Emma didn't sleep.
She lay in her tiny studio apartment for the last time, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a duck, and tried to remember what normal felt like. Failed. Normal had stopped being an option somewhere around the third job, the second hospital bill, the first time she'd eaten ramen for dinner three nights in a row because it was all she could afford.
At 5 AM, she gave up on sleep and took a shower that was either too hot or too cold because the knob had exactly two settings. She'd miss this place about as much as she'd miss a root canal, but it was hers. Had been hers. Past tense, because the movers were coming at one o'clock to pack up her life into boxes and transport it to a penthouse where a stranger—her soon-to-be husband—was probably sleeping peacefully in his thousand-thread-count sheets.
Her phone buzzed at 6:30. Maya.
I'm coming over. Don't argue. Brides don't get ready alone.
Emma smiled despite her nerves. It's not a real wedding.
Your heart doesn't know that. Be there in 20.
Maya arrived with coffee, bagels, and a garment bag that made Emma's stomach drop.
"Please tell me that's not a wedding dress."
"Okay, I won't tell you." Maya hung the bag on the bathroom door handle with a flourish. "But hypothetically, if it were a wedding dress, it would be a simple cream sheath, knee-length, elegant enough for City Hall but not so bridal that you feel like a fraud. Hypothetically."
"Maya—"
"And hypothetically, I bought it with my own money because my best friend is getting married today and she deserves to feel beautiful, even if she's being a martyr about the whole thing." Maya shoved a coffee into Emma's hands. "Drink. You look like death."
"I feel like death."
"Well, you're going to look like a bride in three hours, so drink faster."
They fell into the rhythm they'd perfected over a decade of friendship—Maya talking enough for both of them while Emma tried not to spiral into panic. The dress was perfect, of course. Simple, elegant, with a subtle lace overlay that caught the light. The kind of dress that said "intimate ceremony" rather than "business transaction."
"I can't accept this," Emma whispered, running her fingers over the fabric.
"Too bad. No returns." Maya was already attacking Emma's hair with a brush. "Besides, you're about to marry a billionaire. Pretty sure he can afford to pay me back if it bothers you that much."
"That's not the point—"
"The point is that you're my best friend and I love you and today is going to be weird and complicated and probably a little sad, but you're still getting married, and I'll be damned if you don't look amazing doing it." Maya's voice cracked slightly. "Let me do this, Em. Please."
Emma met her friend's eyes in the mirror—both of them blinking back tears. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Make me beautiful."
"Honey, you're already beautiful. I'm just making sure everyone else notices."
At 10:55 AM, Emma stood in front of her bathroom mirror—the last time she'd stand in this particular bathroom mirror—and barely recognized herself. Maya had worked some kind of magic with minimal makeup, making her eyes look larger, her cheekbones more defined, her lips a soft pink that looked natural but better. Her hair was swept up in a loose chignon with a few tendrils framing her face. The dress fit like it had been made for her.
She looked like a bride.
She felt like a liar.
"Stop it," Maya said, reading her mind. "Stop thinking. Just... be present. One hour at a time."
"One hour at a time," Emma repeated.
Her phone buzzed. Alexander's driver was downstairs.
"That's my cue to leave," Maya said, grabbing her purse. "I'll meet you there. I'm not missing this, fake or not."
"You're coming to City Hall?"
"Someone has to be your person. Might as well be me." Maya hugged her tight. "You've got this, Em. And if you don't, I've got you."
After Maya left, Emma took one last look around the studio apartment. At the radiator that clanked, the window that looked at a brick wall, the futon that had served as couch and bed and desk chair for three years. This place had been a prison of financial desperation.
And in an hour, she'd trade it for a different kind of cage.
She grabbed her purse—containing her ID, her phone, and a copy of the contract she couldn't seem to stop carrying—and walked out. Didn't look back.
The car was waiting, sleek and black and completely inappropriate for a woman who still had fourteen dollars in her checking account. The driver—Marcus, according to his nameplate—opened the door with a kind smile.
"Miss Laurent. You look lovely."
"Thank you." Emma slid into the backseat, the leather cool against her legs.
"Mr. Sterling wanted me to tell you we're stopping for lunch first. Hope you're hungry."
Emma's stomach was in knots, but she nodded anyway. "Where are we going?"
"His favorite place. Says it's quiet. Private." Marcus pulled into traffic. "Between you and me, miss, I've been driving Mr. Sterling for five years. Never seen him nervous before today."
Emma's head snapped up. "He's nervous?"
"Changed his tie three times this morning. That's nervous for him." Marcus met her eyes in the rearview mirror. "Whatever this is between you two, it matters to him. Just thought you should know."
Before Emma could respond, her phone buzzed. Alexander.
Marcus is bringing you to lunch. It's just us. Thought we should talk before the ceremony.
Emma typed back: Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?
Only if you believe in luck. I believe in preparation.
Of course you do.
She could almost see his almost-smile. See you soon, Emma.
The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet street in the West Village—the kind of place with no sign, just a discreet door and probably a six-month waiting list. Marcus opened her door, and Emma stepped out onto the sidewalk.
