Emma thought she'd been nervous on her wedding day. That was nothing compared to the anxiety thrumming through her veins as Alexander's driver pulled up to the Sterling family estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Estate didn't even begin to cover it. The place was a sprawling Georgian mansion that looked like it had been airlifted from an English countryside and dropped onto perfectly manicured lawns that stretched as far as Emma could see. There were actual fountains. Plural. And what looked like a hedge maze in the distance.
"You grew up here?" Emma's voice came out smaller than she intended.
Alexander, sitting beside her in the back seat looking immaculate in navy slacks and a crisp white shirt, followed her gaze. "Unfortunately."
"Unfortunately? This place is gorgeous."
"It's a museum. A monument to old money and older expectations." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "My father bought it when I was ten. Wanted to prove the Sterling name belonged among Connecticut's elite families, never mind that his own father was a plumber from Queens who built the business from nothing."
Emma heard the tension in his voice, the complicated relationship with his heritage. "There's nothing wrong with coming from working-class roots."
"Tell that to Robert Sterling." Alexander's hand found hers, and Emma's breath caught at the casual intimacy of the gesture. "Ready? My mother has been planning this brunch since the moment I told her we were married. Fair warning—she's going to love you, ask invasive questions, and probably cry at least once."
"And your father?"
"Will assess your value like you're a stock he's considering purchasing." Alexander's thumb traced circles on her wrist—did he even realize he was doing it? "Just remember our story. We met at a charity gala three months ago. I couldn't take my eyes off you. You thought I was arrogant. I wore you down with persistence and bad jokes."
"Bad jokes?" Emma couldn't help but smile. "That actually sounds believable."
His almost-smile appeared. "Careful, wife. I might start to think you like me."
Before Emma could respond, the car stopped in front of the massive front entrance. A woman emerged from the house, elegant in cream linen, her dark hair swept into a chignon, and Emma knew immediately this was Caroline Sterling.
"She's beautiful," Emma whispered.
"She's terrifying," Alexander corrected, but there was affection in his voice. "And she's about to interrogate you like you're a hostile witness. Ready?"
"No."
"Good. Neither am I." He squeezed her hand once more, then stepped out of the car and came around to open her door himself—a gesture that surprised her until she remembered they had an audience now.
"Alexander!" Caroline's voice was warm, cultured, genuinely delighted. She pulled her son into a hug that he returned with obvious affection, and Emma felt something in her chest twist. This was real. His relationship with his mother was real, and she was about to lie to this woman's face.
Then Caroline turned to Emma, and her smile could have lit up the entire estate. "And you must be Emma. Oh, my dear, you're even more lovely than Alexander described."
"He described me?" Emma shot Alexander a look.
"Extensively." Caroline took both of Emma's hands in hers, and her grip was warm, maternal. "Welcome to the family, darling. I'm so thrilled Alexander finally found someone who could break through that fortress he's built around his heart."
Guilt twisted sharper. "Mrs. Sterling—"
"Caroline, please. We're family now." She linked her arm through Emma's, already leading her toward the house. "Come, everyone's dying to meet you. Robert's in his study pretending he's not nervous, and Sophie's been pacing for the last hour trying to decide if she approves of you yet."
"Mother," Alexander warned, falling into step beside them.
"Oh, hush. Emma deserves to know what she's walking into." Caroline patted Emma's arm conspiratorially. "Sophie's very protective of her big brother. Ever since that dreadful Victoria business—"
"Mother."
"Well, it's true! That woman was a viper, and we're all grateful she showed her true colors before the wedding rather than after." Caroline squeezed Emma's arm. "But you, my dear, I can already tell you're different. Alexander's eyes when he talks about you—I haven't seen him look like that in years."
Emma risked a glance at Alexander, whose expression had gone carefully neutral. Was any of that true? Or was he just an exceptional actor?
The interior of the house was as intimidating as the exterior—all marble and crystal and art that probably belonged in museums. But Caroline led them through to a sun-drenched conservatory where brunch had been laid out with the kind of casual elegance that took an army of staff to achieve.
A man stood when they entered—tall, silver-haired, with Alexander's sharp features and eyes that assessed Emma in one sweeping glance. Robert Sterling.
"So this is the girl who managed to catch my son." His voice was measured, controlled. He extended a hand, and Emma shook it, trying not to feel like she was being evaluated for purchase.
"Emma Laurent. Sterling, now." She kept her voice steady.
"Indeed." Robert's eyes flicked to Alexander. "Quite the whirlwind romance. Three months from meeting to marriage?"
"When you know, you know," Alexander said smoothly, his hand finding the small of Emma's back. The touch sent heat spiraling through her. "Why waste time?"
"Why indeed." Robert's tone suggested he had several theories, none of them flattering.
"Oh, stop interrogating the poor girl, Robert." A new voice came from the doorway, and Emma turned to see a striking woman in her late twenties with Alexander's dark hair and sharper features. "I'm Sophie. The favorite child."
"The only daughter," Alexander corrected, but there was warmth in his voice.
Sophie crossed to Emma, and her handshake was firm, assessing. "So you're the one who finally cracked the ice king. Color me impressed."
"Sophie," Caroline warned.
