Revenge Bride

POV: Emma Winters

I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Adrian Blackstone's steel-gray gaze and heard his impossible offer echoing in my mind. Two million dollars. One year. A marriage that wasn't really a marriage to a man who definitely wasn't what he seemed.

My studio looked even more chaotic than usual, if that was possible. I'd stress-cleaned twice, reorganized my tools three times, and started four different jewelry pieces that I'd immediately abandoned when my hands proved too shaky to work with delicate wire and tiny stones.

The business card sat on my workbench like a ticking bomb. Adrian Blackstone, CEO, Blackstone Industries. I'd spent half the night researching him online, falling down rabbit holes of business articles and society photos that only made him more mysterious.

He was thirty-two, had taken over Blackstone Industries at an impossibly young age, and was worth approximately fifty billion dollars. Fifty billion. I couldn't even conceptualize that much money. The articles described him as brilliant, ruthless, and intensely private. In every photo, he looked exactly as he had in my studio—commanding, controlled, and completely alone.

No romantic relationships mentioned anywhere. No scandals, no messy breakups, no whispered rumors about secret affairs. Either Adrian Blackstone was the most discreet man in New York, or he really was as coldly professional as he seemed.

My phone buzzed for the dozenth time since yesterday. Marcus again.

"Emma, we need to talk. Can't keep avoiding me forever. What's going on?"

What was going on was that I was seriously considering entering a fake marriage with a billionaire stranger instead of marrying my actual fiancé. When I put it like that, it sounded completely insane.

But Marcus's text reminded me exactly why Adrian's offer was so tempting. Even now, Marcus wasn't asking if I was okay or if I needed anything. He was just annoyed that I wasn't responding to his demands for attention.

Another buzz. This time it was Lisa, my best friend since art school and the only person who knew the full extent of my financial disaster.

"Coffee? You sounded weird yesterday. Also, did you really not recognize Adrian Blackstone when he walked into your studio? Girl, that man is SEX on legs and richer than God."

I actually laughed, the first genuine moment of humor I'd felt since Adrian had walked out of my life with that devastating almost-smile. Lisa had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, usually with complete inappropriateness.

"Can you come over? I need advice."

"On my way. Fair warning: I'm bringing emergency chocolate and wine."

Twenty minutes later, Lisa burst through my door like a small hurricane, her red curls flying and her arms full of provisions. Lisa Chen was barely five feet tall, but she had enough personality to fill a room twice her size. She was also the most successful person I knew, having built her graphic design business into a small empire through sheer force of will and an uncanny ability to read people.

"Okay, spill," she said, setting wine and chocolate on my workbench with the efficiency of someone who'd staged many intervention sessions. "What's got you looking like you haven't slept since the Clinton administration?"

I held up Adrian's business card. "This."

Lisa's eyes went wide. "Holy shit, Emma. Adrian Blackstone gave you his personal card? What did he want? Please tell me you didn't turn down some amazing commission because of your pride."

"He offered me a job."

"What kind of job pays enough to have you this twisted up?"

I took a deep breath. "He wants to hire me to be his wife."

Lisa blinked once. Twice. Then she grabbed the wine bottle and uncapped it without ceremony. "I'm going to need you to start from the beginning and explain that sentence."

So I did. I told her everything—the eviction notice, the bills, Adrian's sudden appearance, his impossible proposal. The only thing I left out was the way my heart had raced when he'd smiled, the way his presence had made my chaotic studio feel electric with possibility.

When I finished, Lisa was quiet for a long moment, twirling wine in her glass and studying me with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing.

"Two million dollars," she said finally.

"Two million dollars."

"To pretend to be married to one of the most powerful men in the city."

"For one year."

"And he was clear that it's just business? No... expectations?"

I felt heat creep up my neck. "He said separate bedrooms, no interference in personal lives outside of public appearances."

"Uh-huh." Lisa's tone was carefully neutral. "And what did you think of him? As a person, I mean."

That was the question I'd been avoiding. What had I thought of Adrian Blackstone?

"He was..." I searched for the right words. "Intimidating. Obviously wealthy and powerful. But when he looked at my jewelry, he really looked. Like he understood what I was trying to create. And for just a moment, when he smiled..." I trailed off, not sure how to explain the way that barely-there smile had transformed his entire face.

"You're attracted to him."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "That's irrelevant. This is a business arrangement."

"Emma." Lisa set down her wine and looked at me seriously. "Honey, I love you, but you are terrible at separating business from emotion. Remember what happened with that gallery owner who said he wanted to 'mentor' you?"

I winced. David Morrison had strung me along for months with promises of representation and gallery shows, and I'd been too infatuated with his attention to see that he was just using me for free labor and occasional companionship.

"This is different," I said. "Adrian was completely upfront about what he wants. No mixed signals, no false promises."

"No, what's different is the scale. David Morrison wanted to use you for small-time gallery connections. Adrian Blackstone wants to use you to project corporate stability to investors worth billions of dollars. The stakes are exponentially higher."

She was right, and I knew it. But every time I looked at the eviction notice, every time I thought about crawling back to Dad or accepting Marcus's patronizing proposal, something rebellious flared in my chest.

