Emma
The strain in the car is choking.
Ethan sits close to me, looking at his phone with the easygoing lack of interest of a man who owns the world. His sharp facial structure is set, his dim eyes zeroed in, yet there's a propensity of control in his movements that makes me want to shout.
"Are you going to disregard me the entire night, or is this simply a warm-up?" I ask, the mockery in my voice slicing through the silence.
He glances at me briefly, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. "I wasn't aware you were so eager for my attention."
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. "I just want to know what to expect. You've dragged me into your world, Ethan. The least you can do is tell me the rules."
His smirk fades, replaced by the icy calm that seems to define him. "The rules are simple, Emma. Smile. Nod. Pretend we're madly in love. And above all, don't embarrass me."
"Is that all?" I mutter, glaring out the window.
"For now," he replies, his tone as sharp as the tailored lines of his suit.
The gala is held at a sprawling estate just outside Manhattan. The moment we arrive, cameras flash, their bright lights blinding as we step out of the car. Ethan offers me his hand, and I hesitate, my pride warring with the necessity of this charade.
"Emma," he says, his voice low and commanding. "Take my hand."
I do, plastering on a smile as the paparazzi shout questions. "Mr. Grayson, over here! How long have you two been married?"
Ethan leans close, his lips brushing my ear. "Keep smiling. You're doing great."
The glow of his breath sends a shudder down my spine, but I compel myself to remain formed.
Inside, the room is a stunning presentation of riches and influence. Crystal chandeliers fixtures shimmer above, and the air is loaded up with the murmur of courteous discussion.
Ethan explores the crowd effortlessly, his hand laying gently on my back as he acquaints me with every individual who matters.
"Ethan, who's this stunning woman?" an older gentleman asks, his sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity.
"This is my wife, Emma," Ethan replies smoothly, his tone warm but distant.
"Wife?" the man repeats, raising a brow. "I didn't think you had it in you, Grayson."
Ethan chuckles, the sound low and calculated. "Even I can be full of surprises."
I grin, the untruth sitting weighty on my tongue. "It's been an undertaking, without a doubt."
Ethan's hand fixes on my back, an unobtrusive suggestion to keep straight.
As the night delays, I end up helpless before casual conversation and not so subtle judgment. The ladies in their designer outfits see me like I'm an outcast, their cleaned grins scarcely concealing their disdain.
"Mrs. Grayson," one of them says, her voice dribbling with false pleasantness.
"That dress is lovely. Is it custom?"
I glance at Ethan, who's busy discussing some deal with a group of men. "Not exactly," I reply, forcing a smile. "But thank you."
"Interesting choice," she says, her gaze flicking over me. "Ethan always had such impeccable taste."
The barb isn't subtle, and I feel my cheeks heat with anger. Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.
"Ladies," Vivienne says, her red lips curving into a wicked smile. "I see you've met Ethan's lovely bride."
The group parts for her like the Red Sea, their expressions shifting to thinly veiled awe. Vivienne looks every inch the socialite in her figure-hugging gown, her presence commanding and impossible to ignore.
"Vivienne," I say, my tone neutral but edged.
She steps closer, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You look…different, Emma. Married life must suit you."
"Thank you," I reply tightly. "And you look…exactly the same."
Her smile falters for a fraction of a second before she recovers. "I suppose some of us don't need a makeover to keep up."
"Some of us don't need to keep up at all," I counter, my heart pounding.
Vivienne chuckles, the sound low and mocking. "Touché." She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Enjoy your moment, Emma. It doesn't last."
Ethan
I spot Emma across the room, her stance tense as she exchange words with Vivienne. Indeed, even from a distance , I can see the fire in her eyes, the difficult resistance that both disturbs and interests me.
"What's Vivienne doing here?" I ask Olivia, who's standing nearby.
"She's on the board," Olivia replies, her tone clipped. "You should've expected her."
Under my breath I curse, my look restricting as Vivienne says something that makes Emma's jaw fix. Whatever she's doing, I know it's bad.
"Excuse me," I express, stepping across the room.
At the point when I contact them, Vivienne turns to me with a grin that is all teeth. "Ethan," she murmurs. "We were simply talking about your hurricane sentiment."
"I'm certain you were," I answer coolly, sliding an arm around Emma's waist.
Emma solidifies somewhat however doesn't pull away, her eyes locking onto mine as though trying me to say something.
"Vivienne," I continue, my tone sharp. "Shouldn't you be mingling with the board members? I'm sure they'd love to hear your thoughts on the foundation's latest initiatives."
Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly. "Of course. Don't let me keep you."
As she walks away, I turn to Emma, my hand lingering on her waist. "What did she say to you?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle," she replies, her voice tight.
"That's not what I asked."
Emma pulls away, her eyes flashing with anger. "She said I don't belong here. That I'm just a placeholder."
I curse under my breath, a flicker of guilt threading through my chest. "She's wrong."
"Is she?" Emma challenges, her voice trembling. "Because that's exactly how you've treated me since the moment I signed that damn contract."
The ride home is quiet, the strain between us thick and steady. At the point when we show up at the penthouse, Emma gets out of the vehicle without a word, her shoulders stiff with outrage.
When we're inside, she turns on me, her eyes bursting. "I can't do this, Ethan. I can't play this game and pretend it doesn't do any harm."
Her words hit me harder than I expect, but I keep my expression neutral. "You knew what you were signing up for, Emma."
"That doesn't make it easier," she snaps.
I take a step closer, my voice low. "Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy this charade?"
"Yes," she says, her voice breaking. "I think you thrive on it."
Her allegation cuts further than it ought to, and briefly, I don't have the foggiest idea how to answer. Yet, rather than explaining, I do what I always do — I shut down.
"Get some rest," I say coldly, turning away. "We have another event tomorrow."
As I walk away, I hear Emma's voice, soft but full of resolve.
"I'll play your game, Ethan. Yet, don't assume that I'm doing this for you."
Her words leave me speechless, the fire in them consuming more splendid than anything I've faced in years.
Furthermore, interestingly, I keep thinking about whether I've underrated her.