The courthouse steps were slick with rain, and Emma's designer heels clicked against the wet stone like a countdown to execution. The Vera Wang dress clung to her curves in all the right places, transforming her from struggling artist to society bride with surgical precision. But beneath the silk and pearls, her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.
Alexander stood at the top of the steps, a figure carved from shadows and expensive tailoring. His black suit was immaculate despite the drizzle, his dark hair swept back with the kind of careless perfection that cost more than most people's monthly salary. When his steel-gray eyes found hers across the crowd of photographers and legal assistants, something electric sparked between them—part recognition, part challenge, entirely dangerous.
"You came," he said as she reached him, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
"Did you think I wouldn't?" Emma lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how Sophia's threats had shaken her. The bouquet of white roses in her hands felt like a prop in someone else's play.
"I thought you were smarter than this." But there was something almost like admiration in his tone, quickly buried beneath layers of practiced indifference.
The media had gathered like vultures sensing carrion. Cameras flashed in the gray afternoon, capturing every angle of the city's most notorious bachelor finally taking a wife. Emma caught sight of a reporter she recognized from the gossip columns, her face hungry with the scent of scandal.
"Mr. Knight! Is it true this is a business arrangement?"
"Alexander! How did you meet your bride?"
"Miss Brooks! What do you say to rumors about your financial difficulties?"
Emma's cheeks burned, but Alexander's hand found the small of her back, steadying her. His touch was warm through the silk, possessive in a way that made her skin tingle with unwanted awareness.
"Smile," he murmured against her ear, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "They can smell fear."
She forced her lips into a curve that felt like breaking glass, but when she looked up at Alexander, something shifted in his expression. For just a moment, the predator's mask slipped, revealing something raw and unguarded beneath.
"You look beautiful," he said, and the words sounded like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
Before Emma could respond, Mason Gray appeared at Alexander's elbow like a nervous shadow. The legal assistant was younger than his boss by several years, with sandy hair that refused to stay neat and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He clutched a leather portfolio against his chest as if it could shield him from the chaos around them.
"Sir, the judge is ready," Mason said, then caught sight of Emma and blushed to the roots of his hair. "Mrs. Knight—I mean, Miss Brooks—you look lovely. Congratulations. I think. Is that appropriate? I've never been to a business—I mean, a wedding like—"
"Mason." Alexander's voice cut through the younger man's rambling with surgical precision. "Breathe."
Emma found herself smiling—a real smile this time. "Thank you, Mason. It's nice to meet you."
The assistant's blush deepened. "The pleasure is all mine, miss. Ma'am. Mrs.—future Mrs.—"
"Emma," she said gently. "Just Emma."
Mason's face lit up as if she'd handed him the sun. Emma caught Alexander watching the exchange with something that might have been amusement flickering in his eyes.
They moved through the courthouse corridors like a small army—Alexander and Emma at the center, surrounded by lawyers, assistants, and the soft whisper of expensive fabric against marble floors. The building smelled of old wood and older secrets, the kind of place where lives were changed with signatures and stamps.
Judge Morrison was a thin man with silver hair and the weary expression of someone who'd seen too many marriages crumble in his courtroom. He looked at the couple before him with barely concealed skepticism, his gaze lingering on Emma's youth and obvious nervousness.
"This is highly irregular," the judge said, adjusting his glasses. "No guests, no family present..."
"My client prefers privacy," one of Alexander's lawyers interjected smoothly. "All the paperwork is in order."
Emma's stomach twisted. No family present. Her mother was too weak for the journey, and Alexander... she realized she'd never asked about his parents. The man she was about to marry was still essentially a stranger, his life a locked vault she had no key to open.
"Very well," Judge Morrison sighed. "Do you, Alexander James Knight, take Emma Rose Brooks to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Alexander's voice was steady, controlled. "I do."
The words hit Emma like physical blows. There was no love in them, no joy, just the same tone he might use to approve a quarterly report. But when she looked at him, really looked, she saw his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
"And do you, Emma Rose Brooks, take Alexander James Knight to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
This was it. The point of no return. Emma's mouth went dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth like sandpaper. The silence stretched, became uncomfortable, then dangerous.
Alexander's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. In the back of the small group, she could see Mason shifting nervously, his portfolio clutched tighter against his chest.
"I do." The words escaped her in a rush, barely audible.
Judge Morrison nodded with obvious relief. "By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Alexander stepped closer, his gray eyes searching her face. This close, she could see the faint scar along his left temple, could smell the subtle cologne that made her think of dark forests and dangerous promises.
"For the cameras," he said quietly, so only she could hear.
