A Night of Pretenses
The moment Emma stepped out of the black limousine, a wave of flashing lights nearly blinded her.
Cameras.
Journalists.
A sea of onlookers, whispering, speculating.
This was Alexander Westwood's world—a place of power, scrutiny, and relentless attention. And tonight, she was his fiancée.
She felt his hand slide around her waist, firm and commanding.
"Smile," Alexander murmured near her ear, his voice smooth as silk. "You belong here."
Her pulse raced.
She didn't belong here.
But for the next six months, she had to make everyone believe she did.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin, forced a perfectly rehearsed smile, and let Alexander guide her into the dazzling ballroom.
—
A World of Wealth and Power
The event was breathtaking.
A grand chandelier hung from the high ceilings, casting a golden glow over the ballroom. Guests in designer gowns and tailored suits held crystal glasses filled with the finest champagne, their laughter and polite conversations filling the space.
It was another world.
A world where money ruled, and appearances were everything.
Emma felt completely out of place.
"Stay close," Alexander murmured, his hand still resting at her waist.
She nodded wordlessly, her fingers tightening around the elegant clutch in her hand.
"Ah, Alexander!"
A deep voice interrupted her thoughts.
A man in his sixties approached them, his sharp gray eyes full of curiosity.
Emma immediately recognized him from magazine covers—Gerald Westwood, Alexander's grandfather.
The real reason for this entire arrangement.
Alexander's grip on her waist subtly tightened.
"Grandfather," he greeted smoothly. "Good to see you."
Gerald's gaze flickered toward Emma, his expression unreadable.
"And this must be your fiancée," he said, studying her with mild interest.
Emma forced a smile, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westwood."
He took her hand briefly before letting go.
"You're a rather… unexpected choice," Gerald remarked.
Emma stiffened slightly.
Before she could respond, Alexander spoke.
"She's exactly what I need," he said smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Emma forced herself to remain composed, even as her heart pounded.
Was that all she was to him?
A convenient solution?
Gerald hummed, clearly unconvinced.
"Well, I suppose time will tell," he said before stepping away, disappearing into the crowd.
Emma released a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.
Alexander leaned down slightly, his voice a low murmur against her ear.
"You handled that well."
She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze. "Did I pass the test?"
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips.
"For now."
—
Dancing with the Devil
The evening continued with polite conversations, fake smiles, and endless glasses of champagne.
But then—
The music changed.
The opening notes of a slow, elegant waltz filled the ballroom.
Emma barely had time to react before Alexander's hand was in hers.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a request.
Her heart skipped a beat as he led her onto the dance floor, pulling her into his arms.
His touch was light yet firm, his movements effortless.
He was dangerously good at this.
"Relax," he murmured, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
Emma let out a breath, willing her body to follow his lead.
They moved together in perfect synchronization, their steps smooth and precise.
For a moment, the world around them blurred.
The music. The lights. The people watching.
It all faded.
All she could feel was him.
His hand at her waist.
The warmth of his body so close to hers.
The steady rhythm of their movements, like a silent conversation neither of them dared to acknowledge.
And for the briefest second—
She forgot this was a game.
—
A Warning
As the song came to an end, Alexander led her off the dance floor.
Before Emma could catch her breath, a voice cut through the air like ice.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Emma."
She turned sharply.
A woman stood before her, stunningly beautiful in a deep red gown.
Her cold, calculating eyes locked onto Emma with something dangerously close to amusement.
Emma recognized her immediately.
Victoria Hayes.
A powerful socialite.
And, according to the tabloids, the woman who was supposed to be Alexander's future wife.
Emma's throat went dry.
"Excuse me?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Victoria smirked, swirling the champagne in her glass.
"You really think this little engagement is going to last?" she mused, tilting her head. "You're nothing but a placeholder."
Emma clenched her fists.
She knew that.
She knew exactly what she was to Alexander.
But hearing it from someone else?
It stung.
Before she could respond, Alexander's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"You seem rather interested in my fiancée, Victoria."
Emma turned to see Alexander standing beside her, his expression cool but unmistakably possessive.
Victoria let out a small laugh. "Just looking out for you, darling."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "I don't need your concern."
Victoria's smirk widened.
Then, with one last glance at Emma, she turned and walked away, leaving behind a trail of unspoken threats.
Emma exhaled, the tension in her shoulders finally easing.
But then, Alexander spoke again.
His voice was low, unreadable.
"Be careful, Emma."
She turned to him, frowning. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because in that moment, Emma realized—
This was more than just a contract.
This was a game of power, deception, and control.
And she had just become the pawn.