Emma’s pulse hammered.
Her first instinct was to stand up, excuse herself, get out. Her second instinct was to laugh, because this was insane.
But the room really was looking.
She felt the weight of it: the pity that had hovered over her all night suddenly switching to curiosity, sharpening into gossip.
Who’s she? Why is he sitting with her?
The man slid a champagne glass toward her. The waiter appeared like magic and filled it before Emma could protest.
“Listen,” she whispered, turning her head slightly, “I don’t even know your name.”
His mouth curved into the faintest smile.
“Adrien Blackwood,” he said softly.
The name hit Emma like cold water.
Not because she’d ever met him—she hadn’t—but because she’d seen it in headlines. In magazines behind the counter at the diner. In news segments playing silently above the bar.
Adrien Blackwood: self-made millionaire with inherited scars. The man who rebuilt his family’s collapsing empire into something ferocious. The man who attended charity galas like they were board meetings. The man people called “untouchable” when they didn’t know what else to call someone rich enough to float above consequences.
Emma stared at him, and he read the recognition on her face.
“Yes,” he murmured. “That one.”
“You’re… why are you here?” she managed.
“Wedding,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Loneliness.”
That surprised her more than the name.
He leaned closer again.
“Pretend you’re not alone,” he said. “Pretend you’re mine.”
Emma’s stomach twisted.
It was a ridiculous request. It was intrusive. It was dangerous.
And still… a small, traitorous part of her felt relief. Like someone had pulled a curtain between her and the pitying stares.
So she smiled.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced. It was a hesitant curve of her lips, shaky at the edges.
But it worked.
The whispers softened. The bridesmaids stopped looking through her like she was invisible. People began to assume something else, something kinder or at least more interesting: that she belonged.
Adrien’s hand rested on the table near hers. Not touching. Just close enough to imply intimacy.
Emma kept her eyes forward and played the role as if her life depended on it.
Because in a way, it did.
When the wedding ended, people spilled into the night like champagne poured too fast. Tara hugged Emma quickly in the lobby, breathless and glowing, promising they’d catch up soon. Then she was swept away by family and photographers and the gravitational pull of being loved by many.
Emma found herself outside under the hotel awning, the air crisp and city-bright.
Adrien stood beside her like he’d been waiting for the quieter moment. The valet pulled a sleek black car to the curb. It looked like it belonged in a different universe.
Adrien’s shoulders sagged slightly, like the suit and confidence were a costume he was tired of wearing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For dragging you into that.”
Emma hugged her thin coat tighter around herself. “Why did you?”
He stared at the street as cars passed, their headlights streaking. “Because you looked lonelier than I feel.”
That landed somewhere in her chest that words didn’t usually reach.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Emma said carefully.
“I do.” He turned toward her, and for a second his eyes weren’t polished. They were just… human. “Tomorrow. Dinner. My treat. No pretending.”
Emma’s brain screamed no. Logic stacked itself like bills: Stranger. Millionaire. Power imbalance. Danger.
Curiosity whispered yes.
Adrien opened the car door, holding it like an invitation rather than a command, but there was still an authority in the gesture.
Emma hesitated. Then she slid into the passenger seat, hands clenched in her lap like she was bracing for impact.
As the car moved through the city, lights blurring past the windows, Emma realized something chilling and electric:
Her life had changed course because of a whisper at a wedding.
And she had no idea where it was going.
The next morning, Emma woke in her tiny apartment with sunlight cutting across peeling wallpaper and a stack of unopened envelopes on the table.
The same old bills sat there like they’d been waiting for her to stop dreaming.
Rent past due. Electric warning. A voicemail from her landlord delivered with impatience disguised as politeness.
Emma made coffee that tasted like survival and stared at the envelopes until her eyes burned.
Then she went to the diner.
The bell above the door jingled as she pushed it open, tying her apron tight. The smell of grease and coffee wrapped around her like familiarity. Plates clattered. Someone snapped their fingers for ketchup like Emma was a button they could press.
“Morning, Emma,” her coworker Jenny called.