"He's waiting inside," Marcus said. "Good luck, Miss Laurent."
Emma pushed through the door and found herself in a small, elegant space with exposed brick walls and maybe ten tables total. Every single table was empty except one in the back corner, where Alexander Sterling sat in dark slacks and a white button-down, no tie, looking at his phone with that familiar intensity.
Then he looked up and saw her.
He stood so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass. Just stared at her, his expression unreadable, for what felt like an eternity.
"Emma." Her name came out rough. "You look..."
"Like a bride?" She meant it to sound sarcastic. It came out vulnerable instead.
"Beautiful. You look beautiful." He crossed to her, and she noticed his hand was shaking slightly when he reached for hers. "Thank you for coming."
"Did I have a choice? We're getting married in an hour."
"You always have a choice." He led her to the table, pulled out her chair himself. "You could walk away right now. I'd tear up the contract, wish you well."
Emma sat, her heart hammering. "Would you really?"
"Yes." He sat across from her, and his eyes—those cold gray eyes—looked almost warm in the soft restaurant lighting. "I don't want you to do this if you're not sure. The money isn't worth your misery."
"Says the man who negotiated this entire arrangement."
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "I know I'm the one who made this offer. I know I structured it like a business deal because that's all I know how to do anymore. But Emma, if this feels wrong, if you're sitting here regretting everything, tell me now. Please."
Emma looked at him—really looked at him. Saw the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes, the way his fingers drummed once on the table before he forced them still. He wasn't cold. He was controlled. There was a difference.
"I'm terrified," she admitted. "But I'm not regretting it. Not yet."
Something in his expression softened. "Not yet. I'll take that."
A waiter appeared—the only staff member Emma had seen—with two plates of food they hadn't ordered. Pasta in a light cream sauce with fresh herbs, simple and perfect.
"I ordered for us," Alexander said. "Hope that's okay."
"It's fine." Emma picked up her fork, realized her hand was shaking. "This is surreal. Having lunch with my future husband an hour before our wedding."
"Future husband," Alexander repeated, like he was testing the words. "I haven't been anyone's husband before. I'm not entirely sure I'll be good at it."
"Well, I've never been anyone's wife, so we're even." Emma took a bite of pasta—it was delicious, of course. "What do we even talk about? We barely know each other."
"Then let's fix that." Alexander leaned forward. "Tell me something real. Something not in your resume or the background check my lawyers ran."
"Your lawyers ran a background check?"
"Of course they did. Standard procedure for—" He stopped at her expression. "That was the wrong thing to say."
"Little bit, yeah."
"I'm terrible at this." He set down his fork. "I'm terrible at normal human interaction. I can negotiate billion-dollar deals, but I can't have lunch with a beautiful woman without reminding her I had her investigated."
"Then why are we here?" Emma asked softly. "Why not just meet at City Hall, sign the papers, get it over with?"
Alexander was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than she'd ever heard it. "Because in an hour, you're going to stand in front of a judge and promise to be my wife. And I realized last night, lying awake at three in the morning, that I know your credit score and your employment history and your medical records, but I don't know your favorite color. I don't know what you dream about. I don't know what makes you laugh."
Emma's throat tightened. "My favorite color is blue. The kind of blue the sky gets right before sunset. I dream about designing buildings that matter—affordable housing that's actually beautiful, spaces that make people's lives better instead of just warehousing them. And I laugh at stupid puns, the kind that make everyone groan."
"Blue," Alexander said, like he was committing it to memory. "Affordable housing. Stupid puns." His mouth quirked. "What do you call a sketchy Italian neighborhood?"
Emma blinked. "What?"
"The Spaghetto."
The laugh burst out of her before she could stop it—surprised and genuine and completely inappropriate for the moment. "Oh my God. That's terrible."
"You're laughing."
"I'm embarrassed for you."
"But you're laughing." And he was almost smiling, the closest thing to a real smile she'd seen from him. "That's a start."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Emma said, "Your turn. Tell me something real."
Alexander set down his fork, considering. "My favorite color is gray. Like storm clouds. I dream about building something that outlasts me—not just a company, but a legacy that means something. And I don't laugh often, but when I do, it's usually because someone caught me off guard. Surprised me out of my careful control."
"Like someone spilling coffee on your expensive suit?"
"Exactly like that." His eyes met hers. "You've been surprising me since the moment we met, Emma Laurent."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I'm not sure yet. Ask me in a year."
A year. The expiration date hung between them, unspoken but present.
"Alexander," Emma said carefully, "when this is over—when we get divorced—what happens then? Do we just... never speak again? Pretend this never happened?"
His expression shuttered slightly. "I suppose that depends on how the year goes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now." He reached across the table, and his hand covered hers. "I can't predict the future, Emma. I can only promise you the present. And presently, I promise to honor the terms of our agreement. To treat you with respect. To protect you from my world as much as I'm able. That's all I can offer."
It should have felt cold. Clinical. Instead, the weight of his hand on hers felt like an anchor.
"Okay," Emma whispered.
"Okay?"
"Let's get married."
