Emma
The first headline hits before I've even had my coffee.
Grayson's Fairytale Marriage or Corporate Power Move?"
I gaze at the screen of my phone, my stomach bending as I look at the article. It's not only hypothesis about our whirlwind romance— it's an all out cross interrogation of our relationship. Each word feels like a slap, each painstakingly developed sentence intended to punch holes in the delicate façade Ethan and I have constructed.
"Emma?" Olivia's voice pulls me from my spiraling contemplations. She remains in the kitchen entryway, her tablet tucked under her arm, her demeanor cautiously impartial.
"Indeed?" I make due, my voice tight.
"Ethan needs to see you in his office," she says, her tone don't betray anything.
Fantastic. This will be entertaining.
Ethan's office is pretty much as scary as the man himself — every single sharp edge and cold style. He's standing by the window when I stroll in, his back to me, his phone squeezed to his ear.
"Indeed, handle it," he expresses tersely prior to hanging up. He goes to confront me, his appearance indistinguishable. "Have you seen the article?"
"Obviously I've seen it," I answer, folding my arms. "It's almost impossible to miss when your name is spread all around the internet."
Ethan's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he's going to snap. But instead, he exhales sharply and gestures for me to sit.
"I'm handling it," he says, his tone clipped.
"Are you?" I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "Because it seems like your solution is to ignore the problem until it goes away."
His gaze sharpens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "This isn't the first time the media has speculated about my life, Emma. I know how to control the narrative."
"And what narrative are we going with this time?" I challenge. "The doting husband and devoted wife? The power couple taking New York by storm?"
Ethan steps closer, his presence looming. "You agreed to this arrangement. Part of that agreement is maintaining appearances. I need you to stick to the script."
"The script?" I repeat, incredulous. "This isn't a movie, Ethan. This is my life."
His expression hardens, the mask slipping back into place. "Your life is tied to mine now. If you want your father's company to survive, you'll do as I say."
The words hit like a punch to the stomach, and briefly, I can't relax.
"Unbelievable," I murmur, shaking my head. "You're partaking in this, right? Pulling the strings, controlling each part of my life."
Ethan's jaw fixes, yet he doesn't deny it.
The remainder of the day is a haze of harm control. Ethan's PR group dives in like vultures, creating painstakingly phrased explanations and coordinating a series of photograph operations to build up the "realness" of our relationship.
I endure everything, putting on a grin that feels more like a grimace, gesturing along as they instruct me on the most proficient method to act.
"You'll have to post something on social media," one of them says, her tone lively. "Something sincere. Authentic."
"Authentic?" I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You mean fake."
The woman bristles, but before she can respond, Ethan speaks.
"Emma," he says, his tone low and warning. "Just do it."
Sometime thereafter, I sit in the living room, looking at my phone as I draft the ideal caption for a photograph Ethan demanded we take. My frustration rises over, and I throw the phone onto the lounge chair, letting out a moan of bothering.
"This is ludicrous," I murmur.
"Something wrong?" Ethan asks, showing up in the entryway.
"Everything," I snap, remaining to confront him. "Do you try and hear yourself, Ethan? This entire act is spiraling wild."
His demeanor resists the urge to panic, yet there's a flash of something in his eyes — something I can't exactly place. "What do you believe that I should say, Emma? That I regret this? Since I don't."
"Obviously you don't," I answer, my voice shaking. "This is precisely exact thing you wanted, right? Complete control."
Ethan steps closer, his gaze darkening. "You think I planned this? That I orchestrated your father's downfall just to force you into this marriage?"
The accusation hangs heavy in the air, the silence between us deafening.
"Did you?" I whisper, my heart pounding.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might actually admit it. But then he shakes his head, his voice low and measured. "Believe what you want, Emma. It doesn't change anything."
Ethan
Her words cut deeper than I expected.
The idea that I would go to such lengths to manipulate her life… It's insulting, yes, but also unsettling. Because part of me wonders if she's right.
I didn't orchestrate her father's downfall—not directly. But I didn't stop it, either. And now, with every passing day, I feel the weight of that decision pressing down on me.
Emma doesn't trust me. I can see it in the way she looks at me, the fire in her eyes dimmed by doubt.
But trust isn't a luxury I can afford.
The next morning, the tabloids are relentless, their headlines screaming accusations and speculation. *"A Marriage of Convenience?"* "Grayson's Bride Under Scrutiny."
Ethan's frustration is palpable, his movements sharp and precise as he paces the living room. "We need to get ahead of this," he says, his voice clipped.
"And how do you propose we do that?" I ask, my tone flat.
"We go bigger," he replies, his gaze locking onto mine. "A public show of unity. Something they can't question."
I cross my arms, my heart sinking. "What does that mean?"
"It means we're hosting a charity event," he says, his tone final. "Here. At the penthouse."
My stomach twists. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm very serious," he replies, his expression hard.
The days paving the way to the occasion are a hurricane of arranging and readiness. The penthouse is changed into a sparkling venue, everything meticulously planned to perfection.
Ethan is all over the place, regulating each viewpoint with the accuracy of a man who thrives on control. I watch him from the sidelines, my hatred developing as time passes.
At the point when the night at last shows up, I feel like a doll, dressed up and put in plain view so that the world might be able to see. My outfit shimmers under the lights, yet I feel everything except amazing.
Ethan remains next to me, his hand laying on the little of my back as he welcomes the visitors. His appeal is easy, his grin practiced. In any case, each word he expresses feels determined, intended to control.
As the night delays, I can't shake the inclination that I'm suffocating.
Toward the end of the evening, as the last guests filter out, I catch a snippet of a conversation between Ethan and one of his associates.
"…everything went according to plan," the man says, his voice low.
Ethan nods, his expression unreadable. "Good. I can't afford any loose ends."
The words send a chill down my spine, and for the first time, I realize just how far Ethan is willing to go to protect his empire.
I retreat to the bedroom, my mind racing with doubts and suspicions. Did Ethan orchestrate everything? My father's downfall, our marriage, this entire charade?
As I sit on the edge of the bed, the weight of the truth—or the lack of it—presses down on me.
And I can't shake the feeling that I'm just another pawn in Ethan Grayson's game.