Morning crept into the Knight mansion like a secret—it didn't announce itself with brightness but slipped through velvet curtains in slender streams. Emily lay awake in the vast bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her thoughts were louder than ever.
The night at the gala had gone well—at least in appearances. But appearances were Alexander Knight's specialty. She hadn't missed the subtle power plays, the veiled threats, the way Victor's eyes had lingered on her just a second too long.
She got up and padded barefoot across the cold marble floor. The opulence was no longer shocking. Now, it felt like a cage gilded in gold. A beautiful prison.
Downstairs, the house was already stirring. Staff moved like shadows—polite, quiet, efficient. One of them handed her a folded note sealed with the Knight family crest. It simply read:
Meet me in the library. - A
Her pulse quickened.
She had only entered the library once. It was the most secluded room in the mansion—paneled in dark oak, filled with ancient books and secrets that smelled like tobacco and old ambition.
When she entered, he was there. Alexander. Still in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled, a glass of something amber in his hand—at 8 a.m.
"You don't sleep?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"Sleep is a luxury," he replied, not looking at her. "One I can't afford."
She folded her arms. "Why did you want to see me?"
He finally turned. "You did well last night. Better than I expected."
"Because you thought I'd fall apart?"
"Because I thought you'd care too much."
Emily stepped closer. "And what about you? Do you care about anything? Or is this all just… a game to you?"
He studied her, eyes sharp like glass. "You want honesty? Alright. Everything in my world is strategy. You weren't chosen by chance, Emily. You were… a calculated move."
The words hit her like a slap. But he didn't stop.
"My enemies are watching. They needed to believe I could care for someone. Be human. You're the proof. The mask."
"And what am I to you, privately?" she asked quietly.
He stepped forward until there was barely a breath of space between them.
"A risk," he whispered.
Her breath hitched. Not because of the closeness, but because of the truth she saw in his eyes—haunted, guarded, aching beneath the cold exterior.
Before she could respond, a knock interrupted them. Miranda's voice called from behind the door. "Emily, darling. You have an appointment. Fashion shoot for Elite Society Weekly. Don't be late. It's your first solo feature."
Alexander's gaze remained fixed on her. "Welcome to the real role, Mrs. Knight. The spotlight doesn't dim here—it blinds."
She left the room without another word, the door clicking softly behind her.
Later that day, the photo shoot was in full swing. Flashbulbs popped, stylists swarmed, and Emily was draped in couture gowns worth more than her childhood home. Cameras captured her every angle, but none caught the unease in her chest.
She was becoming someone else.
In between shots, a journalist approached—young, clever-eyed, too observant.
"So, Mrs. Knight," he asked, pen poised, "what drew you to Alexander? Love at first sight?"
Emily paused. Then smiled.
"Sometimes love doesn't knock. It barges in."
The journalist laughed, but Emily's smile didn't reach her eyes.
That evening, back at the mansion, Emily passed Victor's name on a whispered call from the hallway.
She's too clever, Keep an eye on her.
The voice wasn't Alexander's.
Chills ran down her spine.
Unseen threads were weaving around her, binding her to a story deeper than she could yet understand.
And Emily Knight—whether she liked it or not—was no longer just playing the part.
She was part of the game.
The next morning, Emily stood barefoot in the hallway outside Alexander's private office. The door, thick and always closed, now stood ajar. She hesitated. Voices murmured inside.
"…She's gaining attention. Too much, too fast," one said.
"Exactly why we need to control the narrative," came Miranda's voice, cool and poised. "Let her play the wife. The more the world watches, the harder it is for our enemies to touch her."
"And what if she learns too much?" the first voice asked.
There was a pause. Then Alexander's voice, deep and unreadable:
"Then we make sure she forgets."
Emily's breath caught.
She stepped back too quickly—her heel hitting the corner of a low marble pedestal. The sound echoed like a shot.
Silence inside.
Before she could move, the door opened and Alexander stepped out. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes told her everything.
He knew she'd heard.
He didn't speak. He simply stepped aside and gestured for her to walk past him. The air between them crackled with unspoken truths.
Down the hall, Miranda gave her a faint, rehearsed smile. "You have a dress fitting this afternoon. The designer is flying in from Paris. Very exclusive."
Emily nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.
She no longer felt like a player in Alexander's world—she felt like a piece on a very expensive chessboard.
That afternoon, at the fitting, Emily stood surrounded by mirrors. Silk was draped over her like water, but her reflection looked foreign.
"Do you like it?" the designer asked.
Emily forced a smile. "It's beautiful."
But the truth was, she no longer knew what she liked. Her tastes, her comfort, her voice—it was all being dressed, painted, and posed.
As she turned, she noticed something tucked beneath a garment bag on the fitting table—a file folder. Her name was on the tab.
Curiosity overpowered caution.
While the stylist stepped out to take a call, Emily reached for it and flipped it open. Inside were surveillance photos—of her. From before the marriage. At the bakery. Walking to the tube. Visiting her mother's grave.
Her hands trembled.
A note inside the file read:
"Confirmed. She fits the profile."
Emily's chest tightened. What profile?
Before she could scan more, the stylist returned and Emily quickly shoved the folder back under the garments.
She smiled through the rest of the fitting, but her mind was spinning.
That night, she found Alexander in the study, swirling a glass of something dark.
She didn't knock.
"What profile do I fit?" she asked, voice steady.
He turned slowly. You went through my things.
You had people following me. Watching me. Long before this marriage."
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was for your protection.
No, she said sharply. It was for your plan.
Alexander stepped forward, setting the glass down.
I chose you, Emily, because you were ordinary. Untouched. Unconnected to this world. You were a blank page.
She laughed bitterly And now you're writing your story on me.
He met her eyes. "You think I'm the only one playing this game? You're already a threat to powerful people, simply by being at my side. That gala? That was just the first move. They'll come for you—because they can't come for me."
She wanted to scream, but something in his voice—his eyes—stopped her.
He wasn't trying to hurt her.
He was trying to protect her by keeping her in the dark.
Too late for that now.
She turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"I may have been your blank page, Alexander," she said. "But I'm learning how to write back."
The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time since this arrangement began, Alexander Knight looked… unsure.
Outside, rain began to fall over London, washing the city clean.
Inside the Knight mansion, the lines between truth and performance, between survival and control, had begun to crack.
And Emily was no longer just surviving.
She was beginning to fight back.