Revenge Bride

POV: Adrian Blackstone

I'd been living alone for so long that I'd forgotten how another person's presence could transform a space. Emma had been in the penthouse for less than a week, but already everything felt different. Her coffee mug sat beside mine on the kitchen counter. Her art books were scattered across the dining table. The entire forty-fifth floor smelled faintly of her perfume—something soft and floral that made me think of spring mornings.

It was driving me slowly insane.

"Mr. Blackstone?" Mrs. Chen, my housekeeper, appeared in the doorway of my home office with the careful expression she wore when she had something delicate to discuss. "Miss Winters is in her studio. She's been working since dawn, and I don't think she's eaten anything."

I glanced at my watch. Two in the afternoon. I'd been buried in acquisition reports for the past four hours, but apparently Emma had been working even longer.

"Has she been in there all night?"

"I believe so, sir. I heard music playing when I arrived this morning, and it hasn't stopped."

I set down my papers with more force than necessary. This was exactly why I'd wanted to keep things purely professional between us. Three days since our kiss at the gala, and Emma had been avoiding me with surgical precision. Polite good mornings over coffee, brief conversations about wedding planning, careful distance whenever we occupied the same room.

It shouldn't have bothered me. It should have been exactly what I wanted—a fiancée who stayed out of my way and let me focus on my revenge plans.

Instead, I found myself missing her laugh, the way she'd argued with me during contract negotiations, the warmth that had transformed her face when I'd kissed her on that museum balcony.

"I'll check on her," I told Mrs. Chen.

The penthouse's east wing had been converted into Emma's studio space—two rooms connected by an archway, with floor-to-ceiling windows that filled the space with natural light. I'd had it designed specifically for her, though I'd told myself it was just part of maintaining her cover as my devoted wife.

I found Emma exactly where Mrs. Chen had predicted, bent over her workbench with a jeweler's loupe pressed to her eye, completely absorbed in whatever delicate work she was doing. She'd changed out of the designer clothes I'd bought her and back into her own jeans and paint-splattered sweater, her hair twisted up in a messy bun secured with what looked like a paintbrush.

She was beautiful. Not the polished, elegant beauty she'd displayed at the gala, but something more fundamental—the beauty of a woman completely in her element, creating something with her hands and heart.

"Emma."

She startled, nearly dropping the piece she'd been working on. "Adrian! I didn't hear you come in."

"Mrs. Chen is worried about you. Apparently you've been in here all night."

Emma glanced toward the windows, seeming surprised by the afternoon light. "Oh. I guess I lost track of time. I get like that when I'm working on something new."

I moved closer to her workbench, noting the scattered sketches, the half-finished pieces, the coffee mug that had gone cold hours ago. "What are you working on?"

"Something for the wedding." She held up a delicate silver pendant, set with what looked like a raw diamond. "I know you've probably already arranged for jewelry, but I wanted to make something myself. Something that would be... mine."

The vulnerability in her voice made my chest tight. "It's beautiful."

"It's not finished yet. I'm still working on the chain, and the setting needs adjustment, but..." She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. "You probably think it's silly. Making my own wedding jewelry when you could buy me anything."

"I think it's perfect." And I meant it. The pendant was raw, unpolished in places, but it had a honesty to it that spoke of Emma's hands, Emma's vision. "It tells a story."

She looked up at me, surprise flickering in her brown eyes. "What story do you think it tells?"

I studied the piece more carefully, noting the way the rough diamond caught the light, the organic curves of the silver setting. "Something being refined under pressure. Made more beautiful through the process of change."

Emma's breath caught. "That's exactly what I was thinking when I designed it."

The air between us suddenly felt charged, the same way it had on the museum balcony. But this time, instead of leaning into it, Emma stepped back and began cleaning up her workspace.

"You should eat something," I said. "Mrs. Chen is probably preparing lunch."

"I'm fine. I had coffee."

"Coffee isn't food, Emma."

She paused in her cleaning, giving me a look that was part amusement, part exasperation. "Are you always this controlling with people you're paying to be around you?"

The question hit harder than it should have. "I'm not paying you to be around me. I'm paying you to be my wife."

"Right. Your wife. The business arrangement." Her voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the edge underneath. "Speaking of which, your assistant called earlier about the wedding venue. Apparently the Plaza needs final confirmation on the menu choices."

Business. She was redirecting us back to business, away from whatever moment we'd been building over her jewelry. It should have been what I wanted.

"I'll handle it," I said.

Emma nodded and went back to organizing her tools. I should have left then, returned to my office and my reports and my carefully laid plans. Instead, I found myself watching the way afternoon light caught in her hair, the graceful movement of her hands as she worked.

"Emma."

"Yes?"

"Are you avoiding me?"

Her hands stilled. "What makes you think that?"

"The fact that you've been in this studio for twelve hours straight. The fact that you barely look at me over coffee. The fact that you've found excuses to avoid being in the same room with me since the gala."

She turned to face me fully, and I saw something like pain flicker across her features. "Maybe I am avoiding you. Maybe I need some space to figure out what's real and what's performance."

"What do you mean?"

"That kiss, Adrian. The way you looked at me on that balcony. The things you said about remembering what was real." She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly looking vulnerable despite her defiant posture. "I need to know if that was part of the act or if it meant something to you."

The honesty in her question deserved an honest answer. The problem was, I wasn't sure I knew what the truth was anymore.

"It meant something," I said finally.

"What did it mean?"

I moved closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to catch her scent. "It meant that this arrangement is becoming more complicated than either of us planned."

"Complicated how?"

Instead of answering, I reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The simple touch sent heat shooting through me, and I saw Emma's pupils dilate in response.