"What if I want to be used?" I asked quietly. "What if this is exactly the kind of opportunity I've been waiting for?"

Lisa studied my face. "Then I think you should ask yourself why a man who could have any woman in the world needs to pay for a wife. And more importantly, what he's not telling you about why he needs one."

Before I could respond, my phone rang. Dad.

I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the decline button. But Lisa raised an eyebrow, and I knew she was right—I couldn't avoid this conversation forever.

"Hi, Dad."

"Emma, sweetheart." Richard Winters' voice was warm with concern. "I've been worried about you. Marcus called me yesterday, said you weren't returning his messages."

Of course Marcus had called my father. Because apparently my personal life was everyone's business except my own.

"I'm fine, Dad. Just busy with work."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I know you're proud, and I respect your independence, but Emma... sweetheart, there's no shame in accepting help when you need it. Let me invest in your business properly. We could set up a real studio, hire assistants, get your work into major retailers."

The offer was generous and genuine, and it made my chest ache. Dad really did want to help. But every dollar of his money would come with expectations, obligations, the subtle understanding that I'd failed to make it on my own.

"I appreciate that, Dad, I really do. But I need to do this myself."

"Even if doing it yourself means losing everything you've worked for?"

The question hung in the air between us. Because that was exactly what it meant, wasn't it? In twelve days, I'd lose my studio. In three weeks, I'd probably have to move back in with Dad or accept Marcus's proposal just to have somewhere to live.

"I'll figure something out," I said finally.

"Emma..." Dad's voice was gentle. "Sometimes asking for help is the bravest thing you can do."

After I hung up, Lisa and I sat in silence for a while, passing the wine bottle back and forth and watching the afternoon light shift through my grimy windows.

"Your dad's not wrong," Lisa said eventually. "There's a difference between independence and self-destructive stubbornness."

"I know." I picked up Adrian's business card again, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. "But there's also a difference between accepting help and accepting charity."

"And which category does Adrian Blackstone's offer fall into?"

I considered that. Adrian had been clear that he was getting something valuable out of our arrangement—corporate credibility, social stability, whatever mysterious benefit came from being married to a Winters. This wasn't charity. This was a trade.

"Business," I said finally. "It's just business."

"Famous last words," Lisa muttered, but she was smiling. "So what are you going to do?"

I looked around my studio—at the jewelry pieces I'd poured my heart into, at the dreams literally crumbling around me, at the business card that could change everything.

Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been Emma Winters, struggling artist on the verge of losing everything. In twenty-four hours, I could be Emma Blackstone, with the resources to build the kind of business I'd only dreamed of.

All I had to do was marry a stranger and pretend to love him for a year.

"I'm going to call Marcus," I said.

Lisa's eyebrows shot up. "To accept his proposal?"

"To break up with him." I stood up, sudden certainty flooding through me. "I'm tired of being with someone who sees me as a problem to be solved instead of a person to be supported. And I'm tired of being afraid of taking risks."

"So you're going to accept Adrian's offer?"

I looked at the business card one more time, then at my reflection in the darkened window. For the first time in months, the woman looking back at me didn't look defeated.

"I'm going to accept Adrian's offer."

The next evening, I stood in front of my studio mirror, trying to decide if I looked like a woman about to make the smartest decision of her life or the stupidest. I'd chosen my best dress—a simple black sheath that Lisa had insisted made me look "sophisticated and mysterious"—and spent an hour on makeup that was supposed to look natural but confident.

At exactly six o'clock, a sleek black car pulled up outside my studio. Not Adrian himself, but a driver who looked like he could moonlight as a bodyguard. He held the door open with professional courtesy.

"Miss Winters? Mr. Blackstone is waiting."

The drive to Blackstone Industries took twenty minutes in Manhattan traffic, giving me plenty of time to second-guess my decision and imagine all the ways this could go wrong. But when we pulled up in front of the gleaming tower of glass and steel, when I saw Adrian waiting in the lobby wearing another perfectly tailored suit, my doubts evaporated.

He looked up as I approached, and something flickered in those steel-gray eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or appreciation.

"Miss Winters." He moved toward me with that precise, controlled grace I remembered. "You look beautiful."

The compliment was simple, delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone he'd used to discuss contract terms, but it made warmth bloom in my chest anyway.

"Thank you." I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze directly. "I've made my decision."

"And?"

I took a deep breath, thinking of my crumbling studio, my mountain of debt, my father's worried voice, Marcus's manipulative texts. Then I thought of the possibility gleaming in front of me—the chance to build something real, something mine, something extraordinary.

"I accept your proposal, Mr. Blackstone," I said, meeting his steel-gray eyes with as much confidence as I could muster. "But we do this my way too."

For the first time, I saw something flicker behind that cold mask—surprise, respect, or maybe just amusement.

"Interesting," he murmured, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "Very interesting indeed."

As he led me toward the elevator, his hand barely touching the small of my back, I felt like I was stepping off a cliff into free fall.

The only question was whether Adrian Blackstone would catch me when I landed, or whether he was the one who'd pushed me off the edge in the first place.