Emily's POV
Tucked neatly under the door was a note. I almost stepped on it as I emerged from my room that morning, already running late, my mind spinning with the dozens of things I still needed to do before tonight.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.
"Tonight, you become Mrs. Hawthorne in the eyes of the world. Please make it count."
That was it. No preamble, no explanation, no acknowledgment of the fiery confrontation we'd had the two days ago, the one where I told him, brutally, that he was letting his fear define him. No scolding, but no apology either. Just a cool, hard directive. A reminder of the contract.
Two days. Two days since I'd seen him. Since he'd looked at me with that mixture of fury and something else…something that might have been respect or might have been hatred, I still couldn't tell which. Two days of him taking his meals in his study, of empty chairs at breakfast, of Lily asking where Mr. Hawthorne was and me running out of excuses. It was as if he'd retreated further into his ivory tower, leaving Jenkins to manage the fallout.
And now this. A note slipped under my door like I was some employee receiving instructions, not the woman who was supposed to stand beside him tonight and convince the world we were in love.
"Please make it count."
As if I had any choice.
I crumpled the note in my fist and then smoothed it out again, folding it precisely. I couldn't afford to be angry right now, I needed to channel every ounce of emotion into that performance.
---
The day passed in a blur of last-minute preparations. By late afternoon, the small army of assistants and stylists had arrived, transforming my room into a production studio. My hair was swept up into a beautiful cascade of soft waves, my makeup was flawless, dramatic but not overdone, emphasizing my eyes and lips without making me look like I was trying too hard.
Hours later, I stood facing the full-length mirror in my bedroom, and I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me.
The dress Madame Rousseau had sent back was perfection, the cream-colored silk dress, clinging exactly where it should, with the deep, plunging V-neck and that daring, impossibly high front slit. It was sensual and elegant, accessorized with a shimmering necklace, and heels with delicate straps that wrapped around my ankles, so delicate they looked like they would shatter if I took a real step.
I looked... expensive. Polished. Like someone who belonged on Victor Hawthorne's arm.
Just then, Lily slipped into the room.
"Mommy, whoa," She breathed.
I turned to find Lily standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open in surprise.
"Is that really you?" she whispered.
Despite everything…the nerves, the fear, the weight of what tonight meant, I felt my lips curve into a genuine smile. "It's really me, baby."
Lily walked into the room slowly, when she reached me, she carefully touched the edge of my dress with one finger.
"You look..." She searched for the right word, her young face serious with concentration. "You look like a princess. No, better than a princess. You look like a queen." Her eyes lifted to mine. "You're the most beautiful woman in the whole entire world, Mommy."
I knelt carefully, mindful of the restrictive fabric and the sharp heels, and drew her close, pressing a fierce kiss onto her forehead.
"My beautiful girl. Thank you. You are the only person whose opinion matters to me, you know that?"
I stood up, adjusting the necklace. "Now, listen to me, sweetie. You need to be a good girl, okay? I have to go out with Mr. Hawthorne for a little while, but I promise, I will be back before you even know it."
She nodded. "Be safe, Mommy. Bye."
"Goodbye, my darling." I forced myself to walk out the door, Lily's sweet, uncomplicated love the only fuel keeping me from collapsing.
---
The car ride was suffocating.
Victor was already seated in the back of the black Mercedes when Steve opened and I entered, his suit perfectly tailored, his wheelchair discreetly folded away by Steve and replaced by the seat. He looked exactly like the corporate titan he was…imposing, untouchable. He didn't turn his head when I slid in beside him. The space between us felt both infinite and impossibly small.
Victor hadn't said a word since I'd entered the car. He hadn't looked at me once. Not when I'd emerged from the house, not when Steve had helped me into the car.
The silence that settled between us was heavier than the velvet cushions, colder than the air conditioning. It wasn't comfortable silence, it was a wall of purposeful detachment. I wanted to scream, to ask him if he had even reflected on my words, if they had registered, but his profile was granite. He had clearly put his public face on hours ago, sealing himself away.
I spent the entire twenty-minute drive staring out the window at the receding cityscape, my hands clamped tightly in my lap, feeling the silk of the dress against my skin. The absurdity of the situation…two strangers, bound by a lie, riding to their debut as a loving couple, was almost comical if it wasn't so utterly terrifying.
The moment the car stopped, the world outside exploded.
Steve opened Victor's door first, as he brought out the wheel, unlocking the wheelchair mechanisms. Victor transferred himself with the kind of controlled precision that spoke of years of practice, his face betraying nothing.
Then Steve came around to my side.
The moment the door opened, I was hit by a wall of sound and light.
Flashbulbs exploded like small bombs, blinding and disorienting. Voices called out, questions, demands for attention, a dozen conversations happening at once. The red carpet stretched before us like a river of blood, lined on both sides by photographers and reporters held back by velvet ropes.
I froze, momentarily paralyzed by the overwhelming volume of attention.
This was real. This was actually happening. In about thirty seconds, I would have to step out of this car and walk into that circus, and everyone would be watching, judging, waiting for me to fail.
"Mrs. Hawthorne?" Steve's voice was gentle, his hand extended to help me out.
I took it because I had no choice, letting him guide me from the car on legs that felt like shrinking. The dress shimmered in the lights, the slit revealing my leg as I stepped onto the carpet, and the cameras went absolutely wild.
