The Terms of Control

Emma was exhausted.

By the time she and Alexander returned to the penthouse, her feet ached from hours in heels, and her mind was spinning from everything that had happened at the gala.

The moment the elevator doors slid open, she stepped inside and leaned against the cool metal wall, exhaling slowly.

Alexander followed, his movements as controlled as ever.

The air between them was thick with unspoken tension.

She could still feel the weight of his hand at her waist, the way he had pulled her close during the dance, the way his voice had dropped into something almost… protective when facing Victoria.

It was dangerous.

Too dangerous.

She had to remind herself—this was all pretend.

Nothing about tonight was real.

The elevator doors shut.

Silence.

Then—

"Don't let them get to you."

Emma blinked, startled by his sudden words.

She turned to him, finding his dark eyes already on her. "Them?"

"Victoria. My grandfather. The entire city." His voice was calm, unreadable. "They will try to break you."

Emma swallowed. "And what do you expect me to do?"

His gaze didn't waver.

"Hold your ground."

A shiver ran down her spine, but she quickly straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

"I'm not as weak as you think, Alexander."

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "Good."

The elevator stopped.

The doors slid open to reveal the penthouse's grand living room, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city below.

Emma stepped out, relieved to be home—well, his home.

She was still trying to adjust to all of this.

The wealth. The expectations. The way Alexander seemed to control everything with a single look.

And yet, despite everything—

She still wasn't sure what he truly wanted from her.

—

A New Set of Rules

The moment she entered her bedroom, Emma pulled off her earrings and tossed them onto the vanity.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—

The flawless makeup.

The elegant dress.

The image of a woman who belonged in Alexander Westwood's world.

But she didn't.

She never would.

A knock on the door made her tense.

Before she could respond, the door swung open.

Alexander.

Of course.

She crossed her arms, already exhausted. "Ever heard of knocking?"

His expression remained unreadable. "We need to talk."

Emma sighed and turned to face him fully. "What now?"

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "We need to establish some boundaries."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Boundaries?"

His jaw tightened slightly. "If we're going to convince the world that this engagement is real, we need to be careful—especially inside this penthouse."

She frowned. "Inside? But no one is watching here."

"You'd be surprised," he muttered.

She didn't like the way that sounded.

Before she could press further, he continued.

"There will be rules."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course there will be."

Alexander ignored her sarcasm.

"First—when we're in public or at social events, you will act the part. No hesitation, no mistakes."

She nodded. "Obviously."

"Second—when we're at home, you will continue the illusion. If there's a chance that someone might see or hear us, we play the role."

Emma hesitated. "You mean, like… act affectionate?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Exactly."

She resisted the urge to groan. "Anything else?"

Alexander's eyes darkened slightly.

"Yes. You don't fall for me."

Her breath caught.

For a moment, the air felt thick with something unspoken.

Then, Emma let out a laugh.

"Trust me, that won't be a problem."

Alexander's expression remained unreadable. "Good."

But for some reason—

His voice didn't sound as confident as before.

—

A Late-Night Encounter

Hours later, Emma lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The rules replayed in her mind.

Act the part.

Stay in control.

Don't fall.

It should be easy.

And yet—

The way Alexander had looked at her tonight, the way his hand had lingered at her waist—

It was dangerous.

She had spent years building walls around her heart.

And she had no intention of letting him tear them down.

Still, sleep refused to come.

With a sigh, Emma got up and wrapped herself in a silk robe. Maybe a glass of water would help.

She padded quietly through the dark penthouse, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside.

But when she reached the kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Alexander was already there.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his silhouette sharp against the city lights.

He looked different like this.

Less like the cold, ruthless billionaire and more like…

Something else.

Something almost human.

He turned, his sharp eyes landing on her. "Couldn't sleep?"

She hesitated before stepping forward. "Yeah."

His gaze flickered to the glass in her hand. "Water?"

She nodded.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

Then, without thinking, Emma asked—

"Why did you choose me?"

Alexander's fingers tightened around his glass.

His answer came slowly.

"Because you were the only one who wouldn't try to keep me."

Emma frowned. "What does that mean?"

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Most women in my world would do anything to make this real."

She swallowed, suddenly understanding.

He didn't just want a fake fiancée.

He wanted someone who wouldn't get attached.

Someone who would walk away when this was over.

Her chest tightened, though she wasn't sure why.

"You don't believe in love, do you?" she murmured.

Alexander's gaze turned icy cold.

"Love is a weakness."

Emma's breath hitched.

And for some reason—

She couldn't look away.