Zoe returned to Sterling Manor from her tea party skirmish with Isabelle Thorne feeling like a gladiator who'd just survived her first round in the Colosseum – bruised, exhausted, but undeniably, exhilaratingly victorious. Isabelle's parting text message, the one dripping with a new level of venomous promise ("Clever. But don't get cocky. The game has levels you can't even imagine."), had been a chilling reminder that this was just one battle in a long war. But Zoe had met the enemy's eye and hadn't blinked. That, in itself, was a monumental win for a character originally scripted for a swift and silent exit.
She half-expected a summons from Alexander immediately upon her return, a demand for a play-by-play of her encounter with his childhood-friend-turned-resident-viper. But the call didn't come. Not that evening, nor the following morning. The silence from the Ice King was, in its own way, more unnerving than an outright interrogation. Was he displeased? Indifferent? Or was he, like a master chess player, simply observing her moves from a distance, letting her reveal her strategy before making his own?
Zoe used the reprieve to her advantage. She replayed every nuance of the tea party in her mind, analyzing Isabelle's tactics, her own responses, the flicker of shock in Isabelle's eyes when confronted with an Emily Miller who knew her Verdi. She also re-read (for the hundredth time, it felt like) the mental CliffsNotes she had of Manhattan's Ice King. The opera scene had been a minor humiliation for Original Emily, a throwaway line to emphasize her unsuitability. Zoe's subversion of it felt… significant. Like a small crack in the predestined narrative.
It was late the next afternoon when Marcus Wayne, with his usual spectral quietness, appeared at her suite door. "Mrs. Sterling," he said, his tone impeccably neutral, though Zoe thought she detected a new, almost imperceptible note of… something akin to curiosity in his gaze. "Mr. Sterling requests your presence in his study."
Showtime again, Zoe thought, her nerves tightening, but a strange sort of anticipation thrumming beneath.
Alexander's study was a temple to masculine power and wealth – dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaning with what Zoe suspected were mostly unread first editions, a massive mahogany desk, and a view of the sprawling Sterling estate that probably cost more than the GDP of a small nation. Alexander himself stood by the window, much like he had in the limousine after the gala, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, staring out at the perfectly manicured landscape.
He didn't turn as she entered. "Marcus informed me your… social engagement… with Miss Thorne was concluded without any… undue public spectacle." His voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection.
"Yes, Mr. Sterling," Zoe replied, keeping her own voice carefully even. "It was a… stimulating conversation."
He finally turned, those stormy Atlantic eyes fixing on her. He gestured to one of the leather armchairs opposite his desk. "Stimulating. An interesting choice of word for tea with Isabelle Thorne." He took a slow sip of his drink. "By all accounts, including a rather… colorful… report from Isabelle herself, who felt the need to call my mother immediately afterwards to bemoan your 'startling lack of an appropriate filter for a girl in your position,' it was more than stimulating. It was, apparently, quite the performance."
Zoe suppressed a smile. So, Isabelle had run tattling to Catherine. Predictable. "I merely answered Miss Thorne's questions as honestly as I could, Mr. Sterling. While trying to maintain the… dignity… expected of your fiancée, of course."
"Of course," he echoed, a faint, almost invisible hint of irony in his tone. He moved to sit behind his desk, the picture of controlled power. "She seemed particularly… discomfited… by your apparent expertise in nineteenth-century Italian opera."
Zoe feigned a blush. "Oh, that. Just a… a rather eclectic education, I suppose. My mother was quite the enthusiast." (A lie, her mother's idea of high culture was a Celine Dion concert, but Zoe Carter was an excellent improviser).
"An eclectic education that also includes a nuanced understanding of corporate social responsibility, as evidenced by your 'coral reef' analogy at the gala?" Alexander pressed, his gaze never leaving hers. "And a surprising aptitude for… shall we say, verbal sparring, when confronted by someone like Isabelle?"
Zoe met his look, her heart rate picking up. This wasn't just a debrief; this was an interrogation, albeit a very sophisticated one. He was cataloging her anachronisms, the ways she didn't fit the Emily Miller profile.
"Mr. Sterling," she said softly, "as I mentioned before, I believe people can be surprising when they are… under pressure. Or perhaps," she added, a daring little spark in her eyes, "the Emily Miller you, or Miss Thorne, or your family, expected me to be was… an underestimation."
