The morning light slipped through the tall windows of the Wolfe estate, illuminating the soft cream and gold tones of the dining room. The clinking of porcelain and cutlery echoed lightly as Emma sat at the long table, quietly sipping her tea.
She had begun to grow used to these silent breakfasts — seated far from Alexander, who preferred to scroll through his tablet or take calls even before finishing his coffee. Emma didn't mind. The quiet was oddly peaceful, and for once, no one was glaring at her.
At least, not today.
Elise had yet to make an appearance, and the other extended relatives weren't scheduled to visit for another week. The staff, ever discreet, had warmed up to Emma ever so slightly. Not with familiarity, but with calm respect. She had started asking for their names, thanking them, and even helping fold laundry when no one was watching.
This morning, she wore a pale blue blouse with soft pleats and cream trousers — clothes chosen by the household stylist, but at least something more "Emma" than the stiff gowns from the first few days. Her sketchbook was in her tote, as always.
She didn't plan on staying in the mansion all day.
"Good morning," came a deep voice, cutting into her thoughts.
Emma looked up, surprised. Alexander had spoken — and to her.
"Good morning," she replied, unsure whether to smile or stay neutral.
He sat down across from her instead of at his usual end seat. That alone made her fingers still around her teacup.
"I heard you completed your admission paperwork yesterday," he said, pouring coffee into his cup without meeting her eyes. "That was quick."
"I didn't want to delay," Emma said, choosing her words carefully. "The university was understanding. I just have to finalize some electives next week."
He nodded, sipping his coffee. "If you need a driver or anything, speak to Bernard."
That was all. No follow-up questions. No sarcastic remarks. Just… a straightforward sentence.
Emma didn't know what to make of it.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Silence settled again, but it didn't feel hostile. Just distant. Like they were two people sharing a table out of habit, not necessity. Which, in a way, they were.
Before either of them could say more, one of the maids entered quietly, carrying a small envelope on a tray.
"For Mrs. Wolfe," she said, placing it gently beside Emma's plate.
Emma blinked. Mrs. Wolfe still sounded foreign to her ears.
She picked up the envelope. The paper was thick, the kind of luxury stationary people used when emails weren't elegant enough.
The handwriting was graceful.
"An invitation?" she murmured, opening it.
Inside was a formal card, ivory with gold embossed edges.
The Wolfe Foundation Annual Charity Gala
You are cordially invited
Friday, 7:30 PM | Wolfe Hall
Formal Attire Required
Attendance: Expected
Emma's throat went dry.
A gala? Already?
She glanced up. Alexander had gone back to reading something on his tablet, clearly aware but unmoved.
"You didn't mention this," she said, holding the card lightly.
He shrugged without looking up. "It's always held this time of year. My grandmother insists on tradition. You'll be introduced formally."
Emma's stomach twisted. Introduced? She hadn't even fully adjusted to the household, let alone to society. Her fingers trembled slightly against the envelope.
Alexander looked up briefly then, eyes scanning her face. "The stylist will take care of it. You'll be fitted today. And if you have preferences, speak up."
His tone wasn't cruel. Just matter-of-fact. But it felt like a command disguised as courtesy.
"I'll try," she murmured.
Something flickered across his face — an unreadable shift. Then he returned to his tablet, ending the conversation.
Emma excused herself soon after and went to the small lounge she'd claimed as her sketching nook. The moment she shut the door, she pulled out her sketchbook and flipped to a fresh page.
A gala.
Even in her dreams of design school and showcasing her collections, she'd never pictured attending one like this. Not as a guest. Not as someone being introduced.
She started sketching — something long, flowing. Not too extravagant. Sleek. She didn't want to draw attention, just blend in.
Yet deep down, a tiny part of her whispered: Maybe… you don't have to hide.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her from the page.
Nora: U ALIVE??? Or did you vanish into billionaire purgatory??
Emma smiled for the first time that morning.
She typed quickly:
Emma: "Alive. Barely. Can I call?"
Within seconds, her phone rang. She picked up, holding back laughter.
"Okay," Nora began, not even saying hello. "I demand answers. Who gets married without telling their best friend? What happened? Why couldn't I reach you? Your phone was off for days."
Emma curled into the corner of the couch. "It's… a long story."
"I have time. Spill."
And so Emma told her — not everything, but enough. About Lily running away, about the deal, the hasty ceremony, and Alexander's cold detachment. She didn't cry, didn't dramatize. She just… talked.
Nora, bless her, didn't interrupt much. She listened. And when Emma paused for breath, she sighed.
"That's insane. Like, 'soap opera meets Jane Austen' insane. Are you okay?"
Emma hesitated. Then she nodded. "I think I'm figuring it out. Slowly."
"And Mr. Billionaire Iceberg?"
Emma chuckled under her breath. "Still frozen. But… not cruel. Just distant."
"You'll melt him eventually," Nora said confidently. "No one survives your tea-making skills."
Emma smiled wider now. "Hey, do you still have that lavender chiffon fabric we bought last spring?"
Nora blinked. "You're already designing your gala dress, aren't you?"
"I just need to sketch something before they throw diamonds on me."
"My girl's still alive in there," Nora said, mock sniffing. "Okay, come by my studio tomorrow. I missed you."
"I missed you too."
As Emma ended the call, something settled in her chest. Lighter.
She wasn't entirely alone.
Maybe the gala would be a disaster. Maybe Elise would throw wine at her. Maybe Alexander would ignore her all night.
But Emma would show up as herself. Not a replacement. Not a shadow.
And that had to count for something.