The mirror room.

Later that afternoon, Emma stood before the grand mirror in the east wing fitting room — a space that resembled a private boutique more than a part of any home. Gowns in shades of silk, tulle, and lace lined the walls, their colors muted and regal. The stylist was adjusting the neckline of a deep emerald gown that flattered Emma's figure and made her feel less like a guest — and more like she belonged.

"You look lovely, Mrs. Wolfe," Eleanor said from behind, a kind smile on her face. She stood with her hands neatly clasped, always composed. "The color suits you well."

Emma smiled softly, feeling a little more at ease. "Thank you. I wasn't sure what to expect today."

"You've handled everything with grace," Eleanor said. "Some take months to adjust. You're doing just fine."

Emma looked at her reflection. She didn't feel entirely confident, but the gown helped. And Eleanor's quiet reassurance meant more than she could admit.

A knock came, and moments later, Alexander's grandmother stepped inside — regal as always, her cane tapping softly against the polished floors.

"There you are, darling," she said with a warm smile. "Let me look at you."

Emma turned, slightly embarrassed. "I wasn't expecting—"

"You look stunning," the older woman said, eyes shining. "The gala is tiresome, yes, but you will shine. And people will talk — they always do. Let them. What matters is how you carry yourself."

Emma swallowed. "I'm still figuring all of this out."

"And you will," the woman said. "Alexander may not say it, but he notices everything. He wouldn't sit at your table if he didn't."

Emma's heart stuttered.

"He's a good boy," she continued, gently brushing a strand of Emma's hair back. "A busy one, but his heart is better than most of this family."

Just then, the door opened again.

Vivian.

She entered like a storm hiding behind a smile. Tall, poised, dressed in a high-collared designer coat. Her eyes flicked over Emma and the gown.

"Well, don't you look... formal," she said lightly.

"Preparing for the gala," Emma replied, polite but firm.

Vivian let out a soft chuckle. "It's always so fascinating, watching how quickly some people adapt. The rest of us had to earn our place."

Emma didn't respond, but the air shifted.

Alexander's grandmother narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "Emma is doing well. The family will be proud to present her."

Vivian's smile tightened. "Of course."

Eleanor, ever poised, stepped forward with a soft voice. "Miss Vivian, if you'd like refreshments, we can have the salon arranged."

"No need," Vivian said sweetly, eyes on Emma. "Just came to see the excitement."

Emma held her ground. The dress, the weight of the family name, the whispers — none of it felt as overwhelming anymore.

When Vivian left a moment later, the room felt lighter.

Alexander's grandmother leaned close, whispering with a soft smirk. "She's always like that. Best to let her exhaust herself."

Emma almost smiled.

She may have entered the Wolfe estate as a stranger, but now, piece by piece, she was beginning to understand its walls — and the shadows they carried.

Emma stood alone in the mirror room after everyone had left — the stylist, Eleanor, even Alexander's grandmother. The silence felt heavier now, filled with her reflection staring back in the emerald gown that shimmered beneath the chandelier light.

She turned slightly, examining the silhouette. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly.

The Emma she saw didn't feel like her.

Gone were the cotton dresses she'd worn on campus, the ponytails, the sandals. This Emma had sculpted hair, flawless makeup, and a gown that probably cost more than her entire scholarship fund.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

She didn't answer — only turned her head as Alexander stepped inside.

Still in his usual slate-gray suit, phone in hand, brow furrowed. His presence filled the room like thunder before rain.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he said, eyes briefly scanning her reflection. "The tailor said you'd finished."

Emma turned toward him, unsure whether to speak or wait.

He looked at her more fully now — his gaze pausing, maybe a little longer than usual.

"You'll do fine," he said simply.

It wasn't a compliment. But it wasn't an insult, either.

"I don't know what 'fine' means in your world," Emma replied, her tone more honest than she'd intended.

Alexander's brows lifted, faintly amused. "It means you won't embarrass yourself. Or me."

Emma's jaw tightened, and she looked away. "That's a comforting bar to aim for."

He didn't reply right away. She could hear the slight buzz of his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.

"You didn't grow up in this," he said suddenly. "This kind of performance. You weren't taught how to smile without giving too much. How to walk into a room without showing what you feel."

Emma looked at him, surprised. His voice wasn't sharp. It was distant. Observant.

"No, I wasn't," she said. "But I can still tell when someone's pretending not to look down on me."

He smiled faintly — not cruelly, just tiredly. "You're not what they expected."

"Neither are you," she shot back. "At least not what your grandmother thinks."

That made him pause.

"She says you have a good heart," Emma added, softer now. "I wonder if she's the only one who's seen it."

Alexander's expression shifted — not into a smile, but something quieter. Almost unreadable.

"You should get some rest," he said instead, stepping back toward the door. "The gala is demanding. You'll need your energy."

Emma nodded, but as he turned to leave, she spoke once more.

"Alexander," she said.

He stopped, looking back.

"Why did you sit at my table this morning?"

His pause stretched just long enough to make her heart stutter.

"I was already late for a meeting," he said, tone neutral. "That seat was closer."

Emma watched as he disappeared through the door.

A lie — or at least not the full truth.

She turned back to the mirror. The girl in emerald stood taller now.

Maybe the dress wasn't hers.

But the spine beneath it certainly was.

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