The ten minutes Alexander Sterling had allotted Zoe to "make herself presentable" felt like both an eternity and a blink. Marcus Wayne, Alexander's impeccably tailored and expressionless chief of staff, arrived with the punctuality of a a Swiss watch, or perhaps, Zoe mused, a very well-programmed automaton. His polite, almost deferential bow did nothing to mask the cool assessment in his eyes as he took in her appearance – Zoe had managed to find Emily Miller's slightly rumpled sundress and slip it on, a pathetic armor against the Sterling empire.
"Miss Miller," Marcus said, his voice a smooth, neutral baritone. "If you'll come with me. A car is waiting." No questions, no unnecessary pleasantries. Just a quiet, efficient execution of orders.
The journey from The St. Regis was a blur of tinted windows, hushed tones from Marcus as he spoke into his earpiece, and the lurking, almost palpable sensation of unseen eyes. Paparazzi, Zoe guessed, or perhaps Sterling's own security detail ensuring their "asset" didn't make a run for it. Not that she had anywhere to run, trapped as she was in this bizarre, high-stakes stage play.
The "secure private residence" Alexander had mentioned turned out to be a breathtaking penthouse apartment in a sleek, modern skyscraper overlooking Central Park. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic vista of Manhattan that would have made the pre-transmigration Zoe Carter weep with envy. The décor was a symphony of muted greys, creams, and gleaming chrome, minimalist to the point of being sterile, yet undeniably, oppressively luxurious. It screamed money, power, and a distinct lack of anything resembling warmth or personality. A gilded cage, indeed.
Marcus gave her a brief, impersonal tour. State-of-the-art kitchen she doubted she'd ever use, a living area قالت the size of her entire Queens apartment building, a bedroom suite that could rival a small royal palace, complete with a walk-in closet already partially stocked with designer clothes in Emily Miller's presumed size. Apparently, Sterling's efficiency extended to pre-emptive wardrobe overhauls for his fake fiancées.
"Mr. Sterling's legal team will be here shortly with the necessary documents," Marcus informed her as he prepared to leave. "A new phone and laptop have been provided on the desk in the study. They are… secure. Your personal effects from your previous residence will be delivered later today, after being vetted."
Vetted? Zoe raised an eyebrow internally. What do they expect to find? A dog-eared copy of "How to Snare a Billionaire for Dummies"? Outwardly, she just nodded, a picture of dazed compliance.
Once Marcus departed, leaving her alone in the echoing silence of the massive apartment, Zoe finally let out a shaky breath. This was it. Her new prison. Beautiful, yes. Equipped with every imaginable luxury. But a prison nonetheless. She walked to the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. From this height, the people looked like ants, their lives distant and unreal. Much like her own previous life felt now.
An hour later, a pair of lawyers, a man and a woman looking as severe and expensive as their briefcases, were seated across from her at a large glass dining table. The contract they presented was thick, bound in leather, and filled with dense legalese that made Zoe's marketing-oriented brain ache.
"Miss Miller," the male lawyer, a Mr. Davies, began, his voice dry as dust. "This is the pre-nuptial and cohabitation agreement as per Mr. Sterling's instructions. It outlines the terms of your… arrangement."
Zoe remembered this part from Manhattan's Ice King. Original Emily Miller, overwhelmed and intimidated, had barely glanced at the document before signing her life away with a trembling hand. Zoe Carter, however, had once spent an entire weekend deciphering the fine print on a particularly predatory gym membership contract. She wasn't about to make the same mistake twice, even if one of those mistakes was fictional.
"May I have some time to read it?" she asked, her voice polite but firm.
Mr. Davies and his associate, Ms. Albright (no relation to the kind housekeeper Zoe vaguely recalled from the novel's later chapters, this one was pure shark), exchanged a surprised glance. Clearly, they weren't used to cannon fodder having an opinion, let alone literacy.
"Of course, Miss Miller," Ms. Albright said, a tight, insincere smile plastered on her face. "Take all the time you need."
Zoe did. For the next two hours, she pored over every clause, a pen in hand, occasionally asking for clarification on a term or a specific stipulation. The lawyers' initial condescension slowly morphed into a grudging, almost imperceptible respect, or perhaps just sheer exasperation.
