Emma’s POV
The days that follow blur into a series of motions I go through without fully registering them. Meetings with Alexander's lawyers, signing contracts I can barely bring myself to read, and speaking to my father as if nothing has changed—pretending that I'm not shackling myself to a man I barely know. My father is still in the hospital, and every visit with him feels like a dagger twisting deeper into my chest.
He doesn't know about my decision. He doesn't need to. There's no point in burdening him with something he won't even be around to see. The truth is, I'm not doing this for him. I'm doing it because I can't bear to watch him suffer any longer.
Alexander's lawyers have been swift and efficient, and within a week, everything is set in motion. The wedding, such as it is, will be a private affair—no guests, no family, just paperwork, and signatures to bind us together. It's all cold and calculated, just like Alexander.
I can't think about it for too long, or the panic will consume me.
---
On the day of the wedding, I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. I've kept things simple—no elaborate gown or flowing veil. I'm wearing a plain white dress that I bought off the rack, my hair pulled back into a loose knot. I don't feel like a bride. I don't feel like anything at all, really. Just numb.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see a text from Jack: How's everything going? Do you need anything?
Jack. He's been my lifeline through all of this, the one person who doesn't know the truth but still senses something is off. I haven't told him about the deal with Alexander. I haven't told anyone. I can't.
I hesitate for a moment before typing back: I'm fine. Just busy with work stuff.
It's a lie, of course, but I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. Not now. Not when everything is already spiraling out of control.
---
The courthouse is cold and sterile, a far cry from the romantic ideal of a wedding. Alexander is waiting for me when I arrive, his expression as unreadable as ever. He's dressed in a sharp black suit, looking every bit the powerful CEO. For a moment, I wonder if he feels anything at all about this—about marrying a woman he doesn't love, about tying himself to me out of sheer convenience.
But if he does, he doesn't show it.
"Are you ready?" he asks, his voice low and even, as though we're about to sign a business contract rather than vow to spend our lives together.
I nod, my throat tight. "Let's get this over with."
The ceremony is quick and clinical. We stand before a judge, exchange a few words, sign the necessary documents, and just like that, it's done. I'm now Mrs. Emma Kane, wife of Alexander Kane, tied to him by paper and obligation. There's no kiss, no celebration, no hint of warmth or connection. Just the cold, stark reality of what I've agreed to.
As we leave the courthouse, Alexander places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the car waiting at the curb. His touch is light, almost impersonal, and I can't help but wonder if this is what our life together will be like—distant, detached, devoid of emotion.
Once we're in the car, he speaks, his tone matter-of-fact. "The first thing we need to discuss is our living arrangement."
I glance at him, feeling a pit form in my stomach. "Living arrangement?"
"Yes," he replies, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We'll be living together, of course. It will be expected of us. You'll move into my penthouse by the end of the week."
I blink, the reality of his words sinking in. I hadn't even considered that. Of course, I'd be expected to live with him, to play the role of a dutiful wife in public. But the thought of sharing a home with him—a man I barely know, a man I don't love—makes my skin crawl.
"I… I need some time to get my things in order," I say, my voice unsteady.
"You have until the end of the week," he says, his tone final. "I'll have someone arrange for the move."
I nod numbly, staring out the window as the city blurs by. I feel like I'm trapped in a nightmare, one I can't wake up from.
---
Later that evening, after the wedding, I visit my father at the hospital. It feels wrong to be here, to sit by his bedside and pretend that nothing has changed when everything has. But I can't stay away. I can't let him see how broken I feel inside.
"Hey, Dad," I whisper, taking his hand in mine. He's sleeping when I arrive, his breathing shallow and labored. He looks so fragile, so close to the edge, and it kills me to see him like this.
I sit with him for a while, listening to the steady beep of the machines, the soft murmur of the nurses outside. I don't know how much longer he has, but I know it isn't long. The thought makes my chest ache.
After an hour, I decide to leave, knowing that I'll be back tomorrow. I always come back.
---
A few days later, the moving trucks pull up outside my apartment, and I watch as strangers pack up my life and transfer it into boxes. I hadn't realized how final it would feel until now, standing here as everything I own is neatly wrapped and labeled. My apartment was never much—a small, cozy place I could call my own, my refuge from the chaos of the world. Now, I'm leaving it behind to live with a man who doesn't want me, in a home that will never feel like mine.
Alexander's penthouse is everything you'd expect from a man like him—sleek, modern, and meticulously designed. It's cold, sterile, and devoid of personality, much like the man himself. As I step inside, I feel a sense of dread settle over me.
"Your room is down the hall," Alexander says, gesturing toward a set of doors. "You'll have your own space, of course. We'll keep up appearances in public, but there's no need to pretend otherwise behind closed doors."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I'm grateful, at least, that he isn't expecting anything more from me. This arrangement, this marriage, is purely transactional. There's no love here, no intimacy. Just convenience.
But the part of me that once dreamed of love, of family, of a life filled with warmth and connection—she grieves for what I'll never have.
As I unpack my things, settling into my new room, I try to block out the reality of my situation. I focus on the practicalities—organizing my clothes, arranging my books, anything to distract myself from the overwhelming sense of loss that gnaws at me.
---
The days turn into weeks, and life falls into a strange, cold routine. I work, I visit my father, and I return to the penthouse where Alexander and I exist as strangers. He's always busy—working late into the night, attending meetings, and traveling for business. We rarely see each other, and when we do, our conversations are brief and formal. It's like living with a ghost.
My father's condition worsens, and the doctors tell me it's only a matter of time. The thought terrifies me—losing him, losing the only family I have left. I try to prepare myself, but how do you prepare for something like that?
One evening, after a particularly grueling day at the hospital, I return to the penthouse to find Alexander sitting in the living room, a glass of whiskey in hand. It's the first time I've seen him at home in days, and there's something different about him—something darker, more brooding.
"You're home," I say, surprised to see him.
He looks up at me, his expression unreadable. "I am."
I pause, unsure of what to say. There's a tension in the air, something unspoken hanging between us. Finally, he speaks.
"How's your father?"
The question catches me off guard. Alexander has never asked about my father before, never shown any interest in my personal life.
"He's… not doing well," I admit, my voice cracking slightly. "The doctors don't think he has much time left."
Alexander nods, his gaze distant. For a moment, I wonder if he's going to say something—offer some kind of comfort—but he doesn't. Instead, he stands, draining the last of his whiskey.
"We'll discuss the next steps tomorrow," he says, his tone cold and detached. "Goodnight, Emma."
I watch as he walks away, his footsteps echoing through the empty penthouse.
And for the first time since this all began, I feel truly, utterly alone.
---