Emma forced a smile. “Morning.”
She poured coffee, balanced plates, apologized for things that weren’t her fault. Every tip felt like a lifeline thrown into a deep well. By the time her shift ended, she counted her cash in the back room.
$36.75.
She stared at it until the numbers blurred.
Not enough for rent and groceries. Not enough for the kind of breathing room her chest ached for.
That night, she ate a sad little dinner in her dark apartment: toast, mustard, and the kind of silence that made you feel like you were fading.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Emma stared at it, thumb hovering.
“Hello?” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt.
Adrien’s voice came through smooth and calm.
“It’s me.”
Emma’s stomach tightened. “How did you get my number?”
“I have my ways,” he replied, not arrogant, just factual. “Dinner. Tomorrow night.”
She swallowed. “Why?”
A pause. She heard faint city traffic on his end, like he was outside somewhere, alone.
“Because you looked like you needed someone,” he said. “And so did I.”
Then the line clicked off.
Emma sat staring at her phone as if it might burst into flames.
She should have been angry. Instead, she felt something worse.
Hope.
The restaurant Adrien chose looked like a place where menus didn’t have prices because people weren’t supposed to care.
Glass windows glowed warm. Inside, everything gleamed: silverware, crystal, laughter that didn’t sound nervous.
Emma stood outside smoothing her thrifted dress, wishing she could iron her life the way she tried to iron wrinkles.
A hostess looked her over with a practiced smile. “Reservation?”
“I’m meeting someone,” Emma said.
Before the hostess could ask more, Adrien appeared at her side like he belonged there. Because he did.
He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, confidence draped over him like an extra layer of fabric. Yet when his eyes met Emma’s, something gentler flickered.
“Emma,” he said, like her name was something he’d learned carefully.
“You found out my name,” she said.
“I ask questions,” he replied, leading her toward a corner table away from the center spotlight. “And you came.”
“I almost didn’t,” Emma admitted.
“But you did,” Adrien said. “That matters.”
Dinner moved like a strange dream. Adrien spoke quietly, not boasting, not performing. He asked Emma about her work. Her life. Her childhood. Her hands, stained sometimes with diner coffee and sometimes with paint, because yes, she painted. When she had time. When she had energy. When she could afford even a cheap set of brushes.
She didn’t tell him everything. Not the worst parts. Not the nights she’d fallen asleep hungry and pretended it was a choice.
But Adrien had a way of looking at her that made lying feel difficult.
Halfway through the meal, Emma finally asked the question that had been chewing at her since the wedding.
“Why me?”
Adrien leaned back slightly, studying her as if weighing the truth.
“Because in a room full of people pretending,” he said, “you looked like the only one who wasn’t.”
Emma’s throat tightened.
“And,” he continued, quieter, “because I was tired of being the man everyone wanted something from.”
Emma let out a slow breath. “So you wanted… what. A moment of feeling normal?”
Adrien’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Normal is a costume. But yes. Something like that.”
A pause.
Then Adrien said, as if reading from a script he didn’t enjoy: “I’m offering you a deal.”
Emma’s stomach flipped. “A deal?”
He nodded once. “Be my fiancée.”
Emma stared. “Excuse me?”
“For appearances,” he said evenly. “Five events. No strings. You help me. I help you.”
Emma nearly laughed, but his face stayed serious. Not a joke. Not a flirtation. A proposition sharpened by necessity.
“And if I say no?” she asked, voice thin.
Adrien leaned forward slightly, eyes steady.
“Then I disappear from your life,” he said. “You’ll never see me again.”
“And if I say yes?”
His voice dropped, echoing that wedding whisper.
“Then neither of us has to be alone anymore.”
Emma sat back, heart pounding.
It was insane. It was dangerous.
But bills were real. Fear was real. And somewhere under her fear lived a dream she’d kept half-starved: a studio. A space to paint. A chance to create something that belonged to her.
Adrien watched her carefully, like he understood the battle inside her.
“Think about it,” he said. “Tomorrow. My office.”
