The click of the heavy suite door as Marcus Wayne discreetly exited, leaving Zoe alone with Alexander Sterling, sounded like the lid of a coffin slamming shut. Or perhaps, Zoe mused wryly, the starting bell for Round Two of a fight she hadn't even known she was in until an hour ago.
The opulent St. Regis suite, moments before a stage for Isabelle Thorne's Oscar-worthy melodrama and Aunt Caroline's judgmental glares, now felt like a luxurious battleground. Shattered remnants of a room service breakfast lay on the floor near a toppled vase, its water seeping into the plush Aubusson carpet. Discarded clothing formed a trail of sartorial breadcrumbs leading to the rumpled king-sized bed, a silent testament to the "scandal" that had just exploded.
Alexander Sterling stood by the panoramic window, his back to her, a study in controlled fury. The morning light, now beginning to slice through the Manhattan skyline, limned his powerful shoulders and the sharp cut of his jaw. He was, Zoe had to admit with a detached part of her brain that still appreciated aesthetics, a magnificent bastard. The kind of man who probably had "brooding" listed as a hobby on his non-existent dating profile.
Zoe, still wrapped in the ridiculously expensive silk sheet that probably cost more than her entire pre-transmigration wardrobe, remained on the bed. Her internal Zoe Carter was screaming a litany of curses and "how did I get here?" laments, while the newly-minted Emily Miller persona was trying to project an image of fragile shock, tinged with a suitable amount of terror. It was exhausting, this method acting.
"So," Alexander finally said, his voice as smooth and cold as the polished marble floor. He turned, those stormy Atlantic eyes pinning her. The earlier raw anger had been banked, replaced by an unnerving, predatory calm. "Miss Miller. It appears we find ourselves in a rather… delicate situation."
Delicate? Honey, this is a five-alarm dumpster fire about to go nuclear, Zoe thought. Outwardly, she flinched prettily. "I… I still don't understand what happened, Mr. Sterling. Or why those people… why Miss Thorne…"
"Isabelle," Alexander cut her off, a muscle twitching in his jaw at the mention of the name, "is a known quantity. Predictable in her malice. The press, equally so in their hunger for sensation. Your role in this, Miss Miller, is the current unknown variable."
His gaze was intense, analytical. Zoe felt like a bug under a microscope. He was no longer just dismissing her as a one-night inconvenience to be paid off. Her slightly off-script performance during the "raid" – her pointed questions to Isabelle, her feigned but oddly lucid memory loss – had clearly made him recalibrate. Good. Let him wonder.
"My role?" she echoed, her voice trembling. "Mr. Sterling, I assure you, I never intended… I don't even know how I…"
He raised a hand, silencing her. "Intentions are irrelevant at this point. Perception is everything. And the perception, thanks to Miss Thorne's timely intervention and Mr. Hayes' flashing camera, is that you, a young woman of… let's say, modest background, spent the night in my suite. The implications are, shall we say, damaging."
He began to pace, a caged panther in a bespoke suit (well, half a suit, his trousers were still on, but the shirt was history). "My family, my company, Sterling Enterprises, cannot afford a scandal of this nature. Especially not now, with certain… sensitive negotiations underway."
Zoe listened, her mind racing, trying to align this with the plot of Manhattan's Ice King. Yes, this was it. The "CEO needs to protect his image/business deal" trope. Chapter Four, if memory served. Original Emily Miller had been a blubbering mess, easily manipulated into whatever Alexander Sterling dictated.
"Therefore," Alexander continued, stopping directly in front of her, looming, "we need a new narrative. One that explains your presence here in a way that is… palatable. Acceptable."
He paused, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. Zoe knew what was coming. The contract. The fake relationship. The gilded cage.
"I propose," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, a purely transactional tone, "that you and I are… involved. A whirlwind romance. Something new, unexpected, but genuine." He almost managed to say "genuine" without sneering. Almost. "An engagement, perhaps. Swift. Decisive. It would explain everything. It would silence the speculation. It would neutralize Isabelle, to a degree."
Zoe stared at him, feigning utter shock. Internally, she was ticking off boxes. Yup, whirlwind romance. Engagement. All according to the trashy playbook.
"Engaged?" she gasped, as if the word itself was an alien concept. "But… Mr. Sterling, we barely know each other! I mean, I don't even remember…"
"Details, Miss Miller. Details can be… constructed," he said dismissively. "You will be compensated, of course. Handsomely. A sum that will ensure your… comfort, for a very long time. You will live in an apartment I provide. You will appear with me at certain public functions. You will play the part of the adoring, if somewhat overwhelmed, fiancée. In return, I will ensure this scandal does not destroy what little reputation you might possess. I will also ensure Isabelle Thorne understands the… boundaries."
It was all there. The money, the gilded cage, the thinly veiled threats. Original Emily had probably swooned at the thought of being engaged to Alexander Sterling, even under these circumstances. Zoe Carter, however, was busy calculating the angles.
This was her leverage point. Her one chance, perhaps, to not just be a pawn.
"And… and what if I say no?" she whispered, testing the waters. Original Emily would never have dared.
Alexander's eyes narrowed. A flicker of something – surprise? Annoyance at the deviation? – crossed his face before it was shuttered again. "I would strongly advise against that, Miss Miller. The alternative, for someone in your… position… is considerably less appealing. Think of your family. Your future. A scandal of this magnitude, involving a man like me… it doesn't just go away."
The unspoken threat was clear: refuse, and he would ensure she was utterly destroyed, hung out to dry for the media wolves.
