Emily stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at her reflection like she was looking at someone else.
The stylist had curled her dark hair into soft waves that brushed her collarbone. Her makeup was flawless—lips tinted berry red, lashes thick and fluttery. She wore a satin champagne dress that hugged her curves and dipped dangerously low at the back.
She didn't recognize herself.
"You look like a dream," Carmen said gently behind her.
Emily managed a small smile. "A dream in someone else's fantasy."
Carmen didn't deny it.
The media shoot was scheduled for ten, just as Liam had said. By the time the photographer arrived—along with a team of lighting assistants and a PR consultant—Emily's nerves were already frayed.
Liam emerged from his office in a black tailored suit, the definition of intimidating elegance. The second he stepped beside her, cameras clicked.
He didn't look at her.
But the second the lens turned their way, he slid his hand around her waist like he'd done it a thousand times.
"Smile," he murmured under his breath, lips close to her ear. "This is the part where we pretend."
Pretend.
The word scraped her heart like a jagged blade.
She smiled anyway.
Click. Flash. Pose.
They stood close. Then closer. She tilted her head. He lowered his.
The photographer directed them. "Can we get one of you two looking at each other like you're in love?"
Emily almost laughed—almost. But Liam turned to her then, and his eyes… they didn't look like he was pretending.
Not for that second.
His gaze swept over her face, lingering too long on her mouth, before locking with hers.
Click.
That was the shot.
The one the photographer paused after, eyes wide. "That one's going to break hearts."
Emily stepped away quickly, needing space, needing breath.
Liam didn't follow. He simply adjusted his cuff and checked his phone.
A wall. Always.
---
After the shoot, Emily retreated to the terrace. She needed air. The city buzzed beneath her, far away and untouchable.
She was still reeling when Liam joined her, a tumbler of scotch in his hand.
He didn't speak at first. Just handed her a glass of water and leaned against the railing beside her.
"I'm not good at this," she admitted quietly.
He didn't look at her. "Pretending?"
"No. Feeling things. Or… trusting them. This life. You. All of it feels like it's slipping through my fingers."
He took a sip of his drink, still quiet.
Then: "You're not alone in that."
Emily turned to him, surprised.
He finally met her gaze.
"Pretending is easy," he said. "It's when you start to care that it becomes dangerous."
Her heart twisted.
"Do you care?" she asked, the words out before she could take them back.
A pause.
Too long.
Then he stepped away from the railing.
"There are things I haven't told you yet," he said.
"About what?"
"About why I needed this marriage. About what's really going on beneath the surface."
Emily's breath caught.
"I wanted to tell you before," Liam continued. "But I didn't think you'd stay."
"I still might not," she said, voice shaking. "You scare me."
He looked down, shadows falling across his face. "I scare myself sometimes."
The silence between them buzzed with tension—truth unsaid, danger unseen.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen. His jaw tightened.
"I have to go."
"Where?"
"Somewhere I hope won't cost us everything."
He walked away before she could ask what "everything" meant.
---
That night, Emily couldn't sleep.
She tossed and turned in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows, the half-finished thoughts circling her mind.
Just past midnight, she got up and walked to the library again.
It had become her comfort zone—the only place in the penthouse that didn't feel like a stage.
She didn't expect to find Liam already there, sitting in the dark, sleeves rolled, a glass of scotch in his hand again.
"You couldn't sleep either?" she asked softly.
He looked at her but didn't smile.
"No."
She sat across from him.
This time, she didn't say anything.
Just… waited.
And finally, he spoke.
"When I was twenty-one, I found out the truth about my father's murder," Liam said.
Emily froze.
"It wasn't random. It wasn't a robbery gone wrong like they told the press. He was executed. Because he tried to expose the Rosselli family's arms smuggling through Westwood's shipping ports."
Emily's blood turned to ice.
"The Rossellis?" she whispered.
"They don't just run nightclubs and casinos," Liam said. "They control half of Westwood's black market. And when my father went against them, he paid the price."
"And you—?"
"I've been building my empire for one reason: to bury theirs."
She stared at him. "So that's why you needed a wife? For what—legal protection?"
He nodded once. "And leverage. If they think I have someone close, someone to protect, they won't com
e at me the same way they did my father."
Emily stood slowly.
"So I'm not just a cover. I'm bait."
Liam stood too. "No. You're a wildcard."
"What the hell does that