The library was vast.
Emma stopped in the doorway, her breath catching. Three stories of books, ladders, and balconies surrounded a central fireplace large enough to roast a pig. The walls were dark wood, the floors covered in Persian rugs that looked older than the city itself. Lamps glowed softly in the corners, casting long shadows across the floor.
And in the center of it all, behind a desk that could have seated twelve, sat Nicholas White.
He didn't look up when she entered.
Emma stood in the doorway for a full minute, waiting. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She could hear the crackle of the fire, the distant crash of the waves, and the soft sound of his pen moving across paper.
He's testing you, she realized. Seeing how long you'll wait.
She walked into the room.
She didn't sit. She didn't speak. She walked to the window, a wall of glass overlooking the sea, and stood with her back to him, watching the waves.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
"I don't like being kept waiting," Nicholas said finally.
Emma turned. He was looking at her now, his pen still in his hand, his dark eyes unreadable.
"And I don't like being tested," she replied. "So we're even."
Something flickered across his face… surprise, maybe, or the first stirrings of respect.
"Sit," he said.
Emma walked to the chair across from his desk and sat. She kept her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her face neutral. She had learned, in sixteen years of living with Juliette, how to hide everything she was feeling.
Nicholas set down his pen and leaned back. He studied her for a long moment, her face, her hands, the way she held herself.
"You're different from what I expected," he said.
"Everyone says that."
"Everyone is usually lying."
"Everyone is usually trying to sell me something." She met his gaze. "What are you selling, Mr. White?"
His mouth twitched. "Call me Nicholas."
"I'll call you Nicholas when you give me a reason to."
The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Charged. Like the moment before a storm.
"You've read the contract," he said.
"Every page."
"And you understand what it entails?"
"I understand that my father owes you forty-seven million dollars. I understand that you own his debt. I understand that the contract stipulates that in exchange for forgiving that debt, I become your wife." She paused. "What I don't understand is why."
"Why what?"
"Why me. You could have chosen anyone. You could have taken my father's company, his properties, his assets. Instead, you chose me." She leaned forward. "Why?"
Nicholas was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the window, his back to her.
"I lost someone," he said. "A long time ago. Someone I couldn't protect." His voice was low, rough. "She had your eyes."
Emma's heart skipped. "Who was she?"
"Someone who mattered." He turned to face her. "That's all I'm going to say about it. For now."
For now. The words hung in the air between them.
"Trust is earned, Mr. White," Emma said.
"Yes," he agreed. "It is."
He walked back to his desk, picked up a folder, and held it out to her.
"Dinner is served in an hour. Read this first. It's the non-disclosure agreement."
Emma took the folder. "I already signed one."
"This one is different." His eyes met hers. "This one covers everything you're about to see. Everything you're about to learn. If you break it, you won't just be sued. You'll be disappeared."
Emma's blood ran cold. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you." He walked to the door and held it open. "An hour, Emma. Don't be late."
He left.
Emma sat alone in the library, the folder heavy in her hands, and wondered what she had gotten herself into.