The ruthless heir's contract wife

Chapter 5: Emily Windsor

Emily Windsor’s alarm rang at exactly five in the morning, dragging her out of a sleep that felt, far too short to matter. For a few seconds, she stayed put beneath the thin blanket, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling over her bed while exhaustion pressed down on her body like something heavy that wouldn’t budge. Outside her window, New York was only just starting to wake, but for Emily the day already had begun, it was here, in fact.

She made herself sit up with a quiet little sigh and rubbed her hand over her face before reaching for the alarm clock. The small apartment around her was still dark and cold, the air holding that faint smell of old coffee and the lavender detergent she used way too sparingly these days. Every inch of the place seemed to be counting, not just existing. Nothing was luxurious, nothing was extra. She didn’t own “pretty” things, just things that worked.

And yet, despite the rough edges, it was home.

Emily slipped into worn slippers and moved across the apartment quietly, like sound might wake the wrong thoughts. Her grandfather was still asleep in the next room, and on the rare mornings when he rested peacefully, she tried hard not to disturb him.

The kettle gave a soft hiss as she filled it with water, and while she waited for it to boil, she opened the refrigerator just to check what was left. Half a loaf of bread. A carton of eggs. Milk that would probably turn bad by tomorrow night. Her gaze lingered on the nearly empty shelves a moment too long, then she closed the fridge door slowly, like it could somehow be kinder that way.

Rent was due next week.

The hospital bill, was overdue already.

And the cost of her grandfather’s surgery still sat out of reach, impossibly far, like it belonged to another life.

Emily leaned both hands on the kitchen counter and lowered her head for a beat. Sometimes it felt like life was enjoying it, like it was some kind of quiet entertainment watching her struggle.

Every time she thought she’d finally managed to catch up, some new bill showed up, just sitting there, waiting to yank her back again like it knew her schedule. Still, she didn’t complain, not even a little. What use was complaining anyway? It fixes nothing, it only makes the air feel heavier.

The kettle clicked—right on cue, like it had been listening to her mind—and Emily snapped out of it. She made coffee fast, in the mug she liked best, the one that was chipped on the rim. Then she cupped it in both hands, letting the heat crawl into her cold fingertips, and for a moment it almost felt normal.

From the bedroom came a harsh cough, sudden and sharp, and her exhaustion vanished as if someone flipped a switch.

“Grandpa?” Emily hurried over and opened the door carefully, like quiet could keep him steady.

Harold Windsor was already working at sitting up. Even with the thin dim morning light, she could clearly see how weaker he’d become in just the last few months. The sight tightened something painful in her chest, like her body was trying to hold back a storm.

“You should’ve called me,” she said, soft but firm, moving toward him.

Her grandfather gave a faint smile. “And disturb the hardest working woman in New York?”

Emily shook her head and helped him settle properly, then handed him a glass of water. “You’re kidding too much for someone who’s meant to be resting.”

“And you worry too much for someone your age.”

Another cough cut through him, worse than before. Emily reached for the tissues beside the bed, too quickly, as if she could catch the fear before it showed. She tried hard to keep her face calm, like her expression was something she could control.

The coughing had been getting worse recently.

Much worse.

The doctors said the surgery couldn’t keep waiting, not much longer.

But surgeries cost money, real money, the kind you can’t bargain with. And money Emily just didn’t have.

“You need to eat before work,” Harold said once the coughing finally eased back.

Emily forced her smile into place. “I know.”

“You barely sleep anymore.”

“I sleep enough.”

“That’s a lie.”

She almost laughed at that. Almost.

Her grandfather had always known when she was lying, even back when she was small. At the time it felt annoying, like being caught was some sort of insult. Now it just made her chest ache.

After her parents died , Harold Windsor had basically raised her on his own. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion, just to keep her in school , keep her from feeling ditched, keep her laughing even when that whole tragedy had almost torn their little lives apart.

Everything Emily was today existed because of him.

And now that he needed her, she would do absolutely anything to help him. Anything at all.

Even if it tore her up while she was trying.

“I’ll swing by after my morning shift,” she said softly.

Her grandfather didn’t look fully convinced, but he nodded anyway. “Emily…”

She stopped with her hand on the door.

“You don’t have to hold the entire world by yourself.”

Her grip tightened a little around the mug in her hand.

If only he knew.

If only he really got it , how close she already was to cracking under that pressure.

But Emily only smiled and answered, “I’m stronger than I seem.”

The old man watched her for a long moment, then smiled back. “That’s exactly what bothers me.”

An hour later, Emily stepped out into the bone-chilling New York morning with her bag hanging on one shoulder and exhaustion buried under pure stubborn intention. The streets were already moving like they had somewhere to be: taxis blared, businessmen pushed forward toward the tall towers, coffee sellers shouting orders from jammed sidewalks.

New York never really slows down.

Not for anybody.

Especially not for a struggling girl from a tiny apartment.

Emily pulled her coat tighter as she hurried toward the subway. Her sneakers were worn down, her gloves didn’t match, and the icy wind stung right through her cheeks, but she kept going. She always did.

The café where she worked her morning shift sat on a busy Manhattan corner, packed tight with customers almost nonstop. By the time Emily arrived, the line already stretched toward the entrance.

Her manager frowned the second he saw her, like it was automatic.

“ You’re late.”

Emily glanced at the clock without thinking .

6:58 AM.

She had actually arrived two minutes early though, which felt a bit unfair in her chest.

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she swallowed the irritation right away.

Bills first. Pride later.

“ Sorry,” she murmured.

The manager muttered something under his breath , then walked off like that was the end of it.

Emily tied her apron around her waist and got to it immediately.

Orders kept coming nonstop.

Lattes, cappuccinos, americanos. double espressos too.

Some customers hardly looked at her at all while speaking. Others treated her like furniture, like she wasn’t really there.

One man snapped his fingers, annoyed, when she took a moment too long with his order. For a dangerous second Emily imagined pouring his coffee right onto his expensive suit.

Instead, she steadied herself, gave him a smile and handed it over politely.

Years of struggle had taught her something that mattered, even if it s

ounded ugly:

Sometimes you have to swallow your pride to keep living.

Even when it burns , going down.