His hands cupped her face with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. When his lips touched hers, Emma's world tilted on its axis. The kiss was supposed to be for show, a performance for the gathered witnesses and media waiting outside. But the moment their mouths met, something ignited between them that had nothing to do with contracts or convenience.
Alexander's lips were warm, firm, demanding in a way that made Emma's knees weak. She could taste the coffee he'd had that morning, could feel the slight tremor in his hands as they held her face. For a heartbeat, maybe two, the courthouse faded away and there was nothing but the heat building between them, the way her body seemed to recognize his on some primal level.
When they broke apart, Alexander's eyes were dark with something that looked dangerously like hunger. Emma's breath came in short gasps, her lips tingling from the contact.
"Well," Judge Morrison cleared his throat. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Knight."
Mrs. Knight. Emma Brooks was gone, replaced by someone she didn't recognize, someone who could make Alexander Knight lose control with just a kiss.
As they signed the marriage certificate, Emma's hand shook slightly. Alexander's signature was bold, decisive—the same hand that had built an empire now binding himself to her for the next twelve months. When it was done, he helped her down the courthouse steps, his touch careful and impersonal now that the cameras were rolling again.
But Emma could still taste him on her lips, could still feel the echo of that moment when his careful control had cracked just slightly.
The ride to his penthouse was silent except for the whisper of expensive leather and the soft hum of the Bentley's engine. Emma stared out the rain-streaked windows at the city flashing by, trying to process what had just happened. She was married. To Alexander Knight. The man who'd destroyed her father's business was now legally bound to her for the next year.
"Having second thoughts?" Alexander asked without looking at her.
"Too late for those," Emma replied, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice.
"Indeed." He was studying his phone now, already back to business. "We'll need to make an appearance at the Met Gala next month. My assistant will coordinate with the stylist."
The casual mention of the Met Gala—an event Emma had only read about in magazines—should have intimidated her. Instead, she felt a spark of something that might have been defiance.
"I can dress myself, Mr. Knight."
"It's Alexander. And no, you can't. Not for this world." His tone wasn't cruel, just matter-of-fact. "The wolves will be watching for any sign of weakness. One wrong designer, one inappropriate accessory, and they'll tear you apart."
"Like your sister did this afternoon?"
Alexander's head snapped up from his phone, his eyes sharp with sudden attention. "Sophia came to see you?"
"She wanted to establish the rules of engagement." Emma met his gaze steadily. "She seems to think I'm a threat to the family reputation."
Something dangerous flickered across Alexander's features. "What exactly did she say?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"That's not what I asked."
Emma turned back to the window. "She made it clear I don't belong in your world. That I should disappear quietly when this is over. And that you still have a few soft spots left that could be... problematic."
The silence that followed was arctic. When Emma glanced at Alexander, his face had gone completely cold, the businessman's mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. But his hands were clenched into fists again, and she could see the muscle in his jaw working.
"Sophia has always been protective," he said finally. "Don't take it personally."
"Protective?" Emma's voice rose slightly. "She threatened me. In front of my dying mother."
"She what?" The words came out in a growl that made Emma's breath catch.
Before she could respond, the Bentley glided to a stop in front of a gleaming tower of glass and steel. The building stretched toward the gray sky like a monument to power and ambition, each floor representing another million in Alexander's vast fortune.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Knight," he said, but his tone was still edged with the fury Emma's revelation had unleashed.
As they rode the private elevator to the penthouse, Emma caught her reflection in the mirrored walls. The woman staring back at her wore designer silk and genuine pearls, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless. She looked like she belonged in Alexander's world.
But looks, Emma was learning, could be devastatingly deceiving.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a space that took Emma's breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan, the city spread out below them like a glittering carpet. The penthouse was decorated in shades of black, white, and silver—elegant, expensive, and utterly without warmth.
"Your room is down the hall," Alexander said, already moving toward what looked like a home office. "We'll maintain separate spaces. Less complicated that way."
"Alexander." Emma's voice stopped him at the threshold. "What did Sophia mean about your soft spots?"
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might actually answer. Then his phone buzzed, and the moment shattered like glass.
"I have calls to return," he said, disappearing into his office.
The sound of the door closing echoed through the vast penthouse like a gunshot. Emma stood alone in the center of her new life, still wearing her wedding dress, still tasting her new husband on her lips.
Through the windows, storm clouds gathered over Manhattan like an omen. Emma had won herself a year in paradise, but she was beginning to suspect that paradise came with its own particular variety of hell.
And somewhere in the city below, Sophia Knight was probably already planning Emma's destruction.