"Complicated because I find myself thinking about you when I should be thinking about work. Complicated because I miss talking to you when you're hiding in your studio. Complicated because when I kissed you three nights ago, it felt like the most honest thing I'd done in years."

Emma's lips parted slightly, her breathing becoming shallow. "Adrian..."

"Complicated because I'm starting to want things I have no right to want."

"What things?"

I leaned closer, until my forehead almost touched hers. "You. Not the arrangement, not the contract, not the business advantage. Just you."

For a moment, I thought she might kiss me. Her eyes dropped to my lips, her body swayed toward mine. Then her phone rang, shattering the moment.

Emma stepped back quickly, grabbing her phone from the workbench. "It's my father," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "I should take this."

"Emma, sweetheart!" Richard Winters' voice carried clearly through the phone's speaker. "How are you settling in to married life preparation?"

I watched Emma's face as she talked to her father, noting the genuine affection in her voice, the way she smiled when he made some joke about wedding planning. The conversation was perfectly normal, perfectly loving, and it made something cold and ugly twist in my stomach.

This was why I was here. Not to play house with Emma, not to indulge in romantic fantasies about what we might build together. I was here to destroy the man whose voice was making Emma laugh with such joy.

When she hung up, Emma turned back to me with a complicated expression. "He wants to take us to dinner tomorrow night. His way of officially welcoming you to the family."

The family. As if Richard Winters had any right to claim family connections when he'd destroyed mine so thoroughly.

"Of course," I said, my voice carefully controlled. "I'd be honored."

Emma studied my face. "You don't sound honored. You sound like you're planning someone's funeral."

If only she knew how accurate that assessment was.

"Just thinking about business," I lied. "Your father and I have several ventures we could explore together."

"Adrian." Emma moved closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest. "I know there's something you're not telling me. I can feel it every time my father's name comes up. What is it?"

For a moment, looking down into her trusting brown eyes, I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to confess who I really was, why I'd really sought her out, what I really intended to do to her father. I wanted to lay all my cards on the table and let her decide if there was anything worth salvaging between us.

But twenty years of planning held my tongue. Twenty years of rage and grief and the memory of my parents' blood on our living room floor.

"There's nothing to tell," I said finally. "Just business considerations."

Something shuttered in Emma's expression. She stepped back, removing her hand from my chest, and I immediately missed the warmth of her touch.

"Right. Business considerations." Her voice was flat, professional. "Well, I should let you get back to your work. I'm sure you have important business considerations to consider."

She was dismissing me, politely but firmly. And I deserved it. I'd just chosen my revenge over her trust, my past over any possible future we might have.

"Emma—"

"It's fine, Adrian. Really. We both knew what this was when we signed the contract."

But as I left her studio, I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd just lost something important. Something that might have been worth more than all my carefully laid plans for revenge.

That evening, I found myself in my study with a glass of whiskey and Emma's file spread across my desk. The surveillance photos looked different now—invasive rather than strategic. The detailed reports on her daily habits felt like violations rather than intelligence gathering.

A soft knock interrupted my brooding. "Come in."

Emma appeared in the doorway, hesitant. She'd changed into a simple sweater and jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked younger, more vulnerable than the polished woman who'd charmed everyone at the gala.

"I made dinner," she said. "Mrs. Chen left early, and I thought... well, we both need to eat."

I looked at the papers scattered across my desk—evidence of how thoroughly I'd researched her life, how calculated my approach had been. Emma couldn't see the details from the doorway, but guilt still twisted in my stomach.

"You didn't need to cook."

"I wanted to." She stepped into the room, her eyes taking in the expensive artwork, the wall of books, the view of Manhattan glittering beyond the windows. "This is a beautiful room. Very you."

"How so?"

"Controlled. Elegant. A little intimidating." She smiled slightly. "But also comfortable, if you know how to look at it right."

I closed the file and stood, aware that I was hiding evidence of my deception even as she offered me kindness.

"What did you make?"

"Nothing fancy. Pasta with garlic and herbs, salad, wine. Comfort food."

As we walked to the dining room together, I found myself watching the way she moved through my space—not like a guest or an employee, but like someone who belonged here. It should have felt wrong. Instead, it felt dangerously right.

Dinner was surprisingly easy. Emma had a gift for conversation, asking about my work without prying, sharing stories about her art school days that made me laugh despite my guilt. For an hour, I could almost forget why she was really here.

"Thank you for this," I said as we cleared the dishes. "It's been a long time since someone cooked for me."

"Don't you ever get lonely in this big place?"

The question was casual, but it hit deep. "I'm used to being alone."

"That's not what I asked."

I paused in loading the dishwasher, struck by her perceptiveness. "Yes," I admitted. "Sometimes I get lonely."

Emma was quiet for a moment, drying a wine glass with careful attention. "I was lonely too. Before this. Even with Marcus, even with my father worried about me all the time. I felt like I was living someone else's idea of who I should be."

"And now?"

She looked up at me, something soft and honest in her expression. "Now I feel like I might be figuring out who I actually am. Even if it's complicated."

The urge to tell her the truth was overwhelming. To confess everything and let her decide if the man I was becoming was worth the lies I'd told to get here.

But before I could find the words, my phone buzzed. Sofia, with an update on the latest intelligence about Winters Corporation.

Business. Revenge. The reason I was really here.

"I should take this," I said, hating the way Emma's expression shuttered.

"Of course. Business considerations."

As I walked away to take the call, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. For a moment, I didn't recognize the man looking back at me—someone caught between the boy who'd lost everything and the man who might be ready to build something new.

The question was whether I could choose Emma over my revenge, or if twenty years of planning would destroy the best thing that had happened to me since my parents died.

Either way, I was running out of time to decide.