Zoe Carter, still reeling from Alexander Sterling's pronouncement – "We're getting married, Miss Miller. Tomorrow." – felt the last vestiges of her carefully constructed composure evaporate like morning mist. For a moment, she wondered if she'd somehow transmigrated again, this time into an even more ludicrous, accelerated version of a CEO novel.
"Married?" she finally managed, the word a strangled squeak. Emily Miller's voice, thankfully, still conveyed a convincing level of shock, masking the sheer, unadulterated disbelief warring with a hysterical urge to laugh that was pure Zoe Carter. "Mr. Sterling, with all due respect, are you clinically insane? We met, under the most compromising of circumstances, less than forty-eight hours ago!"
Alexander regarded her with the same cool detachment he might afford a mildly underperforming stock. "Insanity, Miss Miller, would be allowing Isabelle Thorne and her tabloid jackals to dictate the narrative of my life, or by extension, the stability of Sterling Enterprises. Your… 'sordid past'," he used air quotes, a gesture so uncharacteristically human it was almost more alarming than his usual icy demeanor, "is about to become front-page news. An engagement, however sudden, can still be picked apart, questioned. A marriage, however, a fait accompli, is a much more definitive statement. It renders any prior 'dalliances' or 'indiscretions' largely moot in the public eye, especially if presented as a passionate, impulsive culmination of a secret whirlwind romance."
His logic was cold, ruthless, and, damn him, probably accurate within the bizarre confines of this high-society media circus. Zoe knew enough about PR and crisis management from her marketing days to recognize the brutal efficiency of his plan. It was a scorched-earth tactic, designed to cauterize the wound before the infection could spread.
"But… a marriage?" she repeated, still struggling to process the sheer audacity. "That's… permanent. What about the contract we just discussed? The six-month engagement?"
"Consider this an addendum, Miss Miller. An acceleration of terms due to unforeseen escalations by a third party," Alexander stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The core tenets remain. This is a business arrangement. It will have a defined endpoint, should we both choose. But for now, for the public, and most importantly, for my family and business associates, you will be Mrs. Alexander Sterling. And you will play that role flawlessly."
There was no discussion, no negotiation this time. This wasn't a proposition; it was a decree. Zoe felt the walls of her gilded cage closing in, the bars now forged from legally binding vows. The cannon fodder was being upgraded to sacrificial bride.
The "next day" dawned with a surreal, almost nightmarish quality. There was no white dress, no tearful bridesmaids, no joyous family celebration. Instead, Zoe found herself in a severe grey suit (another item from the Sterling instant-wardrobe department, presumably for "sober legal occasions"), standing beside Alexander in a soulless, mahogany-paneled conference room at his lawyer's downtown office. Marcus Wayne and a tight-lipped female lawyer Zoe didn't recognize acted as witnesses. A city judge, looking profoundly bored, presided.
The vows were perfunctory, the exchange of simple gold bands (where had those come from?) a cold, metallic ritual. Zoe heard Emily Miller's voice murmuring "I do," while Zoe Carter's soul screamed a silent, unending "Are you kidding me?!" Alexander's "I do" was delivered with the same crisp finality he probably used when closing a multi-billion-dollar merger.
And just like that, in under fifteen minutes, Emily Miller, nee Zoe Carter by soul, became Mrs. Alexander Sterling. The irony was so thick, Zoe could have spread it on toast. She, who had always scoffed at the idea of marriage as an outdated institution, was now legally bound to a fictional character she barely knew and actively distrusted, all to survive a plot she'd stumbled into.
The announcement of their marriage, strategically released an hour later by Sterling Enterprises, hit the news cycle with the force of a Category 5 hurricane. If the engagement had caused ripples, the marriage caused a tsunami.
"FROM MYSTERY FIANCÉE TO MRS. STERLING IN 24 HOURS! ALEXANDER STERLING ELOPES!"
"ICE KING'S SHOCK WEDDING: WHO IS THE REAL EMILY MILLER STERLING?"
"INSIDE THE BILLIONAIRE NUPTIALS NO ONE SAW COMING!"
Zoe, back in her luxurious prison at Sterling Manor (now, presumably, as its nominal mistress, though it still felt like a cage), watched the news explode on her secure tablet, a strange detachment settling over her. This wasn't her life. This was a bizarre, high-stakes reality show, and she was its unwilling star.
