Signed to His Heart

The First Test

Emilia sat at her desk, staring at her phone as if it might suddenly explode.

Tonight, you will prove your worth — or regret ever signing that contract.

Alexander’s message felt like a blade pressed against her throat. She read it over and over, her mind spinning with a thousand questions and fears.

How was she supposed to “prove her worth”? What exactly was he planning?

Mrs. Whitmore’s voice sliced through her panic. "Miss Hart. Get up."

Emilia jolted, nearly toppling out of her chair. Mrs. Whitemore stood at her doorway, holding a sleek black garment bag and a small box.

"Change quickly. You’re escorting Mr. Knight to the gala tonight," she announced, her voice clipped and icy as always. "And Emilia—" Her sharp gaze softened ever so slightly. "Do not falter. He despises weakness."

Emilia nodded numbly and followed Mrs. Whitmore into a small adjoining room.

Inside, she opened the garment bag and gasped. A shimmering floor-length gown in deep sapphire, simple yet so impossibly elegant, it almost didn’t look real. In the box sat a pair of delicate heels and a silver mask adorned with fine crystals.

Her fingers trembled as she slipped into the dress, the silky fabric whispering secrets against her skin. She pulled her hair back into a sleek twist and slipped on the mask. In the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back — she looked powerful, mysterious, as though she belonged in Alexander’s glittering world.

But under the mask, Emilia’s heart rattled in her chest like a trapped bird.

When she stepped out, Mrs. Whitemore examined her, then nodded approvingly. "You look the part. Remember, tonight isn’t just about looking pretty. You’ll be tested in ways you can’t imagine. Watch everyone. Trust no one."

Before Emilia could reply, Alexander appeared at the end of the hallway. He paused when he saw her, his icy eyes scanning her from head to toe with slow precision.

For a heartbeat, something almost human flickered across his face — something like surprise, or maybe even approval — before it vanished, replaced by his usual cold detachment.

"Follow me," he commanded.

She obeyed, her steps hesitant but determined. They descended in silence to the underground parking, where a sleek black limousine waited. The driver opened the door, and Alexander slipped inside without looking back.

Emilia followed, her breath shallow. The car smelled like expensive leather and sharp cologne.

"You will stay by my side," Alexander said once the car began to move. "Smile when I signal you to. Leave when I tell you to. Speak only when spoken to. Understood?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He turned to her then, his eyes locking onto hers with unsettling intensity. "Tonight, you are not Emilia Hart. You are my asset. Play your role well, or everything you think you’ve saved will come crashing down."

Emilia’s lips parted, but no words came.

When they arrived at the gala venue — a towering glass structure shimmering like an ice palace under the city lights — Emilia’s knees nearly gave out as she stepped onto the plush red carpet. Cameras flashed like lightning, and a tidal wave of chatter swept through the crowd at the sight of Alexander Knight.

Alexander didn’t spare her another glance as he took her arm, guiding her inside with cold precision.

Inside, the room glittered with chandeliers and laughter. Champagne flutes clinked, and jewel-toned gowns rippled like waves. Emilia felt like a mismatched piece of a puzzle, entirely out of place in this world of predators dressed in silk and diamonds.

Alexander introduced her to powerful investors, city officials, and celebrities. Each introduction was curt, his hand firm on her lower back — a silent reminder of her role.

She did her best to smile, to nod at the right moments, even though her mind spun with anxiety. Each forced laugh scraped at her soul.

At one point, she caught her reflection in a gilded mirror — the mask hiding her true fear, her lips curved into a practiced smile.

Who was this woman?

As the night wore on, Emilia’s body ached and her head throbbed. She felt Alexander’s hand tighten subtly whenever she faltered, his eyes sharp and watchful.

Finally, during a pause in the formalities, Alexander leaned in, his lips so close to her ear that her breath hitched. "Upstairs. Now."

Her stomach flipped violently. She obeyed, weaving through the crowd on trembling legs.

A guard at the base of a grand staircase nodded silently and stepped aside. Emilia climbed, her pulse pounding so hard she felt dizzy.

At the top, she pushed open a heavy door and stepped into a dimly lit lounge overlooking the glittering city skyline. The room was empty, eerily silent except for her ragged breaths.

Moments later, Alexander entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The quiet thudded in her ears.

He approached her slowly, his eyes unreadable. "You performed adequately," he murmured, circling her like a predator studying prey.

Emilia’s mouth went dry. "Thank you," she managed, though her voice barely sounded like her own.

Alexander stopped inches from her, his presence suffocating. "But a mask only hides so much, Emilia. Eventually, the world will see the real you. And so will I."

She flinched, her fingers digging into the sides of her gown.

Alexander’s gaze drifted over her face, lingering on her parted lips, her trembling chin. Slowly, he lifted his hand and traced the edge of her mask with his thumb.

"Remember," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are mine now. Every heartbeat, every breath."

Emilia’s knees nearly buckled.

Alexander’s eyes darkened, something fierce and possessive burning behind the icy surface.

He leaned in, so close she could taste his breath — sharp, expensive, intoxicating.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped back, his mask of indifference sliding firmly into place.

"Return downstairs," he commanded. "And do not fail me again."

Emilia’s hands shook as she turned, her mind reeling, her heart a thunderous drum in her chest.

As she reached the staircase, her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She glanced down and nearly dropped it.

It was a photo. Of her mother. In her hospital bed. Taken tonight.

Underneath, a single message: One wrong move, and she disappears.

—