"Victor! Mr. Hawthorne, how does it feel to be back?"
"Is it true this is your first public appearance in five years?"
The questions came from everywhere at once, overwhelming and impossible to track. I stood there like a deer in headlights, absolutely frozen, unable to move or speak or do anything except try to breathe through the panic clawing at my chest.
Then Victor was beside me.
I felt his presence before I saw him, the electric awareness that always came when he was near. His wheelchair moved smoothly across the carpet, and then his hand was reaching out, palm up, waiting.
For a heartbeat, I just stared at that outstretched hand. The first time he'd willingly offered to touch me. The first time he'd reached for me instead of pulling away.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine immediately, firm and warm and somehow reassuring despite everything. The grip was like steel, unbreakable, and when I looked down at him, he was smiling.
Not the cold, distant expression I'd grown accustomed to. A real smile, charming and warm and completely false, the kind of smile designed to captivate and deceive. The kind of smile that said "we're in love, can't you see how happy we are?"
"Shall we?" he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and let him guide me forward.
We moved down the red carpet together, Victor's wheelchair gliding smoothly, my hand still clasped in his. The cameras followed our every move, flashbulbs creating a strobe effect that made the whole scene feel surreal and dreamlike.
"Victor! How does it feel to be back in the public eye?"
He turned toward the voice, that charming smile never wavering. "It feels good to be here with my beautiful wife. Emily's been encouraging me to get out more, haven't you, darling?"
The endearment rolled off his tongue so naturally I almost believed it myself. I forced my lips into what I hoped was a loving smile.
"He works too hard," I said, surprised my voice came out steady. "Someone has to remind him there's a world outside his study."
The reporters laughed, eating it up, and Victor's grip on my hand tightened fractionally. Approval or warning? I couldn't tell.
We continued down the carpet, pausing for photos, Victor introducing me to people whose names I immediately forgot. Business associates. Society figures. People who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes, who looked at me with the kind of assessing gaze that made me feel like livestock being evaluated for purchase.
When we finally made it inside the ballroom, I wanted to collapse with relief.
The space was breathtaking, all soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers, walls draped in cream and gold fabric that caught the light. Round tables filled the room, each set with china and crystal screaming luxury. An orchestra played soft classical music from a raised platform at one end, and waiters circulated with trays of champagne.
And every single person turned to look at us as we entered.
The conversations didn't stop exactly, but they shifted, became muted. I felt the weight of hundreds of eyes assessing, measuring, judging. My dress, my jewelry, my hair, my face. The way I stood beside Victor's wheelchair, the way my hand still rested in his.
Looking for flaws. Looking for proof that I didn't belong.
"Smile," Victor murmured, his lips barely moving. "You look terrified."
I arranged my face into what I hoped passed for pleasant confidence and let him lead me further into the room.
The board members descended on us first. Six men and one woman, all impeccably dressed, all wearing the kind of professional masks that came from years of high-stakes business dealings.
"Victor." The oldest man, silver-haired and distinguished, clasped Victor's free hand in both of his. "It's damn good to see you out and about. We've missed you."
"Robert." Victor's smile was genuine this time, touched with warmth. "You're looking well. Emily, this is Robert Graf, chairman of our board. Robert, my wife, Emily."
I shook his hand, grateful when his grip was firm but not crushing. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graf."
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mrs. Hawthorne." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "And please, call me Robert. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other now that Victor's decided to rejoin the living."
The other board members introduced themselves in turn…Samuel Sim, Amy Russell, David Foster, Dan Liberstein, Geoffrey Rush, Sean Daniels . They were polite, professional, their compliments about my appearance feeling genuine rather than mocking.
Amy, an elegant woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a kind smile, took both my hands in hers. "That dress is absolutely stunning. Madame Rousseau?"
"Yes," I confirmed, surprised she'd recognized it.
"I thought so. She has such a distinctive style." Amy leaned in conspiratorially, though her voice carried enough for Victor to hear. "You have excellent taste, Victor. No wonder you've been so comfortable hiding away in that mansion of yours with such a beautiful companion."
Victor actually laughed, the sound rich and warm and so unexpected it made my breath catch. "You've discovered my secret, Amy."
The teasing continued for a few more minutes before Amy excused herself from the men, gently taking my elbow. "Come on, dear. Let's get you a drink and let these boring men talk business for a moment."
I glanced at Victor, uncertain, and found him giving me a small nod of approval. Permission granted.
Amy guided me toward the bar area, where a champagne fountain created an impressive centerpiece. She plucked two glasses from a passing waiter's tray, handing one to me with a warm smile.
"Don't let them intimidate you," she said softly, surprising me with her directness.
"I can handle curious," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure that was true.
"Good." She clinked her glass against mine. "It's liquid courage, and you'll need it. I do have to warn you, darling, the wolves are out tonight. They all knew Sharon, of course, and you're the delicious, unknown quantity."
Just as I raised the glass to my lips.
"Amy! There you are!"
A loud, flamboyant man draped in gold jewelry rushed up to Mrs. Russell, distracting her with an urgent, conspiratorial whisper.
"Oh, damn it, William, can't you see I'm with someone?" Mrs. Russell sighed dramatically, then patted my arm. "Just one moment, Emily. This one is unavoidable. Don't move."
She was gone, leaving me standing alone, holding a glass of wine, completely exposed.