"What? It's a compliment. Alexander's been emotionally unavailable since—" She caught herself, glanced at her brother. "Well. For a while now."
The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. Emma felt Alexander's hand tense against her back.
"Shall we eat?" Caroline intervened with practiced ease. "I'm sure Emma's starving after the drive."
Brunch was an exercise in performance art. Emma fielded questions about her background ("My parents died when I was twelve, my grandmother raised me"), her education ("Columbia, architecture degree"), and how they met with the carefully constructed story they'd rehearsed.
Alexander played his part perfectly. His hand stayed on her back when they stood to get food. He refilled her mimosa without being asked. When she mentioned loving old buildings, he added details about taking her to see the Woolworth Building on their third date—a detail they'd never discussed but that she ran with anyway.
"And when did you know?" Caroline asked, leaning forward with genuine interest. "That moment when you realized this was it?"
Emma's mind went blank. They hadn't prepared for this question.
"I think I knew before she did," Alexander said quietly, and something in his voice made Emma's heart stutter. "There was this moment—we were walking through Central Park, and it started raining. Everyone else was running for cover, but Emma just... stopped. Tilted her face up to the sky and laughed. And I thought, 'I want to see her laugh like that every day for the rest of my life.'"
The table went quiet. Emma stared at him, throat tight, because that story was so specific, so vivid, and completely fabricated. Wasn't it?
"That's beautiful," Caroline said softly, dabbing at her eyes.
"Sentimental," Robert corrected, but even he looked slightly less skeptical.
Sophie was watching them both with narrowed eyes, like she was trying to solve a complex equation.
The rest of brunch passed in a blur of polite conversation and increasingly invasive questions about their future plans. Would they have children? Where would they live? Was Emma giving up her career?
"Absolutely not," Alexander said firmly when his father suggested it. "Emma's brilliant. She's going to design buildings that will outlast all of us."
The pride in his voice sounded real. Emma wanted it to be real.
When brunch finally ended, Caroline insisted on showing Emma the gardens while "the men talk business." It was only when they were alone among the roses that Caroline's warm expression turned serious.
"I need to ask you something, dear, and I want you to be honest with me."
Emma's stomach dropped. "Of course."
"Do you love my son?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Emma thought of the contract, the money, the carefully constructed lies. Thought of Alexander's nightmares and his almost-smiles and the way he'd looked at her when he described her laughing in the rain.
"Yes," she heard herself say. And the terrifying thing was, she wasn't entirely sure it was a lie anymore.
Caroline studied her face for a long moment, then smiled. "Good. Because he loves you too, even if he hasn't quite figured it out yet. I know my son, Emma. I know how he protects himself. But the way he looks at you—that's not performance. That's real."
Emma wanted to believe her. God, she wanted to believe her.
They were walking back to the conservatory when Sophie appeared, seemingly from nowhere. "Emma, could I borrow you for a moment? Girl talk."
Caroline raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Don't terrorize her too much, Sophie."
"Who, me?" Sophie's smile was all teeth.
She led Emma through the house to a powder room done in soft grays and golds. The moment the door closed, Sophie's friendly facade dropped.
"Okay, let's cut the bullshit." Sophie leaned against the marble counter, arms crossed. "I don't know what game you're playing, but Alexander doesn't fall in love. He had his heart broken once, and he swore never again. So whatever this is—whirlwind romance, love at first sight, all of it—it won't end well for you."
Emma's heart was pounding, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm not playing a game."
"Everyone's playing a game in our world. The question is whether you know the rules." Sophie's eyes were hard, protective. "My brother rebuilt himself after Victoria destroyed him. Brick by brick, wall by wall. And now you show up, and suddenly he's talking about love and laughing in the rain? It doesn't add up."
"Maybe people can change—"
"Not that fast. Not him." Sophie stepped closer, and Emma saw genuine concern beneath the hostility. "Look, I'm sure you're a nice person. And maybe you really do think you can make this work. But Alexander's first love almost killed him. When she left him at that altar, when she chose his rival over him, it broke something fundamental. So before you get in too deep, before you start believing this fairy tale you've both constructed, ask yourself—are you prepared for what happens when his walls go back up? Because they will. They always do."
Emma met Sophie's gaze directly. "What if you're wrong? What if he's ready to let someone in?"
"Then I'll be the happiest person at your anniversary party." Sophie's expression softened slightly. "But I've watched him for five years, Emma. Watched him turn himself into ice. And ice doesn't melt just because you want it to."
She left before Emma could respond, and Emma stood alone in the powder room, staring at her reflection in the ornate mirror.
Sophie's words echoed in her head. It won't end well for you.
The thing was, Emma already knew that. She had a contract that said exactly when and how this would end. Twelve months. Two million dollars. A clean break.
So why did Sophie's warning feel like a knife to the chest?
Why did the thought of Alexander's walls going back up make her want to fight to keep them down?
Emma straightened her shoulders, checked her lipstick, and walked back out to face the performance. Because that's what this was. Performance art. Alexander had even said so in the car.
She just needed to remember that before she started believing her own lies.
Before she started believing that the way he looked at her meant something real.
Before she fell for a man who'd constructed this entire arrangement specifically to avoid falling for anyone.
One hour at a time, she reminded herself.
She could do this.
She had to.