is easily perceptible, and I can't shake the feeling that I've just stepped into the middle of something far more involving possible harm than I realized.
As Vivienne walks away, she takes a quick look at her shoulder, her voice soft but cutting. "Be careful, Emma. You don't have any idea of what you've gotten yourself into."
Her words make me feel exceptionally scared, and for the first time, I keep thinking about whether marrying Ethan Grayson was the greatest mistake of my life