The next morning, Emily expected awkward tension, maybe a forced breakfast conversation with Liam. Instead, she got silence—and an empty penthouse.
No note. No text. Just the smell of expensive leather and the quiet hum of the city through glass walls.
She stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, dressed in one of the soft robes Carmen had left folded on her bed. The robe fit her too perfectly, like it had been chosen with her measurements already known.
This wasn't home. It was a stage. And she had no idea what kind of play she'd agreed to star in.
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
Unknown Number: He's not who you think he is.
She froze.
It was the second message from the same sender. No name. No warning.
Emily: Who are you?
No reply.
Her stomach clenched. She didn't know whether to be scared or annoyed. Or both.
She glanced around the penthouse again—everything too clean, too cold. Like Liam himself.
---
That evening, Emily was curled on the velvet couch, flipping through channels she wasn't watching, when Carmen reappeared with a small envelope.
"Mr. Ashford asked me to give you this," she said with a warm smile before slipping away.
Emily opened it quickly.
> Dinner. 8 PM. Formal attire. Driver downstairs.
Don't be late. —L
No warmth. No explanation. Just a demand, wrapped in rich paper.
She stared at the note for a long second. Then tossed it onto the coffee table.
---
At exactly 7:55 PM, she stepped out of the elevator wearing a gown she found hanging in the dressing room closet—dark blue silk that clung to her curves and swept the floor when she moved. Carmen had left matching heels and a diamond bracelet on the vanity, as if Emily had always belonged to this world.
She didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.
The driver nodded as he held open the car door, and she slid into the Bentley with as much poise as she could fake.
Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up in front of The Armitage, a place Emily had only ever read about in magazines.
Inside, she spotted Liam immediately.
He stood near a corner booth, black suit tailored to perfection, sleeves rolled casually up his forearms, no tie. He looked out of place and yet like he owned the place all at once.
When their eyes met, something tightened in her chest.
He pulled out her chair without a word.
"You clean up well," he said as she sat.
"You mean like a stray off the street?"
"If the shoe fits."
She bit back a retort. "Why am I here?"
Liam picked up his glass. "To be seen."
"By who?"
"Everyone who matters."
---
The meal was stunning. Lobster risotto, fine wine, candles that probably cost more than her entire apartment. But Emily could barely eat. Her nerves were tightly coiled, and Liam's mood was unreadable—calm, cool, calculating.
"So, this is the part where we pretend to be married?" she asked, voice low.
He didn't look at her. "It's not pretending if the paperwork is real."
"You know what I mean. You act like you don't want anything from me—but you do."
His eyes flicked to hers.
"I want compliance. I want silence. And I want you to follow my lead."
She folded her arms. "Not a fan of mutual respect, I take it?"
A muscle in his jaw flexed. "Emily, this is a transaction. Nothing more."
"Then why send me that dress? Why the bracelet? Why make me feel like I'm starring in someone else's fantasy?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.
---
The ride back was quiet. Tense. The air between them filled with unspoken words.
Back in the penthouse, Emily pulled off her heels and headed straight for the bar. She poured herself a drink—not because she wanted it, but because she needed to do something with her hands.
Liam came in a few minutes later, jacket off, cuffs rolled further up. His presence made the room smaller.
"I don't need a babysitter," she said.
"You need guidance."
She snorted. "Wow. You really know how to charm a girl."
He walked over, poured himself a drink beside her.
"I didn't ask you to like me. I asked you to trust that I know what I'm doing."
She turned to face him fully. "That's the problem, Liam. I don't trust you. Not with your silence. Not with the shadows in your eyes. And definitely not with that mysterious number texting me warnings."
His brows lifted slightly. "Someone's texting you?"
She paused. Damn. That wasn't supposed to slip out.
"Forget it."
"No," he said, stepping closer. "Tell me."
"It's probably nothing."
"Nothing gets through my firewalls unless it's something. Show me."
She shook her head. "Why? So you can control that too?"
"You're my wife. If someone's targeting you, it's my problem."
His voice had changed—lower, rougher.
For the first time, she saw something flicker in him. Not possession. Not calculation.
Worry.
And that was the scariest thing yet—because it made her wonder if there was more beneath his armor than she'd thought.
But instead of replying, she backed away.
"I'm going to bed."
"Emily—"
"No more speeches tonight. Just let me have one room in this place where I don't feel like I'm being watched or judged."
She walked away without looking back.
Behind her, Liam stood silent in the shadows, glass untouched in his hand.