The grand dining room was drenched in soft, golden light, the kind that could make cold silver sparkle and polished wood shine. A table that could seat twenty sat in the center, set perfectly with crystal glasses, folded linen napkins, and gleaming cutlery — all for just two people.
Emma stood just outside the threshold, her fingers gently brushing the doorframe. The sound of clinking dishes and muffled footsteps filled the silence, the staff moving quickly to set the evening's courses.
She hadn't been invited.
Earlier that day, Mrs. Langley, the housekeeper, had mentioned that Mr. Wolfe would be dining at home tonight. Emma had expected he'd eat in his study or perhaps with his grandmother. She had planned to eat in her room again, quietly, alone — as she had for the past few nights.
But the butler had arrived, polite and stiff.
"Mr. Wolfe expects you at the table, ma'am."
And now, here she was. Frozen.
Alexander Wolfe was already seated at the far end of the table. Immaculate in a white shirt with the collar slightly undone, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, he didn't look like a man forced into a marriage he didn't want. He looked... flawless. Unbothered. A little too perfect.
His dark hair, tousled just enough to look intentional, and the shadows of stubble along his sharp jawline gave him the appearance of a man carved from marble — clean lines, hard expressions, untouchable. There was something dangerous about his calm. Something Emma couldn't quite read.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
He didn't look up.
The clink of his fork against the plate was the only sound until Emma reached her chair — three seats down from him, as the staff had arranged. She paused, unsure.
"Here," he said suddenly, his voice low but clear.
Emma looked up. Alexander was nodding toward the seat directly across from him.
"That's... closer," she said, confused.
His eyes met hers for the first time that night. Gray. Cold. Calculating.
"It's dinner," he replied. "Not a battlefield."
Emma wasn't so sure.
Still, she obeyed. The chair across from him scraped softly as she pulled it back and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, unsure whether to thank him or just pretend this was normal.
It wasn't.
The first course arrived — soup with herbs she couldn't pronounce. Emma lowered her head and took a small spoonful, tasting carefully. She wasn't used to this kind of food, though she'd never complain.
Across the table, Alexander ate with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this world belonged to him. Expensive suits. Designer plates. Cold dinners with strangers.
She kept her gaze on her bowl.
Minutes passed. Silent, except for the distant murmur of staff behind closed doors. It felt like hours.
"I hear you've studied design," Alexander said suddenly.
Emma looked up, startled. His voice wasn't harsh. Just... neutral.
"Yes. Fashion design. I was supposed to study abroad next semester."
He gave a small, impassive nod, cutting into his second course — something with salmon and a bright green sauce.
"And yet," he said without emotion, "here you are. Married to a stranger."
Emma looked down again, heat rising in her cheeks. "It wasn't my choice."
"No," he agreed, his tone sharper now. "It was mine."
His words dropped like ice in the room.
Emma's hands tightened on her fork. She wanted to ask him why he had agreed to this — why he hadn't called off the wedding when it became clear that her stepsister had run away. Why marry a stranger?
But she knew the answer. The same reason she had been pushed into this marriage.
Business. Reputation. Debt. Strategy.
She wasn't a person here. She was a solution.
"I didn't want to be here either," she said quietly, surprising even herself.
He looked at her then, for longer this time. Not just a glance. A look. Measured. Curious.
"You don't act like someone desperate for a wealthy husband."
"Because I wasn't."
Another silence. But this one felt different. Thicker. Not just awkward — thoughtful.
The dessert was served. Emma barely touched hers.
Alexander, however, spoke again.
"You've been staying out of sight. Avoiding people."
She shrugged lightly. "They don't want me here. It makes things easier."
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. A brief flash of — something. He leaned back in his chair, eyes on her like he was reassessing.
"People in this house don't decide who belongs," he said.
Emma raised her eyes to his. "No. But they decide how welcome someone feels."
It was a small truth. But it landed.
Alexander studied her again, longer this time. There was no warmth yet in his eyes, no apology. But something had changed — a shift, almost imperceptible, in the way he saw her.
The staff returned to clear the dishes. Emma stood first, unsure if the meal was over or if she should stay.
As she turned to leave, Alexander's voice stopped her.
"Emma."
She looked back.
"You may continue your studies. If you want to."
Emma blinked, lips parting in surprise. "What?"
"I'll have someone look into local options. It won't be abroad, but it's better than nothing."
For a second, she didn't know what to say.
Then: "Why?"
He looked at her with a gaze too unreadable to define. "You're not her. I'm aware of that now."
He didn't say more. Just turned, picking up a tablet from the sideboard as if the conversation had ended.
Emma stood there a moment longer, her heart quietly pounding.
She didn't know what this was — kindness? Pity? A strategic move? But it was something. And in this house of cold stares and forced smiles, something was everything.
She nodded once, barely audible. "Thank you."
And then she left the dining room, her footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.
Behind her, Alexander sat still. Watching. Thinking.
The game had started to change.