Around 3 o’clock a.m., she ventured out, thirst driving her to find the kitchen. The penthouse was silent as she padded barefoot through the dim hallways, following the subtle lighting along the baseboards. She found the kitchen, all gleaming marble and stainless steel, and had just located a glass when a voice spoke from the darkness.
Couldn’t sleep either? Emma whirled to find Ethan sitting at the kitchen island, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the floor to ceiling windows. He wore black pajama pants and nothing else, his sculpted chest bare in the moonlight. Her mouth went dry at the sight.
I was thirsty, she managed, clutching the empty glass like a shield. He rose and approached, taking the glass from her hand, their fingers brushed, and that same electricity crackled between them. Allow me, he said, filling it with filtered water from the refrigerator.
When he handed it back, his eyes caught hers. In the dim light, his expression was softer, the rigid control he maintained slipping just slightly. Today must have been difficult for you, he said quietly.
I apologize for adding to your distress. The unexpected gentleness in his voice touched something inside her. You saved me from public humiliation, that counts for something.
Is that what I did? A shadow crossed his features, perhaps I only served my own interests. Which are what, exactly? She asked, holding his gaze. Ethan stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin.
I think you already know, Emma. You’re too intelligent not to have figured it out. Her heart pounded as he reached out slowly, deliberately, giving her time to retreat.
When she didn’t, his fingers brushed a loose curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture so tender it made her breath catch. This arrangement between us, he continued, his voice low and hypnotic. It has rules, boundaries, but don’t mistake that for indifference.
Ethan, she began, uncertain what she even wanted to say. He stepped back, the moment breaking. Go back to bed, Emma.
Tomorrow will bring enough complications without adding sleep deprivation. She returned to her room, but sleep remained elusive. Their conversation played on repeat in her mind, along with the memory of his fingers against her skin, the glimpse of vulnerability in those usually guarded eyes.
What had he meant? What were these interests of his that she was supposedly intelligent enough to have figured out? As dawn broke over the city, Emma came to one certainty amidst her confusion. The contract they would discuss today might stipulate separate bedrooms and a temporary arrangement, but the chemistry between them threatened to burn those carefully constructed boundaries to ash. Across the penthouse, separated by walls and unspoken desires, Ethan Carter also watched the sun rise, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and the image of Emma in her wedding dress seared into his mind.
The woman he had coveted from afar for so long was now under his roof, wearing his ring, bearing his name. The irony was not lost on him. He had finally claimed what his brother had carelessly discarded, yet the victory felt hollow when she still believed herself in love with Liam.
But he was a patient man, and now he had a full year to make her see what he had known from the first moment he laid eyes on her at that gallery opening three years ago. Emma Thompson, now Carter, belonged with him. She just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter 3. Beneath One Roof Morning arrived with golden sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. Emma blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the luxurious surroundings before reality crashed back. She was in Ethan Carter’s penthouse.
As his wife, the enormous guest room suddenly felt suffocating. She threw off the silken sheets and padded to the floor-to-ceiling windows, pulling the curtains fully open to reveal a breathtaking panorama of Central Park. Sixty floors up, the world below seemed like a miniature playset.
Tiny yellow cabs, aunt-size pedestrians, all moving through the morning rush with purpose, while her own life had been turned upside down. I’m married to Ethan Carter, she whispered, twisting the black diamond ring on her finger. The weight of it still felt foreign, a constant reminder of yesterday’s madness.
A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts. Come in, she called. Wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly conscious she wore only a thin nightgown, another item meant for a honeymoon with a different man.
The door opened to reveal not Ethan, but a middle-aged woman, fifty, in crisp black attire. Good morning, Mrs. Carter. I’m Mrs. Garcia, the housekeeper.
Mr. Carter asked me to inform you breakfast will be served on the terrace in thirty minutes. Thank you, Emma replied, thrown by the formal address. Mrs. Carter, that would take getting used to.
Your clothes have been unpacked in the dressing room, Mrs. Garcia continued, gesturing to a door Emma hadn’t noticed the night before. Mr. Carter also arranged for additional items. Will you require assistance? No, I can manage, Emma answered, wondering exactly what additional items meant.
After Mrs. Garcia departed, Emma discovered the answer. The walk-in dressing room was filled with clothing in her size, tags still attached, designer dresses, casual wear, shoes, even lingerie, all arranged by color and type, a complete wardrobe that must have cost a small fortune, acquired overnight while she slept. Running her fingers along a silk blouse that probably cost more than her monthly rent had been, Emma felt a flash of indignation.
Had Ethan assumed her own clothes weren’t good enough? Was this another way to mold her into his version of a suitable wife? Pride made her bypass the new items, choosing instead a simple yellow sundress from her own suitcase. It had been packed for her honeymoon with Liam, but now it would serve as armor, a reminder that she remained Emma Thompson beneath the Carter name. When she emerged onto the terrace 30 minutes later, Ethan was already seated at a glass table laden with breakfast foods.
He rose when he saw her, those penetrating blue eyes taking in her appearance with an intensity that made her skin flush. Gone was the formal suit from yesterday’s wedding, replaced by dark jeans and a crisp white button-down with sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms. Good morning, he said, his deep voice doing unreasonable things to her pulse.
I trust you slept well. As well as can be expected after being abandoned at the altar and marrying a stranger, she replied, taking the seat he pulled out for her. A hint of a smile touched his lips.
Hardly strangers, Emma. We’ve known each other for over a year. Knowing of someone isn’t them, she countered, helping herself to coffee from a silver pot.
I could count our actual conversations on one hand. Something flickered in his eyes. A challenge, perhaps.
Then this arrangement presents an opportunity to remedy that, doesn’t it? A server appeared, presenting a plate of French toast with fresh berries before disappearing again. Emma raised an eyebrow. Do you always have staff serving breakfast? Only when I want to impress my new wife, Ethan replied, his intense gaze never leaving her face.