Emma should have said no then.
Instead, she nodded.
Blackwood Enterprises was a glass tower that looked like it could slice the sky open.
Emma’s reflection in the doors made her flinch. She looked like someone who’d wandered into the wrong story.
A receptionist said, “Miss Brooks?” with the kind of voice that didn’t waste syllables on warmth. “Top floor.”
The elevator climbed too smoothly, as if even gravity respected money here.
Adrien waited in an office that smelled like leather and control. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled. He looked less like a headline and more like a man who hadn’t slept.
On his desk sat a sleek black folder.
Emma sat, eyes fixed on it.
“Our contract,” Adrien said simply, sliding it toward her.
Emma scanned the pages. The arrangement was spelled out in clean typed language, clauses and boundaries like a fence built around their lives.
Five events. Confidentiality. No interference in personal affairs. No physical intimacy beyond what appearances required. Termination after the fifth event with no expectation of continuation.
It was… cold.
“You actually wrote it out,” Emma whispered.
“I don’t play with people’s lives,” Adrien replied. “If we do this, we do it right.”
He slid another paper forward: his offer.
Rent paid for the duration. A stipend. Medical coverage.
And then, a line that punched the air from Emma’s lungs:
Funding for an art studio lease.
Emma stared at that line until her eyes burned.
“You heard about that?” she asked.
Adrien nodded. “You mentioned it at dinner. Once. Like you didn’t believe you were allowed to want it.”
Emma’s throat tightened. No one had ever taken her dream seriously. Not even her, most days.
She pushed the papers back. “Why not hire some actress? Someone who belongs in your world?”
Adrien’s gaze sharpened.
“Because they’d be playing a role,” he said. “You wouldn’t. You’re real. That’s what people will believe.”
Emma swallowed. “And what if I mess up? What if I can’t do it?”
Adrien’s expression softened slightly.
“Then we make them believe anyway,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
Emma stared at the contract, then at the pen.
“This isn’t love,” she said, mostly to herself.
“No,” Adrien agreed. “It’s survival.”
Emma signed.
The ink looked too small to carry that much weight, but it did.
Adrien slid the folder shut.
“Welcome to the arrangement, Miss Brooks,” he said.
She shook his hand. His palm was warm. His grip steady.
Emma didn’t know if she was sealing a lifeline or a storm.
Training began immediately.
It started with clothes.
A boutique where mannequins wore silk like they were born wrapped in it. A stylist named Claudia looked Emma up and down with eyes like a ruler.
“If you’re going to stand beside Adrien Blackwood,” Claudia said, “you can’t look like a waitress from a corner diner.”
The words stung, but Emma swallowed it. She remembered Adrien’s warning: this world didn’t care about feelings. It cared about polish.
Dresses draped over her arms. Heels strapped on. Hair pinned. Makeup brushed until her reflection looked like a stranger who’d stolen Emma’s face and improved it.
At one point Emma whispered at the mirror, “This isn’t me.”
Adrien appeared behind her in the reflection.
“It’s not supposed to be you,” he said quietly. “It’s supposed to be who they expect.”
“And who are they?” Emma asked, voice tight.
“The ones who measure worth in appearances,” Adrien replied. “The ones who will try to decide your value before you speak.”
Emma stared at the glittering version of herself and felt something complicated.
Not vanity.
Possibility.
Then came dancing in a ballroom that belonged to one of Adrien’s hotels. Polished floors. Crystal chandeliers. Music that made Emma feel like she’d been dropped into someone else’s dream.
“I’ll trip,” she said.
“Better here than in front of a hundred people,” Adrien replied, offering his hand.
She took it.
His grip was firm but gentle, guiding her steps.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Let me lead.”
“Trusting rich men doesn’t usually work out for people like me,” Emma muttered.
Adrien’s eyes flickered. “Then don’t trust my money. Trust my hands.”
That startled her.
She stumbled. He steadied her at the waist. Their faces were too close.
Emma pulled back fast, cheeks hot. “See? Disaster.”
Adrien’s mouth curved faintly. “Practice.”