He was silent for a long moment, just watching her, his fingers steepled before him. Zoe could almost hear the gears whirring in that powerful CEO brain. He was a man who dealt in facts, in data, in predictable outcomes. And she, clearly, was an anomaly, a rogue variable throwing off all his calculations.
This is it, she thought. This is where he decides if I'm a threat to be eliminated or an asset to be… further analyzed.
"The original reports I received on Emily Miller of Indiana," Alexander said finally, his voice a low, deliberate drawl, "painted a picture of a quiet, somewhat naive, and entirely unremarkable young woman. Talented in her specific artistic niche, perhaps, but utterly unprepared for a world like mine. Or Isabelle's." He paused. "You, Mrs. Sterling," and the way he said 'Mrs. Sterling' this time was different, less a legal formality, more a direct, challenging address, "are… not that woman."
It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact. A dawning realization.
Zoe held her breath.
"You are… considerably more interesting," he continued, a flicker of something unreadable – respect? intrigue? suspicion? – in his eyes. "More… resourceful. You navigate challenges with a composure that belies the background described in your dossier. You parry Isabelle Thorne's attacks with a skill that even my mother, a seasoned veteran of such social skirmishes, would likely find… noteworthy."
Zoe let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. This wasn't the prelude to an accusation of fraud; this was… something else. He wasn't angry that she wasn't the simpleton he'd been led to expect. He was… intrigued.
The Chinese directory title was spot on, Zoe thought with a jolt. He does find me more interesting than the book character.
"Thank you, Mr. Sterling," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "I'm simply trying to… adapt… to my new circumstances as best I can."
"Adapting," he mused. "Yes. You do that very well." He leaned forward slightly. "Which brings me to a small… project. Something I believe your… unique perspective… might be useful for."
Zoe's internal alarms went off, but so did a thrill of opportunity. A project? This was definitely not in Manhattan's Ice King.
"A project, sir?"
"The Sterling Foundation is hosting its annual Children's Art Initiative next month," Alexander explained. "It's a rather high-profile event. We partner with several inner-city schools, provide art supplies, mentorship, and culminate in an exhibition and auction of the children's work. My mother usually oversees the… aesthetic and thematic direction. But this year," he paused, his eyes glinting, "she finds herself rather… preoccupied… with other family matters." A subtle reference to their current sham engagement, no doubt. "I was thinking, given your background as an art student, you might be willing to… lend your expertise. Co-chair the event's creative committee, perhaps. Alongside a more seasoned foundation board member, of course."
Zoe stared at him. This was… unexpected. On the surface, it was a perfectly reasonable request for his "art student fiancée." But she knew Alexander Sterling did nothing without a reason. This was a test. A way to observe her more closely, to see how she handled responsibility, how she interacted with his world in a more official capacity. It was also, potentially, a way for her to gain some agency, some visibility beyond being his arm candy or Isabelle's punching bag.
"I… I would be honored, Alexander," she said, deliberately using his first name for the first time in a non-public setting, testing that boundary too.
He didn't flinch, didn't correct her. Another small shift. "Good. Marcus will provide you with the initial briefing materials. The first committee meeting is next week." He stood, signaling the end of their discussion. "Don't disappoint me, Emily. Many people will be watching."
Zoe rose, a new sense of purpose, and trepidation, settling over her. "I won't, Alexander."
As she walked out of the study, she felt his eyes on her back. She had survived another encounter, and in doing so, had seemingly leveled up in his estimation from "annoying variable" to "interesting project."
Later that night, alone in her suite, Zoe pulled out the mental outline of Manhattan's Ice King. This Children's Art Initiative, this co-chair position… it wasn't in the book. Not a single mention. Original Emily Miller had been too busy being a victim to co-chair anything more complex than a pity party for one.
A slow, genuine smile – Zoe Carter's smile – spread across Emily Miller's face.
Alexander was right. She was more interesting than the woman in his dossier. And she was definitely more interesting than the one-dimensional character in the novel.
The book was being unwritten, one off-script move at a time. And Alexander Sterling, the Ice King himself, was beginning to notice. This, Zoe thought with a thrill, was where the real story began.