The directness of his stare unsettled her. I noticed the wardrobe in my room. That wasn’t necessary.
You’re a carter now, at least for the year we agreed upon. Certain appearances must be maintained. He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim.
Consider it part of our arrangement. I have perfectly adequate clothes of my own. Of course you do.
His eyes dropped briefly to her yellow dress before returning to her face. But our social calendar requires variety, unless you’d prefer to shop yourself. Social calendar? Emma set down her fork.
I thought this was just a paper marriage. Ethan’s expression remained unreadable. People would question a reclusive newlywed couple.
We’ll need to make occasional public appearances to maintain the illusion. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? She couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. I try to.
He set aside his coffee and leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. Emma, I know this isn’t what you planned for your life, but for the next year we’re bound together. We can spend that time in conflict, or we can find a way to coexist peacefully, perhaps even… He paused, something warming in his gaze.
Pleasantly. The suggestion in his tone sent an unexpected heat through her body. She looked away, unsettled by her reaction.
I should probably learn more about you if we’re going to convince people this marriage is real. What would you like to know, he asked, leaning back in his chair. Everything, she challenged.
Start with why the mysterious Ethan Carter needs a wife for appearances when half the socialites in Manhattan would kill for the position. A shadow crossed his face. My father is retiring.
The board is detoxification voting next month on who will take control of Carter Holdings. My father believes a settled family man would inspire more confidence than a bachelor with a reputation for… He paused. Intensity.
So I’m a prop in a corporate power play, Emma concluded, trying to ignore the sting of disappointment. Ethan’s jaw tightened. You’re much more than that, am I? She met his gaze directly.
Then what am I to you, Ethan? The question hung between them, charged with unspoken possibilities. For a moment, something raw and honest threatened to break through his controlled facade. Then his phone buzzed with an incoming message, breaking the spell.
He glanced at it, his expression hardening. Business demands attention, even on my supposed honeymoon. Rising, he added, I have a proposition for you.
Something more interesting than sitting alone in this penthouse while I attend to unavoidable matters. I’m listening, Emma said cautiously. I have a private collection.
Art pieces not displayed publicly. I’d value your professional opinion on them. Interest sparked despite her determination to remain aloof.
What kind of collection? Emerging artists, primarily those without the connections to break into traditional galleries. A hint of vulnerability crept into his expression. It’s a personal passion, not a business investment.
The admission surprised her. The Ethan Carter she thought she knew seemed too calculating for passion projects. I’d like to see that, she admitted.
Relief flickered across his features. Good. We’ll go when I return this afternoon.
He hesitated, then added, the studio on the lower level is fully equipped if you’d like to work while I’m gone, through the private elevator in the hall. Full access is coded to your fingerprint now. Before she could respond, he was gone, leaving Emma to wonder just how many more surprises Ethan Carter had in store.
The private elevator opened onto a space that made Emma’s heart stop. A vast studio with soaring ceilings and perfect natural light. Walls lined with empty canvases of every size.
Shelves stocked with paints, brushes, charcoals, every supply an artist could dream of. A small sitting area in one corner held a vintage leather couch and a gourmet coffee station. When did you do this? She whispered to the empty room, running her fingers over a set of brushes that cost more than her monthly rent had been.
The answer came from behind her. Two weeks ago. Emma whirled to find Ethan stepping from the elevator, his expression impossible to read.
But that was before, she started, confused. Before Liam left you at the altar. Yes.
He moved past her to open the blinds further, flooding the space with afternoon light. Before our arrangement? Also yes. I don’t understand.
Her voice faltered as implications swirled through her mind. Why would you create a studio for me before any of this happened? Ethan turned to face her, his usual mask of control slipping just enough to reveal something vulnerable beneath. Because I’ve seen your work, Emma.
The pieces you showed at the Thompson Gallery last spring. You have extraordinary talent that deserves nurturing. She stared at him, struggling to reconcile this revelation with the man she thought she knew.
How did you even know those were mine? They were displayed under a pseudonym. A smile touched his lips. I pay attention to things that interest me.
The intensity of his gaze made her pulse quicken. And I interest you more than you know. The words hung between them, charged with meaning.
Before she could respond, he gestured toward a door at the far end of the studio. My collection is through there. When you’re ready.
Emma followed him, mind racing. The Ethan Carter who created an artist’s dream studio for a woman he barely spoke to, who recognized her anonymous work, who married her when his brother fled. This was a man she didn’t know at all.
The temperature dropped noticeably as they entered a climate-controlled gallery space. Emma stopped in the doorway, stunned by what she saw. Not the investment-grade masterpiece as she’d expected from a billionaire’s collection, but raw, passionate works from artists she recognized as emerging talents, many from underprivileged backgrounds.
Voices the mainstream art world often overlooked. These are… She moved toward a powerful piece by a Dominican artist she’d been following. Incredible, you approve.
Something almost anxious colored his tone. This isn’t just money thrown at famous names, she said, moving from piece to piece with growing excitement. This is a real collection.
Thoughtful, cohesive, but with risks. You actually understand art. When she turned back to him, the naked vulnerability in his expression took her breath away.
For the first time, she was seeing behind the mask of Ethan Carter, catching a glimpse of the man beneath the power and control. Most people assume I buy what my advisors tell me will appreciate in value, he said quietly. This isn’t about investment, she gestured to the collection.
This is about passion, about seeing beauty and truth in unexpected places. He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, something woodsy and exclusive. Few people understand that about me.
I’m beginning to think I don’t understand much about you at all, she admitted. A sudden thunderclap shook the windows, making Emma jump. Outside, the clear day had transformed, dark storm clouds rolling in with remarkable speed.