Contractually Yours

Chatper Four : The Gala

The ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers, crystal glasses, and women draped in diamonds.

Emma had never seen anything like it.

She stood at the entrance of the Grand Ballroom at The Sterling Plaza Hotel, her silver dress shimmering under the lights, her hand trembling slightly in Alexander's grip. His palm was warm. Steady. He held her like she belonged to him.

"Smile," he murmured, his lips barely moving.

She forced a smile onto her face, the muscles in her cheeks aching from the effort.

"Good. Now walk."

They stepped into the room.

Instantly, heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat. Emma felt every eye on her—examining her, judging her, dissecting her like she was a specimen under a microscope.

"Who is she?"

"I've never seen her before."

"She's not from our circle. Look at her—she's terrified."

Emma's smile froze. She could hear them. Every single word.

Alexander's hand tightened on hers.

"Don't listen," he said quietly. "They're vultures. They'll eat you alive if you let them."

"That's encouraging."

"It's the truth."

He led her through the crowd with the confidence of a man who owned every room he walked into. Because he did. He owned this hotel. He probably owned half the people in this room.

"Alexander!"

A woman's voice cut through the noise.

Emma turned to see a stunning blonde in a blood-red dress approaching them. Her smile was sharp and predatory, her eyes scanning Emma with barely concealed contempt.

"So you actually came," the blonde said, kissing Alexander on both cheeks. "And you brought... company."

"Charlotte." Alexander's voice was flat. "This is Emma Watson. My fiancée."

Charlotte's smile flickered. "Fiancée. How... unexpected."

"I'm full of surprises."

Charlotte turned to Emma, her eyes cold and assessing. "And where did Alexander find you, dear? You're not from our world, are you?"

Emma opened her mouth to respond, but Alexander spoke first.

"She's from the world of people who don't ask rude questions."

Charlotte's face flushed. "I was just being friendly—"

"You were being nosy. There's a difference." He turned to Emma, his expression softening in a way that made her heart skip. "Darling, would you like a drink?"

The word darling hit her like a wave. She knew it was an act. She knew he was performing.

But it still made her breath catch.

"I'd love one," she managed.

---

They escaped to the bar.

Emma leaned against the counter, her legs shaking beneath her. "That was brutal."

"That was nothing. Charlotte's just the beginning." Alexander handed her a glass of champagne she didn't want but accepted anyway. "By the end of the night, everyone in this room will have an opinion about you."

"Charming."

"I'm not trying to be charming. I'm trying to prepare you."

"You're terrible at preparing people."

"I'm not good at people." He downed his drink in one swallow. "That's why I hire them."

Emma laughed. It was a genuine laugh, sharp and unexpected. Alexander looked at her strangely, as if he hadn't expected her to find him amusing.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Someone..." He paused, searching for the word. "Bitter."

"I am bitter. I just hide it better than you."

For a moment, she thought she saw him smile. It was gone before she could confirm it.

"Come on." He set down his empty glass. "There's someone I need you to meet."

---

She met thirty-seven people that night.

She remembered exactly zero of their names.

There was a senator who smelled like cigars and stared at her chest. A businessman who kept asking if she was "available for dinner." A woman who wore a necklace that probably cost more than Emma's entire family's income for ten generations.

Alexander handled all of them.

He deflected questions. He steered conversations. He kept his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd like a ship through stormy waters.

And every time someone got too close, every time someone asked a question that made her uncomfortable, he stepped in.

"Emma, this is boring. Let's dance."

He pulled her onto the dance floor before she could protest.

"I don't know how to dance," she hissed.

"Neither do I. We'll figure it out together."

---

The music was slow and soft. Alexander's hand found her waist, his other hand engulfing hers.

She placed her free hand on his shoulder. It was rock-solid beneath the fabric of his tuxedo.

"Follow my lead," he murmured.

"I thought you didn't know how to dance."

"I don't. But I'm good at pretending."

They swayed. It was barely dancing, just a slow, lazy drift across the floor. But in that moment, surrounded by strangers and diamonds and lies, Emma felt something shift.

She looked up at Alexander.

His jaw was set. His eyes were fixed somewhere over her shoulder. He looked cold. Controlled. Distant.

But his hand on her waist was burning through the silver fabric of her dress.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

"I'm fine."

"You look like you're being tortured."

"I'm dancing. I'm always tortured when I'm dancing."

She bit back a laugh. "You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar. I've been lying my entire life. It's why I'm so successful."

The way he said it made her chest ache. Like he was telling her something true, something painful, dressed up in a joke.

She wanted to ask. She wanted to know what he was hiding behind those cold eyes.

But she remembered the contract.

No questions about his past.

She said nothing.

The song ended.

Alexander stepped back, his hand slipping away from her waist.

"You did well," he said. "Better than I expected."

"High praise."

"It's the highest I give. Trust me."

---

By the end of the night, Emma's feet were screaming, her smile was frozen, and she was fairly certain her face would never recover from the strain of pretending.

But she had survived.

"Get in," Alexander said, opening the door to the back seat of the car. Marcus was behind the wheel, waiting.

Emma climbed in and sank into the leather seat with a groan. "I can't feel my feet."

"You'll survive."

"You could try to be kind."

"I could." He settled into the seat beside her, his long legs stretching out. "But then you'd get expectations, and expectations are dangerous."

"Right. Because we wouldn't want that."

"No." His voice was soft. Softer than it had been all night. "We wouldn't."

The car pulled away from the curb.

Emma leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The city lights blurred past the window, smearing into golden streaks.

She was exhausted. Overwhelmed. Every muscle in her body ached from the effort of pretending to be someone she wasn't.

But somewhere beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. Something she didn't want to name.

She glanced sideways at Alexander.

His face was turned toward the window. The lights reflected in his cold eyes, casting shadows across his sharp features.

He looked lonely.

The thought made her stomach clench.

She looked away.

It doesn't matter, she told herself. It's just a contract. Six months. Then you're free.

But she had a sinking feeling that six months wouldn't be nearly enough time to get him out of her head.