The wedding dress hung in Emma's cramped studio apartment like a ghost made of silk and spite. Vera Wang, according to the label—probably worth more than Emma had made in the past two years combined. Alexander's assistant had delivered it that morning along with matching shoes, jewelry, and a curt note: *Be ready at 2 PM. Car will arrive at 1:45.*
Emma ran her paint-stained fingers along the pristine fabric, careful not to leave marks. Three days had passed since she'd signed the contract, and she still felt like she was living someone else's nightmare.
"You look like you're about to throw up," Clara Brooks observed from the threadbare couch, her voice weak but tinged with worry. The chemotherapy had stolen her mother's hair and most of her strength, but her eyes—the same deep brown as Emma's—remained sharp with maternal concern.
"I feel like I'm about to throw up," Emma admitted, sinking onto the edge of her unmade bed. The studio apartment was barely four hundred square feet, but it had been home for the past three years. After today, she'd be living in Alexander Knight's penthouse, sleeping in a stranger's bed, pretending to love a man who'd made it clear he was incapable of loving her back.
Clara struggled to sit up straighter, the movement clearly costing her. "Baby, you don't have to do this. We'll find another way—"
"There is no other way, Mom." Emma's voice came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone, moved to sit beside her mother on the couch that doubled as Clara's bed. "The experimental treatment in Switzerland—it's our only shot. And it costs more money than we could make in five lifetimes."
The truth sat between them like a malignant tumor. Clara's cancer had metastasized, spreading through her body with ruthless efficiency. The standard treatments had failed. Without the experimental therapy, her mother had maybe six months. With it, she might have years.
Five million dollars. That's what Emma's freedom was worth. That's what a year of her life cost when weighed against her mother's survival.
"I raised you to marry for love," Clara whispered, her thin fingers finding Emma's hand. "Your father and I—"
"Dad's been gone for eight years," Emma cut her off gently. "And you've been working yourself to death trying to keep us afloat ever since. Let me save you this time."
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. Emma's heart lurched—it was only 1:30. She wasn't ready. She'd never be ready.
But when she opened the door, it wasn't Alexander's driver. A woman stood in the hallway, tall and elegant in a way that spoke of private schools and trust funds. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a perfect chignon, her navy suit tailored to show off a figure that had never known hunger or want. Ice-blue eyes—the same color as her brother's, but somehow colder—swept over Emma with undisguised disdain.
"You must be the little gold digger," the woman said, her voice cultured and sharp as crystal. "I'm Sophia Knight. We need to talk."
Emma's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Alexander isn't here—"
"I'm not here to see my brother. I'm here to see you." Sophia pushed past Emma into the apartment, her designer heels clicking against the worn hardwood. She took in the space with a single, dismissive glance—the easel covered in half-finished canvases, the kitchenette with its chipped counters, the couch where Clara lay watching with worried eyes.
"So this is where desperation lives," Sophia murmured, just loud enough for Emma to hear. "How... quaint."
Heat flashed through Emma's chest. "Get out."
"Oh, I don't think so." Sophia turned, her smile razor-sharp. "We're going to be family in an hour. We should get to know each other."
Clara tried to stand, her movements shaky. "Emma, who is this?"
"Alexander's sister," Emma said through gritted teeth. "And she was just leaving."
But Sophia had already moved to the easel, studying Emma's paintings with the clinical interest of a surgeon examining a tumor. "You have some talent," she admitted grudgingly. "Rough around the edges, but there's potential. Shame you're wasting it on this pathetic scheme."
"It's not a scheme—"
"Please." Sophia's laugh was like breaking glass. "You think you're the first desperate little nobody to set her sights on my brother? Alexander has been a target since he inherited the company. Beautiful women throw themselves at him every day."
Emma crossed her arms, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Then why are you here? If I'm just another gold digger, why waste your time?"
Sophia's expression shifted, something predatory gleaming in her eyes. "Because this time is different. This time, Alexander actually said yes." She stepped closer, close enough that Emma could smell her expensive perfume. "That terrifies you, doesn't it? You know you're not good enough for him. You know this marriage is a joke."
The words hit their mark, but Emma forced herself not to flinch. "What do you want, Sophia?"
"I want you to understand the rules." Sophia's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow felt more threatening than a shout. "Alexander may have married you, but you will never be family. You will never belong in our world. And when this charade is over, you will disappear quietly and completely. No tell-all books. No leaked photos. No attempts to cling to the Knight name."
"The contract already covers all of that."
"Contracts can be broken." Sophia's smile was all teeth. "But broken bones take much longer to heal."
The threat hung in the air between them, crystal clear despite its elegant delivery. Emma's mother made a small, frightened sound from the couch, and rage exploded in Emma's chest like a supernova.
"Get out." Emma's voice was deadly quiet. "Get out of my home before I call the police."
"And tell them what? That I complimented your art?" Sophia's laugh was musical and cold. "Oh, darling, you really are new to this game. Let me give you some free advice—in our world, wars are fought with smiles and charitable donations. The knife goes in so smoothly, you don't realize you're bleeding until it's too late."
She moved toward the door with fluid grace, but paused at the threshold. "One more thing. Alexander may seem cold, but he's not completely heartless. He still has a few soft spots left." Her smile was poisonous. "It would be a shame if something happened to them."
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Emma and her mother in stunned silence. Emma's hands were shaking so badly she had to grip the back of a chair to steady herself.
"Emma," Clara whispered. "Maybe we should—"
"No." Emma's voice cut through her mother's words like a blade. "I'm not backing down. Not to her, not to anyone."
But even as she said it, Sophia's words echoed in her mind. *Alexander still has a few soft spots left.* What had she meant by that? And why did it sound less like information and more like a promise of future pain?
The wedding dress seemed to mock her from across the room, its pristine beauty a stark contrast to the ugliness of the conversation that had just ended. In thirty minutes, she would put on that dress and marry a man who couldn't love her. In an hour, she would become part of a family that wanted her destroyed.
Emma straightened her shoulders and walked to the dress. She'd survived her father's death, her mother's illness, and years of grinding poverty. She could survive Sophia Knight.
But as she lifted the wedding dress from its hanger, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just declared war on an enemy she didn't understand, using weapons she didn't possess.
The silk whispered against her skin as she held it up to her reflection in the cracked mirror. In the glass, she saw a young woman who looked terrified and determined in equal measure. A woman about to step into a world where kindness was weakness and love was a luxury she couldn't afford.
The car would arrive in fifteen minutes. Alexander would be waiting at the courthouse, surrounded by lawyers and society photographers. And somewhere in that crowd, Sophia Knight would be watching, waiting for Emma's first mistake.
Emma began to undress, her movements mechanical. She was about to become Mrs. Alexander Knight, but as Sophia's threat lingered in the air like expensive perfume, she wondered if she'd just signed her own death warrant.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was coming.