Zoe knew this was mostly true, according to the book's logic. But she also knew that he needed her right now, almost as much as she needed a way out of this mess. His "sensitive negotiations" were a key plot point in the early chapters of Manhattan's Ice King; a scandal could derail them, costing him billions, or control of his company to a rival faction within the Sterling board, possibly one his Aunt Caroline or even his brother Julian (if he was already a snake in the grass in this version) was aligned with.
Time for a little off-script negotiation.
"Mr. Sterling," she began, her voice still soft, but a new steel entering it, something that was pure Zoe Carter. "If I am to… play this part… if I am to become your 'fiancée'… there are things I need to understand. Things I would… require."
He stilled. That perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched again. "Require?" The word was laced with a dangerous amusement. "You are in a precarious position to be making requirements, Miss Miller."
"Perhaps," Zoe conceded, meeting his gaze directly for the first time, a spark of defiance in the eyes that were supposed to belong to the timid Emily Miller. "But you said it yourself, sir. We need a 'palatable narrative.' And for a narrative to be palatable, both actors need to be… somewhat convincing. And it's very hard to be convincing when you feel like a prisoner, or a… a purchase."
She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. Score one for Zoe.
"What exactly are you implying, Miss Miller?"
"I'm implying that if this is a business arrangement, then it should be treated as such. With terms. And respect," she said, surprised at her own audacity. But the memory of Original Emily's fate was a powerful motivator. "For instance, what is the duration of this… 'engagement'? What are my specific duties, beyond public appearances? Will I have any say in… well, in anything that concerns my life while I'm playing this role? What happens to me after this 'palatable narrative' has served its purpose for you? Will I simply be… discarded again, but this time with the label of 'Alexander Sterling's ex-fiancée' attached to my name for the rest of my life?"
She paused, letting her questions hang in the air. Each one was a subtle challenge, a refusal to be the silent, agreeable victim the script demanded.
Alexander Sterling stared at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, taut and heavy. Zoe's heart hammered, but she held his gaze. This was it. This was where her new story truly began, or where it ended before it even had a chance.
Finally, a slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips. It wasn't a warm smile; it was the smirk of a predator who'd just encountered unexpectedly interesting prey.
"Miss Miller," he said, his voice a low, resonating hum that vibrated through the tense air of Suite 1808. "You continue to… surprise me." He took a step closer, invading her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him. "Very well. Let's discuss your… terms."
Zoe hid her flicker of triumph. He hadn't said yes to anything specific yet, but he hadn't shut her down either. He was willing to negotiate. For a cannon fodder character who was supposed to be a weeping mess at this point, that was a victory of epic proportions.
"First," he said, his eyes boring into hers, "you will get dressed. Marcus is already arranging for your… previous accommodations to be cleared and your belongings moved. You will be staying at one of my private residences. Secure. Discreet."
Translation: a gilded cage where he can keep an eye on me, Zoe thought. Fine. Expected.
"Second," he continued, "we will have a contract drawn up by my legal team. It will outline the duration – let's say, six months, renewable by mutual consent, or terminated earlier if the… necessityLift lifts. It will detail your financial compensation, your duties, and confidentiality clauses. Strict confidentiality clauses."
"And my input on these clauses?" Zoe dared to ask.
His smirk widened a fraction. "You can have your legal representative review it, Miss Miller. Assuming you have one who isn't currently chasing ambulances in Queens."
A low blow, but Zoe didn't flinch. "I'm a fast learner, Mr. Sterling. And surprisingly resourceful."
"I'm beginning to see that," he conceded, a new glint in his eyes. It wasn't warmth, not yet, but it was definitely… interest. The kind a scientist might show towards a particularly unusual specimen. "The public announcement of our… whirlwind engagement… will be made within forty-eight hours. You will be prepped. There will be a story, a believable one. You will learn it. You will live it."
He paused, then added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a velvet threat. "And you will not deviate from it, Miss Miller. Not by a single word. Because if you do, if you even think of embarrassing me or jeopardizing my interests, I will make sure that the fate Original Emily Miller… or whatever sob story you were about to spin for me… will look like a pleasant holiday compared to what I will do to you."
Zoe met his gaze, her own surprisingly steady. The mention of "Original Emily Miller" sent a shiver down her spine – did he suspect something? Or was it just a generic dismissal? Unlikely, given his earlier comment about her being an "unknown variable." He was sharp. Too sharp.
He knows I'm not the Emily Miller he was expecting.
The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
She gave a slow nod. "I understand, Mr. Sterling."
He held her gaze for another long moment, then stepped back, the invisible pressure lifting slightly. "Good." He turned towards the door. "Marcus will be here in ten minutes to escort you. I suggest you use that time to make yourself presentable." With that, he was gone, leaving Zoe alone in the wreckage of Suite 1808, the scent of his cologne, and the echo of his proposition.
Zoe finally let out the breath she'd been holding. Her legs felt like jelly. She'd done it. She'd faced down the Ice King in his natural habitat and hadn't just survived – she'd actually negotiated.
She pushed herself off the bed, wincing at the soreness, and walked unsteadily towards the full-length mirror on the far wall. The reflection that stared back was Emily Miller – pale, wide-eyed, her borrowed lacy camisole slipping off one shoulder. But the eyes… Zoe leaned closer. The eyes held a new light. A spark of defiance. A flicker of a twenty-first-century marketing assistant named Zoe Carter, who had just been handed the role of a lifetime in a play she was determined to rewrite from the inside out.
"Alright, Alexander Sterling," she whispered to her reflection, a shaky but determined smile playing on Emily Miller's lips. "You want a story? You want an adoring fiancée?" She straightened her shoulders. "Challenge accepted. Let's see who plays this game better."
The cannon fodder was officially going rogue.