Etiquette followed. Forks that looked identical. Glasses shaped like they were designed by someone who hated practicality. Names, boards, charities, donors, investors.
Emma complained, rolled her eyes, fought back the urge to run.
But she learned.
And something unexpected happened: she started to feel proud.
Not because she was becoming “one of them.”
Because she was proving something to herself.
That she could survive in rooms that tried to shrink her.
At the end of one long training day, Adrien studied her like he was reading a language he’d never bothered to learn.
“You’re improving faster than I expected,” he said.
Emma wiped sweat from her brow. “What, you thought I’d cry?”
“Most would,” Adrien admitted.
Emma smirked. “You really don’t know me.”
Adrien’s gaze lingered. “Not yet. But I’m starting to.”
The words landed too close to her ribs.
She looked away.
Event One was a hotel gala, cameras and red carpet and questions thrown like knives.
Emma sat in the limo with her hands clenched, heart battering her chest. Adrien looked calm, which was either comforting or terrifying.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’ll trip,” Emma replied.
“If you stumble, do it gracefully,” Adrien said. “They forgive clumsiness. They don’t forgive fear.”
Outside, paparazzi flashed. Adrien stepped out first, then offered his hand.
Emma took it.
“Smile,” he whispered.
She did.
And the cameras ate it up like it was sugar.
Inside, wealth glimmered everywhere. People watched Emma like she was an unsolved puzzle.
A woman in pearls approached, smile sharp as glass. “Adrien, you’ve been hiding this lovely creature from us.”
Her eyes slid to Emma. “And who might you be?”
Emma’s stomach tightened.
She remembered the lessons. The posture. The calm. The smile that didn’t apologize.
“I’m Emma,” she said warmly, offering her hand. “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
The woman blinked, briefly disarmed.
“And where did Adrien find you?” she asked, voice sweetly cruel.
Emma smiled, steady.
“He didn’t find me,” she replied. “We found each other.”
Adrien chuckled softly. “She has a way of putting things.”
The woman retreated, annoyed.
Under the table, Adrien’s hand brushed Emma’s once, brief and grounding.
“You did well,” he murmured later, on the dance floor.
Emma breathed, “I was terrified.”
“And no one saw it,” Adrien replied. “That’s all that matters.”
For a second, as the music swelled, the pretending felt dangerously close to real.
Then the song ended, applause rose, and Adrien’s composure snapped back into place like armor.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
Emma looked out the limo window on the ride home, feeling the contract lines blur like ink in water.
And that terrified her.
The events continued.
Event Two: a children’s hospital fundraiser where Emma held a sick child’s hand and forgot about cameras entirely. Adrien watched her do it, and something in his eyes softened in a way the tabloids could never buy.
Event Three: a board retreat where Emma listened more than she spoke, then offered one small honest comment about “people who work the bottom floors” that made a room of executives go silent. Adrien didn’t correct her. He nodded, once, like he’d been waiting for someone to say it.
Event Four: an art auction.
Emma almost refused to go. It felt too close to her secret dream, too close to the part of her that was still poor and still afraid.
But Adrien brought her anyway.
Paintings lined the walls, price tags that looked like phone numbers. People sipped champagne while discussing brushstrokes like they were stock predictions.
Emma kept her smile polite, but her chest ached.
Adrien leaned close. “Tell me what you see,” he murmured.
Emma blinked. “What?”
“In the art,” Adrien said. “Not the money. Not the people. The art.”
Emma stared at a massive canvas filled with stormy blues and fractured light.
“It looks like someone trying to escape,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
Adrien’s gaze lingered on her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what it is.”
Later that night, back in Adrien’s penthouse, Emma stood at the window looking down at the city.
From up here, everything looked small. Like the world was a toy set and pain was optional.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said, “but it feels lonely.”
Adrien poured a drink. Ice clinked like a warning. He stared at the glass as if it might tell him how to be human.
