The wedding dress still clung to my skin, its delicate lace catching on my trembling fingers as I stood alone in our bedroom—no, Adrian's bedroom. The massive four-poster bed remained untouched, its silk sheets smooth and unwrinkled. I hadn't dared sit on it yet, let alone lie down.
The sound of a car engine fading into the distance pulled me toward the window. Below, Adrian's sleek black Aston Martin disappeared down the winding driveway, its taillights glowing red against the night.
"He's gone," I whispered to myself, my voice sounding foreign in the cavernous space.
The door clicked open behind me. I turned, hope fluttering in my chest despite everything. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe—
"Here." Adrian strode in, his tuxedo jacket already removed, tie loosened. He didn't look at me as he tossed a manila envelope onto the bed. "The terms of our arrangement."
I stared at the envelope, my fingers still clutching the skirt of my wedding dress. "Arrangement?"
"Open it."
With shaking hands, I tore the envelope and pulled out the documents inside. My eyes scanned the legal jargon until they reached the numbered list at the bottom.
"Rule one," Adrian recited, finally looking at me—or rather, looking through me. "Don't enter my bedroom. Rule two, don't tell anyone about our real relationship. Rule three, automatic divorce after one year."
The paper trembled in my hands. "I don't understand."
"This is a business transaction, Emma. Nothing more." His voice was cold, clinical. "Your aunt's family needed help. My family needed a marriage on paper. We're solving each other's problems."
"But—"
"Sophia's waiting for me at the hospital." He checked his watch. "She had a panic attack when she heard about the wedding."
My stomach twisted. Sophia. Her name alone was enough to make me feel invisible.
"Where should I sleep?" I asked quietly.
"The east wing has plenty of rooms." Adrian was already turning away. "James will show you around tomorrow. Goodnight, Emma."
He didn't wait for my response. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt louder than a slam.
I sank to the floor, still in my wedding dress, and hugged my knees to my chest. The diamond on my finger caught the light, throwing prisms across the wall. It was beautiful. Expensive. And as cold as the man who'd placed it there.
---
Morning light filtered through the curtains I hadn't closed properly the night before. I blinked awake on the unfamiliar bed in the east wing, my wedding dress crumpled on the floor where I'd finally stepped out of it around dawn.
James, the butler, had shown me to this room last night after Adrian left. "This was the mistress's suite in the old days," he'd said quietly. "It's the best in the east wing."
I'd smiled weakly. "I'm not complaining."
Now, I dressed carefully in a simple blue dress I'd brought with me. One of only three outfits I owned that weren't secondhand. This marriage might be fake, but I wanted to try. Needed to try.
The kitchen was vast and industrial, designed for staff I didn't have. I found eggs in the refrigerator and bread in the pantry. Simple breakfast foods that even I couldn't ruin.
By the time Adrian came downstairs, I had two plates of toast and scrambled eggs waiting at the dining table.
"Good morning," I said softly as he entered.
He paused, surprise flickering across his face before settling into that same cold mask. Without a word, he took a seat at the opposite end of the long mahogany table.
I pushed one plate toward him. "I made breakfast."
Adrian unfolded his newspaper, the rustling loud in the silence between us. He didn't touch the food.
"I thought we could talk about... arrangements," I ventured. "Like meal times, or—"
"I have meetings all day." His eyes didn't leave the financial section. "Don't wait up."
The next morning, I tried again. And the next. Each time, Adrian would sit at the far end of the table, reading his newspaper as if I were invisible. Sometimes he'd leave before I could even set his plate down.
On the seventh morning, I couldn't stop myself from reaching across the table to touch his hand.
"Adrian, please. Just talk to me."
He jerked away as if burned. "I don't want to hear your voice." The words came out sharp, cutting. "That wasn't part of the deal."
I withdrew my hand, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
---
The house was silent as I wandered its halls that afternoon. Adrian had left for work without eating breakfast again. I found myself drawn to a door at the end of the west wing—a part of the house I hadn't explored yet.
It opened to reveal a study lined with books and framed photographs. I stepped inside, drawn to the images on the wall.
My heart stopped.
Every single photograph featured Adrian and a beautiful blonde woman. Sophia. They were laughing at a beach, dancing at what looked like a college formal, sharing a private joke at a candlelit dinner.
"You must be the new wife."
I spun around to find James standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"It's alright, Mrs. Cross." His eyes were kind but sad. "This was Mr. Cross's study before... well, before everything changed."
I turned back to the photographs. "They look happy."
"They were," James said quietly. "Until the accident."
"The accident?"
"Miss Sophia's car crash. Two years ago now." He hesitated. "Mr. Cross has never been the same since."
I reached out to touch a photograph where Adrian was looking at Sophia with such tenderness it made my chest ache. "And I'm just... what? A placeholder?"
James didn't answer. He didn't need to.
---
The annual gala for Cross Industries was held in the grand ballroom of the city's most luxurious hotel. I stood in a corner, wearing a borrowed dress that didn't quite fit right, watching as Adrian entered with Sophia on his arm.
She was breathtaking in a flowing white gown that made her look ethereal, fragile. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, and her smile was radiant as she clung to Adrian's arm.
"Is that his wife?" someone whispered nearby.
"No, that's Sophia Laurent. His real love."
"But I thought he got married recently..."
"To some nobody. It's just for show."
I felt their eyes on me, assessing and dismissing. A waiter passed with champagne, and I took a glass with trembling fingers.
The music started, and Adrian led Sophia to the dance floor. They moved together as if they'd been dancing for years, her white dress swirling around his black tuxedo.
I set my champagne down untouched as Adrian twirled Sophia, her laughter floating above the music. He looked at her the way he looked at her in those photographs—with devotion, with love.
"Excuse me," a woman in diamonds approached me. "Are you part of the catering staff?"
Behind her, I could see Adrian dipping Sophia low, her hair nearly touching the floor.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm Emma Cross."
The woman's eyes widened with recognition, then narrowed with pity.
"Oh," she said. "You're just the help, then."
