The black limousine waited outside the skyscraper, gleaming even in the rain. Emma stood at the curb, her small suitcase in hand, feeling more like a prisoner than a bride.
The chauffeur, dressed in a crisp suit, bowed slightly and opened the door. "Mrs. Williams."
The title made her flinch. Mrs. Williams. The words felt too heavy, like clothes too large for her fragile frame. But she stepped in anyway, clutching her bag to her chest as the door shut behind her.
Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and cologne. The silence pressed on her as the city lights blurred past the tinted windows. She tried to calm her racing heart. This is for Mom. For Daniel. Just endure it.
After nearly an hour, the car rolled to a stop. Emma's eyes widened as she stared out the window.
The Williams Mansion wasn't a house—it was an empire. Nestled on a private hilltop, the sprawling estate was illuminated like a palace, its marble columns stretching into the night sky. Iron gates swung open silently as guards saluted.
Emma's hand tightened on her bag. She wasn't just stepping into a marriage. She was stepping into another world.
The grand doors opened as she entered the mansion, her footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor. The interior gleamed with chandeliers, priceless paintings, and staircases that curved like works of art.
Maids in uniform lined up, bowing respectfully. "Welcome home, Madam."
Emma froze, her throat tightening. Madam? That word was never meant for her.
Before she could respond, a deep voice cut through the air.
"She's not here for pleasantries."
Emma turned. At the top of the staircase stood Alexander, dressed in a black shirt with his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Even without his tailored suit, his presence was commanding, cold as steel.
He descended the stairs slowly, his gaze fixed on her. The maids lowered their heads instantly, scattering at a flick of his hand. The air grew heavier as he stopped a few steps away.
"You'll stay in the east wing," he said, his tone clipped. "Your room has been prepared."
Emma nodded nervously. "Thank you."
"But before that," he continued, slipping his hands into his pockets, "we need to establish the rules."
Her stomach dropped.
Alexander's eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding. "Rule number one: in public, you are Mrs. Williams. You will smile, you will play your role, and you will not embarrass me."
Emma swallowed. "Understood."
"Rule number two: in private, this marriage means nothing. You will not enter my study. You will not question where I go or who I see."
A pang hit her chest, though she quickly masked it. "I… understand."
"Rule number three: you will never speak of this contract to anyone. Not your friends, not your family. To the world, we are a couple. To us, we are strangers under the same roof."
Her lips trembled. "Yes."
He stepped closer, his aura suffocating. "Rule number four: do not fall in love with me."
Emma's breath caught. His words cut sharper than a blade.
Her instinct was to argue—to say she had no intention of loving him—but the icy certainty in his gaze silenced her.
"Why… why would you think I'd—"
"Because women always do," he said coldly. "And I don't need another distraction."
Emma's fingers curled around her bag. His arrogance stung, but she forced herself to nod. "I won't break your rules."
"Good." He turned on his heel. "Dinner is served at seven. If you're late, you'll eat alone."
With that, he strode away, leaving her standing in the vast, empty hall.
Emma's room in the east wing was larger than her entire apartment. A king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, a chandelier glittering above, a private balcony overlooking the city. Yet, despite the luxury, Emma felt like she was locked in a golden cage.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her bag beside her, staring at the glittering skyline.
Don't fall in love with me. His warning replayed in her head, cruel and final. She clenched her fists. I won't. I can't. This is just a contract. Nothing more.
But as much as she repeated the words, her chest still ached.
Later that evening, Emma gathered her courage and entered the dining hall. The long mahogany table stretched endlessly, lined with silverware and crystal glasses. Alexander sat at the far end, scrolling through his phone as though she didn't exist.
She took the seat nearest to him, though the distance between them still felt like miles. The maids served course after course—steaming soup, roasted lamb, fresh bread. Emma, used to cheap takeout and instant noodles, barely touched the food.
Alexander finally glanced up. "You're not eating."
"I—I'm just not very hungry."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You'll need strength to play the role of my wife. Eat."
The command was so sharp that Emma picked up her spoon immediately, forcing herself to sip the soup. Heat spread through her, both from the food and from the way his gaze lingered a moment longer before returning to his phone.
The silence stretched until Emma couldn't bear it anymore. "Mr. Williams—"
"Alexander," he interrupted.
She blinked. "What?"
"In public, you'll call me 'Darling.' In private, Alexander is enough. Mr. Williams sounds like a business transaction."
Her cheeks burned. "But this is a transaction."
His lips curved faintly—too sharp to be called a smile. "Exactly. So play your part well."
Emma lowered her gaze, her appetite vanishing again. This man… he's impossible.
After dinner, Emma wandered the halls, feeling like a ghost in a stranger's home. She paused before a set of locked doors near the west wing—Alexander's private study. Curiosity tugged at her, but his warning echoed in her mind. Do not enter my study.
She turned away quickly, reminding herself she had no right to pry.
Back in her room, she called the hospital to check on her mother. Relief washed over her when the nurse said the bills had been covered by "an anonymous benefactor." She knew exactly who it was.
For the first time that night, Emma allowed herself a small, shaky smile. Whatever humiliation she endured here, at least her mother would live.
Meanwhile, in the west wing, Alexander stood by his window, a glass of whiskey in hand. His reflection stared back at him—calm, collected, untouchable. Yet his thoughts weren't as steady.
The girl's trembling voice, her determined eyes, her stubborn refusal to crumble—he replayed them against his will. She was unlike the women who had chased him before. She hadn't begged for his wealth or flattery. She had simply accepted the cage with quiet strength.
He took a slow sip, forcing the thoughts away. "It's just a contract," he muttered to himself.
But deep down, a dangerous curiosity was already taking root.
That night, Emma lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling. Thunder rolled outside, shaking the windows.
She whispered into the darkness, "I won't love him. I can't."
Yet as sleep finally claimed her, her heart betrayed her with a treacherous flutter—because even his coldest words couldn't erase the image of those storm-grey eyes.