“My father built this empire,” he said finally. “He loved the idea of power more than he loved people. When he died, I felt relief.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
“I rebuilt everything,” Adrien continued. “Bigger than he ever dreamed. I crushed competitors. I won. And still… I’ve never been more alone.”
He turned toward her, eyes darker, voice quiet.
“That’s why I asked you to pretend,” he admitted. “Because for once I wanted to walk into a room and not be the man they wanted me to be. I wanted to be yours.”
Emma’s breath caught.
“Tell me,” Adrien asked softly, stepping closer, “did it feel real tonight?”
Emma wanted to lie.
She didn’t.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It did.”
The air thickened.
Adrien reached for her hand slowly, almost carefully, like he wasn’t used to asking for anything that couldn’t be purchased.
Emma’s heart raced.
Then the contract screamed in her mind. The rules. The boundaries. The cliff edge they were standing on.
She pulled back abruptly.
“We can’t,” she said, voice shaking. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
Adrien froze. Something shuttered behind his eyes. The armor returned.
“You’re right,” he said. “Forget I asked.”
Emma felt guilt claw her ribs.
She left the penthouse with her heels clicking against marble, her heart bruised by what she’d almost allowed.
Back in her tiny apartment, she sat on the edge of her bed and whispered into the darkness:
“What am I doing?”
Because the truth was starting to feel obvious.
Pretend or not, something between them had already shifted.
Then came Event Five.
The Blackwood Foundation Gala was the grandest of them all, the one investors and politicians attended because charity looked good under camera flashes.
Emma wore a midnight blue gown that shimmered like the underside of a starless sky. Adrien wore a tuxedo that made him look like he’d been born to stand in front of rooms and command them.
But something was wrong.
Adrien had been quiet all week. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… guarded, like he was carrying something heavy alone again.
As they moved through the ballroom, whispers followed them. Rumors never died. They only changed outfits.
Then Victoria Langford appeared.
She moved like she owned the air.
Victoria was elegance sharpened into a weapon, hair perfect, smile sweet enough to rot your teeth. She had once been rumored to be Adrien’s lover. Now she was one of his fiercest business competitors, always appearing a little too close to his deals, his investors, his weaknesses.
“Adrien,” Victoria purred, touching his arm like she had history there. Her gaze slid to Emma. “And this must be the famous fiancée.”
Emma smiled politely. “It’s a pleasure.”
Victoria’s eyes narrowed, amused. “Funny. I’ve known Adrien for years. Yet I’ve never heard him mention you until recently. Quite the whirlwind romance.”
Emma’s stomach tightened. She kept her voice steady. “Sometimes the best things happen quickly.”
“Or,” Victoria said lightly, raising her glass, voice carrying just enough to attract nearby ears, “sometimes the best lies unravel just as fast.”
A hush moved through the circle around them.
Emma felt cold bloom in her veins.
Victoria smiled wider. “You all do know this is just a performance, don’t you?”
The room shifted like a living thing.
Whispers lit up the edges.
Arrangement. Contract. Pretend.
Emma’s throat closed. She turned toward Adrien, desperate for him to speak. To defend her. To cut Victoria’s words out of the air.
Adrien stood rigid, jaw tight.
Silent.
And that silence hit Emma harder than Victoria’s cruelty.
Because it sounded like agreement.
Because it sounded like: You’re not worth fighting for.
Emma’s vision blurred. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stay.
She turned and fled.
Cameras flashed as she ran down marble steps, ripping off her heels, barefoot on cold stone. Reporters shouted questions. Emma didn’t stop.
When she reached her apartment, she collapsed on the couch and sobbed until her chest hurt.
The contract felt like a chain now, not a lifeline.
And she wished she’d never signed it.
Adrien stood alone later in his penthouse, staring at the city through glass.
He’d chosen silence because he thought it would protect her. He thought responding would feed Victoria’s fire.
But he hadn’t protected Emma.
He’d abandoned her.
And for the first time in his life, Adrien Blackwood understood something money couldn’t fix:
Some things break because you didn’t speak when it mattered.
Emma ignored his calls.
His messages.
His driver waiting outside her building like a quiet ghost of wealth.
