Emma
The first night in Ethan Grayson's penthouse feels like being placed into a cage adorned with silk and gold. It's undeniably beautiful, yes—sleek designs, floor-to-ceiling windows looking past the glittering Manhattan skyline, and enough space that could easily swallow my family's old home twice over. No matter how luxurious or beautiful the penthouse is, it still feels cold and unwelcoming, like it lacks warmth and emotion.
I move slowly behind Ethan as he take a very long steps through the living room, his tailored suit fitting perfectly as if he were cut up from the very marble floors he walks on. He stops in an abrupt manner and turns, his piercing gaze holding me fast to the spot.
"I trust you'll find everything to your liking," he says smoothly, gesturing around the space.
"Do I have a choice?" I mutter under my breath, the words barely audible but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
Ethan smirks. "No, you don't."
His answer is so blunt without a pretentious act, that I don't even bother replying. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, as if the gesture made could protect me from the heaviness of what I've gotten myself into.
" Your home now is this, Emma," he proceeds, his voice low and measured. "I suggest you start treating it as such."
I bite back the retort on my tongue and glance around. It doesn't feel like home. It feels like a stage, a place designed for appearances rather than comfort.
Later that night, I'm alone in the bedroom—our bedroom, as Ethan so helpfully reminded me earlier. The bed is massive, easily large enough for the two of us to sleep without ever touching, but the very thought of sharing it with him makes my skin crawl.
I open the closet, my breath catching at the sight. Every inch is filled with designer clothing—dresses, blouses, shoes—all in my size. It's unsettling, how thoroughly Ethan has prepared for my arrival, as if he's planned every detail of my life down to the fabric I'll wear.
"You'll find everything you need in there," Ethan's voice startles me, and I turn abruptly around to find him leaning casually against the doorframe. His tie is gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and he looks almost human for a fleeting moment,.
"I didn't ask for this," I say, making a gesture to the closet.
"No, but you'll use it," he replies, his tone infuriatingly calm. "You have appearances to keep up now, remember?"
I narrow my eyes. "You're having a good time with this, aren't you? Playing puppet master, pulling the strings."
Ethan moves briskly into the room, his presence filling the space. "Do you have opinion that this is a game to me?"
"Isn't it?" I counter, my voice rising. "You have all the control, Ethan. You can't pretend you don't enjoy dealing successfully with it."
His jaw becomes tight, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. "Control isn't about enjoyment, Emma. It's about necessity."
His words hang between us, heavy and unyielding, and for the first time, I see a fleeting view of the man beneath the facade. But the moment passes, and he turns away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Ethan
I should stay away from her.
Every instinct I have tells me to keep my distance, to treat her as nothing more than a pawn in a carefully constructed game. But Emma Whitmore has a way of making a burrow under my skin, her defiance and fire both causing displeasure and intriguing.
She doesn't belong in my world. She doesn't understand the rules, the stakes. And yet, there she is, standing in my penthouse, her presence disrupting the carefully maintained order of my life.
Olivia's words echo in my mind—She's not a pawn, Ethan. And if you keep treating her like one, this is going to blow up in your face.
I pour myself a drink and push the thought away.As the amber liquid flows down my throat it burns. Emma might not be a mere pawn, but she's now undeniably part of the game. And I don't lose.
Emma
The morning light filters through the massive windows, casting a soft glow over the penthouse. I sit at the breakfast bar, sipping the coffee that Olivia—Ethan's assistant—had delivered earlier.
Ethan strides into the room, looking as polished as ever in a dark suit. His intent look flicks to me briefly before he pours himself a cup of coffee.
"We have a busy day ahead," he says without an introductory statement.
"Do we?" I ask, arching a brow.
He smirks. "Your first appearance as Mrs. Grayson. We're attending a fundraiser for the Grayson Foundation this evening. I trust you'll be ready."
I set my mug down, my stomach tightening. "What exactly do you expect from me, Ethan? To smile and nod while you parade me around like a trophy?"
"I expect you to play your part," he replies, his tone icy. "If that means smiling and nodding, so be it. Remember, Emma, you agreed to this."
The reminder stings, but I refuse to let him see it. "Fine," I say, my voice steady. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."
The hours pass in a blur of fittings, stylists, and instructions from Olivia. By the time the car arrives to take us to the event, I feel like a doll dressed up for display.
Ethan waits for me by the elevator, his sharp gaze sweeping over me as I step inside. "You look…adequate," he says, his lips twitching with amusement.
"Don't strain yourself with the compliments," I reply, earning a low chuckle.
The fundraiser is held at a stupendous ballroom, every last bit of the space trickling with richness. Chandeliers shimmer above, and the air murmurs with the chatter of New York's elite.
Ethan's hand rests lightly on my back as we move through the crowd, a constant reminder of the act I'm expected to maintain.People welcome him with a mix of respect, esteem and admiration, their eyes flicking to me with curiosity.
"This must be your wife," one man says, extending a hand. "Ethan, I didn't even know you were married."
"It was a recent development," Ethan replies smoothly, his tone betraying nothing.
I plaster on a smile, the lie rolling off my tongue. "It was a whirlwind romance."
Ethan take a quick look at me, a flicker of approval in his eyes.
I find myself alone near the bar,as the night drags on,nursing a glass of champagne. Ethan is across the room, deep in conversation with a group of businessmen.
"Enjoying yourself?"
I turn to see Vivienne standing beside me, her red lips curled into a smirk.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice sharp.
She shrugs, swirling her drink. "Just thought I'd check in. You looked a little…lost."
"I'm fine," I snap, though my grip on the glass tightens.
Vivienne leans closer, her voice low and mocking. "You're playing a dangerous game, Emma. Ethan doesn't trust easily, and when he finally does, it never ends well."
Before I can respond, she's gone, disappearing into the crowd.
When Ethan finally comes back to my side, his expression darkens as he becomes aware of the tension in my posture.
"What did she say to you?" he asks, his voice low and involving possible harm.
"Nothing I didn't know already," I respond, my voice shaking involuntarily despite my best effort to stay composed.
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. "Stay away from her, Emma. Vivienne doesn't play fair."
"Neither do you," I whisper, the words cutting deeper than I intended.
Ethan's jaw becomes tight , and briefly, I see something unguarded and raw in his appearance. However at that point it's gone, supplanted by the frosty control I've generally expected.
"You're now mine, Emma," he says, his voice cold and unwavering. "Also, I don't lose what's mine."