City Hall was exactly as unromantic as Emma expected—fluorescent lights, beige walls, the faint smell of old coffee and bureaucracy. They checked in at the clerk's office, showed their IDs, and were told to wait in a room with six other couples in various states of pre-wedding emotion.
Maya was already there, sitting in a plastic chair and scrolling through her phone. When she saw Emma, she jumped up.
"You made it. I was half-convinced you'd run."
"Still time," Emma muttered.
"Don't even joke." Maya hugged her, then stepped back to look at Alexander, who had stationed himself protectively at Emma's side. "You must be the groom."
"Alexander Sterling." He offered his hand. "You're Maya. Emma's mentioned you."
"I'm sure she has." Maya shook his hand, her grip probably stronger than necessary. "I'm also the one who will hunt you down if you hurt my best friend, billionaire or not."
"Noted." If Alexander was intimidated, he didn't show it. "I'm glad Emma has someone looking out for her."
"Sterling-Laurent?" A clerk appeared in the doorway. "We're ready for you."
This was it.
Emma's feet felt rooted to the floor. Alexander's hand found the small of her back—warm, steady, grounding.
"Together," he said quietly, just for her. "One hour at a time."
"One hour at a time," Emma echoed.
They walked into a small room with wood paneling and a New York State flag. The judge was a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and reading glasses on a chain. She smiled at them.
"Well, you two look nervous. First wedding?"
"For both of us," Alexander said.
"Good. Marriage should make you a little nervous. Means you're taking it seriously." The judge gestured to the spot in front of her desk. "Let's begin. Do you have rings?"
Emma's heart sank. They'd forgotten—
Alexander pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. "We do."
He opened it, and Emma's breath caught. Two bands—one clearly masculine, one delicate and feminine—both platinum with a subtle engraving she couldn't quite make out.
"When did you—"
"This morning." He took out the smaller band, and Emma saw the engraving: One hour at a time.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Too much?" Alexander asked quietly.
"No. It's... it's perfect."
The judge cleared her throat. "If you're ready? Alexander James Sterling, do you take Emma Catherine Laurent to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"
Alexander's eyes never left Emma's face. "I do."
He slid the ring onto her finger—it fit perfectly, of course—and Emma realized her hands were shaking.
"Emma Catherine Laurent, do you take Alexander James Sterling to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"
This was it. The moment where she either jumped or walked away. The moment that would define the next year of her life.
She looked at Alexander—this stranger who'd somehow become the most important person in her world in less than a week. Saw the carefully controlled hope in his eyes. Saw the man who'd been kind to her grandmother, who'd bought her a ring engraved with her own words, who was trying so hard to make this bearable despite having no idea how to be anything other than controlled and contained.
"I do."
Her hand was steady as she slid his ring onto his finger.
"By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The judge smiled. "You may kiss your bride."
Emma's eyes went wide. They hadn't discussed this. Hadn't planned for this moment. In all the contract negotiations and careful boundaries, they'd somehow forgotten about the kiss.
Alexander stepped closer, his hand cupping her cheek with unexpected gentleness. "Okay?" he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear.
Emma nodded, not trusting her voice.
He kissed her.
It was soft. Brief. Probably appropriate for a City Hall wedding. But his lips were warm against hers, and his hand trembled slightly on her cheek, and for just a second—just one second—Emma forgot this was fake.
Forgot about the contract and the money and the expiration date.
Forgot everything except the way her heart was racing and the way he was looking at her when he pulled back, something unreadable in his gray eyes.
"Congratulations," the judge said, oblivious to the chaos in Emma's chest. "You're officially married."
Maya was crying, taking photos on her phone, creating evidence of this surreal moment. The judge had them sign the marriage certificate—Emma's signature looked shaky next to Alexander's confident scrawl—and then it was done.
She was Mrs. Alexander Sterling.
"Well," Maya said, hugging Emma tight, "you're stuck with him now."
"For better or worse," Emma agreed, trying to laugh.
Alexander shook the judge's hand, thanked her, then turned to Emma. "Ready to go home, Mrs. Sterling?"
Mrs. Sterling. The name felt foreign and familiar all at once.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
Outside City Hall, the winter sun was bright and cold. Marcus was waiting with the car, and Maya hugged Emma one more time.
"Call me tonight. Tell me everything."
"There won't be anything to tell—"
"Call me anyway." Maya squeezed her hand, then looked at Alexander. "Take care of her."
"I will." It sounded like a promise.
In the car, Emma twisted the ring on her finger—platinum, perfectly sized, engraved with words she'd said in a moment of fear. Alexander watched her, his own ring catching the light.
"Regrets?" he asked quietly.
"Ask me in an hour."
His almost-smile appeared. "One hour at a time."
"One hour at a time," Emma agreed.
The car pulled into traffic, carrying them toward the penthouse. Toward her new life. Toward whatever came next.
Emma Laurent—no, Emma Sterling—stared out the window at the city she'd always loved and tried not to think about how everything had just changed.
Tried not to think about how that kiss had felt.
Tried not to think about the year ahead, or the divorce at the end of it.
One hour at a time.
It was all she had.
It would have to be enough.