She went back to the diner, back to grease and coffee and tips counted in the back room like prayers.
But she couldn’t stop replaying the gala.
Victoria’s smile.
The whispers.
Adrien’s silence.
Three nights later, Emma came home exhausted and found an envelope taped to her door.
Her name written in sharp deliberate handwriting.
She tore it open.
Meet me at Seventh and Willow. Midnight, please.
Emma wanted to crumple it.
But the word please pressed against her anger like a hand on a bruise.
At midnight, she stood on the corner under flickering streetlights, arms folded, heart guarded.
Adrien waited beneath the lamp, not in a suit this time. Just a black coat and tired eyes. He looked like a man who’d been sitting with regret all day.
In his hand was a small wooden box.
“Emma,” he said softly.
“Why am I here?” she asked, voice sharp to hide the shake.
Adrien opened the box.
Inside lay a silver key.
“This,” he said, “is to your studio.”
Emma blinked. “My… what?”
“I bought the lease,” Adrien said. “It’s yours.”
Emma’s breath caught.
“You can’t just…” she started.
“I can,” Adrien said quietly. “But I didn’t do it to buy forgiveness.”
He stepped closer, eyes raw.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought silence would protect you. I was wrong. My silence hurt you more than Victoria ever could.”
Emma’s throat tightened. “You should’ve said something.”
“I know,” Adrien replied. “I failed you.”
The words sounded strange coming from someone who looked so untouchable. Like he wasn’t used to apologizing without turning it into a transaction.
Adrien held her gaze.
“I made you feel like you were just a contract,” he said. “Like you weren’t worth fighting for. You are, Emma. You always were.”
Tears blurred her vision.
Emma stared at the key like it was too heavy to exist.
“This isn’t part of the deal,” she whispered.
“It’s not payment,” Adrien said. “It’s real. Because you’re more than a role.”
Emma’s fingers closed around the box.
“And what happens if I take this?” she asked, voice trembling. “What happens if I believe you?”
Adrien inhaled, and when he spoke, the armor was gone.
“Then we stop pretending,” he said. “Neither of us hide anymore.”
Emma’s heart hammered.
“I don’t want grand gestures if they’re just meant to fix mistakes,” she said. “I want the truth.”
Adrien nodded once, like something inside him finally decided to be brave.
“Here’s the truth,” he said. “I didn’t need a fiancée for five events. I needed you. I want you. No contract. No deal. Just us.”
The night air held the words like fragile glass.
Emma stared at Adrien, then down at the key, then back up again.
She thought of her overdue bills and her hunger and her pride. She thought of the moment in the ballroom when he’d been silent.
And she thought of what he was doing now.
Speaking.
Choosing.
Emma wiped her cheek, steadied her voice.
“Okay,” she said.
Adrien’s brow furrowed. “Okay?”
Emma nodded. “Okay. But if you ever stand silent when I need you again… there won’t be another chance.”
Adrien’s face softened with something that looked like relief breaking through years of habit.
“You won’t need another chance,” he said. “I’ll prove it.”
He reached for her hand, gently, not as a performance this time.
Emma didn’t pull away.
The studio changed Emma’s life in a way money alone never could.
It was a sunlit loft with brick walls and wide windows that let in the morning like a blessing. It smelled like possibility. Like paint and dust and new beginnings.
Emma filled it with canvases, cheap brushes, better brushes, colors that didn’t apologize for being bright.
She painted until her hands ached. She painted storms and city lights and the loneliness of crowded rooms. She painted a woman sitting alone at a wedding with a borrowed dress and a spine made of stubborn hope.
Adrien came by often, sometimes with coffee, sometimes just to stand quietly and watch her work.
He didn’t offer advice. He didn’t try to control the space.
He just… witnessed her.
One evening Emma glanced at him and said, “You know millionaires aren’t supposed to hang out in drafty lofts.”
Adrien smirked. “Maybe this millionaire finally found a reason to.”
They walked the city without cameras when they could. They ate takeout on Emma’s worn couch. Adrien learned how to laugh without checking who was listening.