The contract was, as expected, heavily skewed in Alexander's favor. It detailed her public duties (attend X number of events, smile adoringly, never contradict him in public), her private restrictions (no unauthorized guests, no communication with the press, strict NDAs about every aspect of his life), and the generous "severance package" she would receive upon the "amicable dissolution" of their "engagement" after the agreed-upon six months (or earlier, at his discretion).
Zoe, however, managed to negotiate a few minor, yet crucial, amendments. She insisted on a clause guaranteeing her personal safety and a degree of privacy within her own living quarters. She also "innocently" queried a vague section about "further services as required," getting it clarified to exclude anything that wasn't directly related to maintaining their public facade. Her biggest win, however, was a small addendum stipulating that if he unilaterally terminated the agreement without due cause (as defined by a very narrow set of circumstances related to her breaching confidentiality), her "severance" would be significantly increased. It was a long shot, something she'd blurted out more as a test, but to her astonishment, after a hushed phone call Mr. Davies made (presumably to Alexander), it was conceded with a curt nod.
Perhaps the Ice King appreciated a bit of fight. Or perhaps he was just so certain she'd be the one to screw up that he considered it a moot point.
Finally, with a deep breath, Zoe Carter signed 'Emily Miller' on the dotted line. The ink felt like a brand. She had officially sold six months of her life, her identity, to a fictional character in exchange for… well, for a chance to not end up as fictional roadkill.
The moment the lawyers left, the news broke.
It wasn't a quiet leak; it was a nuclear bomb detonated in the heart of Manhattan's high society gossip sphere. Sterling Enterprises issued an official press release: "Mr. Alexander Sterling, CEO of Sterling Enterprises, is delighted to announce his engagement to Miss Emily Miller of [Original Emily's Small Town], Indiana. The couple, who have been enjoying a private whirlwind romance, look forward to sharing their happiness with friends and family in the coming months." It was accompanied by a professionally taken, yet artfully "candid" photo of Alexander looking devastatingly handsome, with a demure, smiling Emily Miller on his arm – a photo Zoe had absolutely no memory of taking. Deepfake? Or a very, very old photo of Original Emily with her head strategically angled? The efficiency of Sterling's PR machine was terrifying.
Zoe's new, "secure" phone immediately began to vibrate with notifications from pre-installed news apps.
"STERLING SHOCKER! Billionaire CEO Alexander Sterling Engaged to Mystery Woman!"
"FROM OBSCURITY TO OPULENCE: Who is Emily Miller, the Girl Who Captured the Ice King's Heart?"
Social media exploded. #SterlingEngaged #EmilyMiller #WhoIsShe #ManhattansMostEligibleNoMore.
Somewhere across town, Zoe knew, Isabelle Thorne was probably having a meltdown of epic proportions. The thought brought a grim little smile to her lips. Round two to me, I think, even if I didn't exactly plan this move.
Aunt Caroline Sterling's reaction, Zoe imagined, would be one of frosty disapproval concealed beneath a veneer of familial obligation. She'd likely be dispatching her own spies to dig into every conceivable corner of "Emily Miller's" past.
And Chloe Davis… Zoe's heart twinged. Chloe, Original Emily's only friend in New York. What would she think? The press release mentioned Emily's Indiana hometown. Would Chloe even connect this glorified Cinderella story with the terrified, disheveled girl she'd probably heard went missing after the gallery party?
The new phone buzzed again. A text message. Unknown number.
"Showtime, fiancée. Black tie charity gala, The Plaza, tomorrow night, 8 PM. A car will collect you at seven. Details for your 'role' to follow. Don't disappoint me. - A.S."
No warmth. No pleasantries. Just orders.
Zoe stared at the message, then at her reflection in the dark expanse of the window. The city lights glittered like scattered diamonds, cold and beautiful. This gilded cage was now her stage. The coming storm, Isabelle's inevitable retaliation and the scrutiny of an entire city, was her audience.
She took a deep breath. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but beneath it, something else was stirring – a flicker of Zoe Carter's old, cynical, marketing-executive fight. She'd been handed a trashy script and a doomed role. But the lead actor had just proven he was willing to at least glance at her ad-libs.
"Alright, Mr. Sterling," she murmured to the glittering skyline. "Let's see what kind of co-star you really are."
She had a contract, a cage, and an impending public debut. The game was afoot. And for the first time since waking up in this nightmare, Zoe Carter felt a sliver, just a tiny sliver, of something that might almost be excitement. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline of knowing she was playing with fire. Either way, she wasn't going to just survive. She was going to win.