Emma's POV
Harold Cross came to dinner.
Nobody asked me if that was acceptable. Patricia simply informed me at four p.m. that Harold would be joining us at seven, that the chef had been notified, and that I should dress appropriately for a formal family dinner.
I called Sophie.
"A ambush dinner with the disapproving uncle," she said. "Classic billionaire romance."
"This isn't a romance, Sophie."
"You're married, Emma."
"Contractually."
"Keep telling yourself that." I could hear her smiling. "Wear something that says I belong here without trying too hard. And stand your ground. Men like that respect people who don't fold."
I wore a deep navy dress, simple and well-fitted, one Patricia had included in my wardrobe without explanation. When I walked into the living room at six fifty,
