Emma Carter didn't sleep. Not a single second.
The night stretched on in silence as she lay on the edge of the massive guest bed in Alexander's penthouse, staring at the ceiling. The message on her phone haunted her: He's not what he seems. Stay close, but don't trust him.
Who had sent it? And why? She'd deleted it instinctively, afraid Alexander might see it—if he wasn't already watching her.
By morning, the apartment buzzed with activity. A full glam team arrived at dawn, unpacking cases of designer makeup, silk robes, and gleaming jewelry. Emma was moved like a mannequin from one prep station to another. Her hair curled to perfection, lips glossed, skin powdered, and eyes made smoky.
She hardly recognized herself.
"You look radiant," the lead stylist said.
Emma offered a hollow smile. "Thanks. I guess that's the look you go for when you're about to sell your soul."
By 10 a.m., a black Rolls-Royce pulled up to take her to the venue—Blackwood Estate, Alexander's private manor perched on the cliffs. It looked like something out of a gothic film: all cold stone, tall towers, and ivy choking the walls. The sea roared below like it knew something she didn't.
Inside, everything was perfect.
Lavish white roses lined the aisle. Chandeliers glittered above a pristine marble floor. Reporters in tuxedos lingered by the photo stations. Billionaire elites smiled with practiced charm. A string quartet played a hauntingly slow rendition of a love song.
Emma stood behind the grand oak doors, heart racing.
Mara appeared beside her, adjusting the veil. "Ready?"
Emma swallowed hard. "Define ready."
The doors opened. The music swelled. And every head turned.
She walked slowly down the aisle, her dress trailing behind her like a wave of white silk. But her mind screamed with every step.
Alexander waited at the altar in a tailored black tuxedo, a cold king waiting to crown his queen. His face betrayed nothing—not joy, not doubt. Just control.
"Do you, Alexander Blackwood, take Emma Carter to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
His voice cut like a blade.
"Do you, Emma Carter, take Alexander Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Emma hesitated for a beat. She looked up at him—his unreadable eyes, his stillness—and something inside her cracked.
"I do."
The officiant pronounced them husband and wife.
Flashbulbs erupted.
Applause echoed.
Emma felt numb.
---
Later, in one of the estate's many lounges, the newlyweds posed for the press. Emma smiled through it all: the toasts, the flash photography, the whispered congratulations from strangers who didn't know her name a week ago.
Alexander's hand never left her waist.
"You're playing the part well," he murmured into her ear as another reporter snapped a picture.
"I've had practice pretending," she replied.
He smirked slightly but said nothing.
After the crowd dispersed, they moved into the grand ballroom for a private dinner—just the two of them. A single long table had been set for an intimate meal, complete with silver candelabras and rare wine.
Emma stared at the food, her appetite gone.
"Do all your weddings end with threats and photo ops?" she asked dryly.
Alexander raised his glass. "Only the ones that matter."
Before she could respond, a woman walked into the room unannounced. Tall, elegant, dressed in crimson, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
Emma instinctively sat up straighter.
The woman's eyes flicked to her, then back to Alexander. "You married her."
Emma blinked. "Excuse me?"
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Isabella, not now."
Isabella. The name alone made Emma's stomach twist.
"So this is the replacement?" Isabella asked, voice laced with poison. "Does she even know what you did to the last one?"
Alexander stood suddenly. "Leave."
Emma looked between them. "Who is she?"
"I said leave," Alexander repeated.
Isabella smirked at Emma. "You're in over your head, sweetheart. Don't say I didn't warn you."
She turned on her heel and disappeared, heels clicking like gunshots across marble.
Emma sat in stunned silence.
Alexander remained still, his hands clenched.
"I think it's time you told me what happened," Emma said softly. "Who was she talking about?"
He looked at her with eyes that could burn holes through stone.
"You're not ready for that truth, Emma."
"I'm your wife now."
"That's exactly why you're not ready."
---
Later that night, unable to sleep again, Emma wandered the estate alone until she found the conservatory. Moonlight streamed through the glass ceiling, casting eerie shadows on the tile floor. The air smelled of orchids and silence.
Then she heard it.
A voice. Low. Male.
"She doesn't know, does she?"
Emma froze behind a wall of vines.
"No," another voice replied. Familiar. Alexander. "And she won't, unless you decide to talk. And we both know how that ends."
"She's not like the others."
"She doesn't need to be."
Emma backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Just as she turned to flee, a shadow stepped into her path.
"Going somewhere, Mrs. Blackwood?" came a cold voice.
Emma gasped, stumbling back against the glass wall. It wasn't Alexander.
The man was tall, rugged, dressed in black, with sharp eyes that glinted like ice. He reached for his earpiece and muttered, "Found her."
She bolted, heart hammering, legs carrying her through the dim halls of the estate. She didn't know where she was going—just away. Away from whatever this was.
The stranger didn't chase her, but his presence lingered like smoke.
She burst into her bedroom and locked the door behind her, chest heaving. Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: The wedding was a move. You're just a piece.
Emma dropped the phone.
Her wedding day had ended, not in vows and kisses, but in veiled threats, haunting exes, and a warning that chilled her to her bones.
She had married a man with secrets buried deeper than oceans.
And now, she was sinking fast.