But rumors still circled.
A headline appeared one morning: BLACKWOOD’S ENGAGEMENT: STILL A SHAM?
Emma slammed the paper down, frustrated. “They’ll never believe us.”
Adrien looked at her steadily. “We’re not here to convince them. We’re here to live.”
Emma wanted to believe that was enough.
Then Adrien did something she didn’t expect.
He called a press conference.
Emma stared at him when he told her. “Are you serious?”
Adrien nodded. “I’m done letting other people control the story.”
The room was packed. Cameras. Reporters. The same hungry eyes as the gala.
Emma stood beside Adrien, heart pounding.
Adrien took the microphone.
“My name is Adrien Blackwood,” he said. “And I owe you the truth.”
The room hushed.
“Yes,” Adrien continued, “Emma and I started as an arrangement. It was a mistake born out of loneliness and pressure and a life I didn’t know how to escape. I thought I could control perception with contracts.”
He glanced at Emma.
“I was wrong,” he said. “Because Emma isn’t a contract. She isn’t a prop. She’s a person who taught me something I should’ve learned long ago.”
The reporters leaned in.
Adrien’s voice didn’t shake. It carried.
“I let her be humiliated because I chose silence,” Adrien admitted. “And silence was cowardice. I won’t do that again.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
Adrien turned fully toward her in front of the world.
“I don’t care who believes it,” he said. “But I love her. And the only thing I’m interested in performing now is honesty.”
The room erupted in noise, questions shouted like fireworks.
Adrien didn’t answer them.
He took Emma’s hand and led her out.
Outside, Emma was shaking, half from fear, half from the feeling of being seen without pretending.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.
Adrien looked at her, eyes steady. “Yes, I did.”
Weeks later, Adrien invited Emma to the penthouse again.
But it wasn’t a museum of loneliness anymore.
Candles glowed. Music played softly. The air felt warm.
On the table sat a velvet box.
Emma stopped breathing.
Adrien approached her carefully, like he knew she could still run.
“Do you remember the night of the wedding?” Adrien asked.
Emma’s lips curved faintly. “How could I forget?”
“That night,” Adrien said, “I asked you to pretend you were with me.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a ring. Simple, elegant, chosen with care. Not a prop. Not a symbol for investors.
A promise.
Adrien dropped to one knee.
“Tonight,” he said, voice low, “I’m asking you not to pretend.”
Emma’s eyes stung.
“No contracts,” Adrien said. “No arrangements. Just us. Marry me, Emma.”
Emma thought of the diner. The bills. The humiliation. The studio light on her canvases. Adrien’s voice at the microphone choosing truth.
And she realized something quietly powerful:
Love wasn’t the fairy tale part.
Love was the brave part.
“Yes,” Emma whispered.
Adrien slid the ring onto her finger. His hand trembled.
Emma laughed through tears. “You’re shaking.”
Adrien let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. “I’ve signed billion-dollar deals without blinking,” he murmured. “This is scarier.”
Emma pulled him up and kissed him, not for cameras, not for appearances.
For real.
Their wedding wasn’t a gala.
It wasn’t a spectacle.
It was small. A garden chapel, sunlight through stained glass, a handful of people who mattered. Jenny from the diner cried openly. Tara held Emma’s hands and apologized a thousand times with her eyes.
Emma wore a simple white dress that didn’t try to impress anyone.
Adrien stood at the end of the aisle watching Emma like she was the only person in the world.
When they exchanged vows, the air felt quiet and honest.
No contracts.
No fine print.
Only choice.
Afterward, as the sun dipped low, Emma and Adrien stood together looking out at the city.
Emma held Adrien’s hand, the ring solid on her finger.
“Funny,” Emma said softly. “It all started because I was sitting alone at a wedding.”
Adrien kissed her temple.
“And it ends,” he whispered, “because neither of us ever will again.”
Emma smiled, and this time there was nothing borrowed about it.
Not her dress.
Not her life.
Not her belonging.
Not her love.
THE END