The reactions poured in. Marcus Wayne, with his usual stoicism, merely presented her with an updated security protocol and a list of "household management" details she was now nominally in charge of (which Mrs. Albright would undoubtedly continue to actually manage).
Aunt Caroline, according to a strained phone call Alexander took in his study (Zoe "accidentally" overheard snippets while "exploring" the hallway), was apoplectic. Catherine Sterling's reaction was, presumably, even more volcanic, though Alexander didn't deign to share the details. Zoe could only imagine the matriarch's fury at being so thoroughly blindsided by her son's unilateral, drastic action.
Chloe Davis sent a string of increasingly frantic texts, a jumble of congratulations, confusion, and outright concern. "Married?! Em, are you being held hostage?! Blink twice if you need me to call the FBI!" Zoe managed to send back a vaguely reassuring, "It's a long story, all good, talk soon!" message, her fingers trembling slightly.
And Isabelle Thorne?
For a full twenty-four hours after the marriage announcement, there was… silence. A deeply unnerving, calculating silence from that quarter. Zoe knew Isabelle well enough from the pages of Manhattan's Ice King to understand that silence from her was never a sign of defeat, only a prelude to a more insidious attack.
It came on the third day of her "marriage," in the form of a thick, cream-colored, exquisitely engraved invitation delivered by a liveried courier.
"Miss Isabelle Thorne requests the pleasure of Mrs. Alexander Sterling's company for afternoon tea, to offer her sincere congratulations and welcome her to the family." The location was The Palm Court at The Plaza. The time, two days hence.
Zoe stared at the invitation, the elegant calligraphy seeming to mock her. "Mrs. Alexander Sterling." It still felt like a costume she was wearing. And Isabelle Thorne, the viper herself, was inviting her to tea. This wasn't an olive branch; it was a beautifully presented declaration of war, a summons to a duel on Isabelle's chosen ground. a treacherous feast.
Her first instinct was to refuse. To hide. To tell Alexander this was a trap.
But then Zoe Carter, the marketing strategist, the one who dissected plots for fun, took over. Hiding would make her look weak, guilty. It would give Isabelle the victory. And Alexander… what would he think? He'd told her to play her role flawlessly. A confident, secure new bride wouldn't shy away from tea with her husband's… close family friend.
She needed to discuss this with Alexander, or at least gauge his reaction. He had been almost entirely absent since their return to the manor post-"nuptials," immersed in business calls and meetings, their interactions limited to curt nods at breakfast (which she now took alone in her suite, by unspoken mutual agreement to avoid further Sterling family breakfast inquisitions for the time being).
She found him in the library that evening, a formidable silhouette against the dying light, a glass of scotch in his hand. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.
"Mr. Sterling… Alexander," she began, holding out the invitation. "I received this today. From Miss Thorne."
He took the card, his eyes scanning it briefly. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Isabelle. Predictable." He handed it back to her. "So? Are you going?"
His tone was cool, almost indifferent. Was this a test? Did he expect her to run? Or did he want her to face Isabelle?
"I… I'm not sure," Zoe said honestly. "It feels like… a setup."
"Everything with Isabelle is a setup, Miss Miller… or should I say, Mrs. Sterling," he corrected himself, the title sounding alien even from his lips. "The question is, are you capable of navigating it?"
There it was. The challenge. The unspoken dare. He wasn't going to protect her from this. He was going to watch.
A spark of defiance, Zoe's own, not Emily Miller's, ignited within her. She had survived a transmigration, a faked scandal, a family inquisition, and a shotgun wedding to a fictional billionaire. She could certainly survive tea with a glorified mean girl, however venomous.
"I believe I am, Mr. Sterling," she said, her chin lifting a fraction. "In fact, I think it might be… illuminating."
A ghost of that rare, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Indeed. Then by all means, go. Enjoy the tea. And Mrs. Sterling?"
"Yes?"
"Do try not to cause an international incident. The Plaza has excellent scones, I hear. It would be a shame to have them upset by… undue hysterics."
With that, he turned back to his scotch and the darkening view, dismissing her.
Zoe stood there for a moment, the engraved invitation suddenly feeling like a dueling pistol in her hand. Hysterics? Oh, she'd give Isabelle something far more interesting than hysterics.
She walked out of the library, her mind already whirring, planning, strategizing. The novice protection period was over. The marriage vows were a sham. But the war with Isabelle Thorne was very, very real. And Zoe Carter, now Mrs. Alexander Sterling, was about to attend her first battle. Tea party, Sterling style.