The East Suite of the Mayfield estate was larger than Emma's entire apartment. It was a masterclass in modern minimalism—floor-to-ceiling windows, rugs that felt like clouds beneath her bare feet, and a bathroom clad in white Calacatta marble.
After a long, blistering shower that finally washed away the scent of the rain and the lingering, ghostly touch of Tyler's betrayal, Emma found a robe waiting for her. It was a deep, midnight blue that made her hair glow like embers. She sat on the edge of the massive bed, her mind racing.
A soft knock at the door startled her. "Come in," she called out, pulling the robe tighter.
Simon entered. He had changed into a black turtleneck and slacks, looking less like a corporate titan and more like a predator at rest. He carried a leather-bound folder and a fountain pen. He didn't sit; he stood by the window, looking out at the dark expanse of the Sound.
"The room is to your liking?" he asked, his back to her. "It's more than I deserve for nearly denting your car," Emma replied, trying to find her footing in this strange new reality.
Simon turned, his gaze sweeping over her. The steam from the shower had left her skin flushed and her hair damp and wavy, spilling over her shoulders. "On the contrary, Emma. You are the most valuable asset in this house right now."
He walked over and placed the folder on the mahogany desk. "This is the formal agreement. It outlines the terms we discussed. One year of marriage. Full access to my legal and financial teams. Your own studio, fully equipped. A monthly allowance And, upon the dissolution of the marriage, a settlement of ten million dollars."
Emma's breath hitched. "Ten million? Simon, I'm an artist, not a mercenary."
"In my world, those two things are often the same," Simon said, his voice dropping an octave. He moved closer, entering her personal space. The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with the same static that preceded a lightning strike. "This isn't just about the money, Emma. This is about power. Tyler thinks you are a footnote in his story. I am offering you the chance to be the headline."
He picked up the fountain pen and held it out to her. "If you sign this, we go to the courthouse tomorrow morning. Private. Efficient. By tomorrow afternoon, the world will know you as Emma Mayfield."
Emma looked at the pen, then at Simon. "You're really doing this to secure a merger? It seems... extreme, even for a billionaire."
Simon's eyes darkened, a flash of something ancient and hungry flickering in the gray depths. "The merger is the logical reason. But I told you, I don't like waste. And I certainly don't like my son's arrogance. He needs to learn that he can be replaced—even in the eyes of the law."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
Emma could smell the faint trace of the scotch he'd given her and that intoxicating woodsy scent of his skin. "Do you want him to see you crying in your studio, or do you want him to see you at the head of his father's table, wearing diamonds that cost more than his entire car collection?"
The image burned in Emma's mind. She saw Tyler's smug face when he'd looked at her in the bedroom. She saw Sarah's smirk.
"Give me the pen," Emma said, her voice steady. She signed her name with a flourish—Emma West. Tomorrow, that name would be gone.
Simon took the folder, his fingers brushing hers as he closed it. The contact was brief, but it sent a tingle up her arm. "Good. Now, there is one more thing. For this to work, for the Sterlings to believe it, we cannot look like a business arrangement. We must look... captivated by one another."
"Captivated?" Emma echoed, her heart starting to drum a frantic beat. "Public displays of affection. Lingering looks. The world needs to believe that I, Simon Mayfield, was brought to my knees by a girl with hair like a summer sunset." He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, a slow, deliberate movement that made her breath catch in her throat. "Can you play the part of a woman in love, Emma?"
Emma looked up at him, her pulse thrumming in her neck. The way he looked at her wasn't like Tyler. Tyler looked at her like a possession. Simon looked at her like she was a mystery he intended to solve.
"I'm an artist," she whispered. "I know how to create a masterpiece out of nothing."
"Good," Simon murmured. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his gaze dropping to her mouth. For a heartbeat, Emma thought he was going to kiss her then and there—not for a contract, not for Tyler, but because he wanted to.
But he pulled back at the last second, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Get some sleep, Emma. Tomorrow, your new life begins."
He turned and left the room, leaving Emma standing in the middle of the vast suite, her skin still tingling where he had touched her.
The next morning was a blur. A private judge, a sleek black dress Simon had delivered to her door, and a ring—a diamond the size of a postage stamp that felt heavy and foreign on her finger. When the judge pronounced them husband and wife, Simon didn't kiss her. He simply took her hand and led her out of the courthouse.
As they stepped into the sunlight, a dozen photographers seemed to materialize from the shadows. The flashes were blinding.
"Keep your head up," Simon commanded quietly, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. "Smile like you have a secret."
Emma did as she was told. She leaned into him, feeling the solid strength of his body. She felt protected, for the first time in years. By that evening, the news had exploded. "Billionaire Simon Mayfield Marries Mystery Redhead in Shock Ceremony!" was the headline on every tabloid.
Emma was in the library of the estate, scrolling through the comments on her phone, when she saw it. A flurry of missed calls and frantic texts from Tyler.
Emma, what the hell is this?
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Answer me!
She felt a cold, sharp sense of satisfaction. She put the phone down and looked up to find Simon standing in the doorway, watching her. He held two glasses of champagne.
"The Sterlings called," Simon said, walking over to her. He handed her a glass. "They're intrigued. They've invited us to their private estate for dinner this weekend to 'celebrate.'"
"It's working," Emma said, taking a sip of the vintage bubbly. "It's only the beginning," Simon replied. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking at her with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. "Tonight, we have our first 'official' dinner as a couple. My staff needs to see it. Tyler's mother's old friends need to hear about it. We are going to be the talk of the city, Emma."
He stood up and held out his hand. "Shall we go down? I believe the first course is being served." Emma took his hand, her diamond ring catching the light. As they walked toward the grand dining room, she realized she wasn't just playing a part anymore. The anger she felt toward Tyler was being eclipsed by something much more dangerous, A growing, undeniable fascination with the man who was now her husband.
She was Simon Mayfield's wife. And as they entered the dining room, she realized she didn't just want to make Tyler pay—she wanted to see what happened when Simon Mayfield finally let his guard down.
The game was on, and the stakes were higher than she had ever imagined.