three

Three weeks turned out to be both too long and not nearly enough time. I spent the first week in a blur of dress fittings, venue bookings, and trying to pretend this was a normal wedding. Jess was with me for most of it, playing the role of maid of honor and reality check.

"This dress makes you look like a cupcake," she said bluntly as I stood on the pedestal in the bridal boutique, drowning in layers of white tulle.

"Agreed." I turned to the consultant, who looked personally offended. "Can we see something simpler? More elegant, less... pastry?"

The woman sniffed but disappeared to find other options. As soon as she was gone, Jess leaned in. "Have you talked to him since the meeting?"

"Alexander? No. His assistant emails me updates and coordinates schedules. Very efficient, very impersonal."

"That's weird, right? You're marrying the guy in two weeks and you haven't even had a phone conversation?"

It was weird. But also kind of fitting for whatever this arrangement was. We weren't a real couple, so why pretend? Still, something about it bothered me. Like we were actors preparing for a play but never bothering to rehearse together.

My phone buzzed. Speak of the devil—a text from Alexander himself, not his assistant.

"Dinner tonight? We should probably be seen together before the wedding. 7pm, Il Terrazzo Carmine?"

I stared at the message. It was the first direct communication I'd had from him in a week, and it was about maintaining appearances. Of course it was.

"He wants to have dinner," I told Jess.

"Good! You need to actually talk to him. Figure out if you can stand being in the same room for two years."

She had a point. I texted back a simple "Fine. See you at 7" and tried to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach. It wasn't excitement. It was just anxiety about the whole situation. That's all it was.

---

Il Terrazzo Carmine was exactly the kind of place you'd take someone you were trying to impress upscale Italian, dimly lit, the kind of atmosphere that whispered romance even when there wasn't any. I arrived exactly on time, wearing a black dress that Jess had insisted made me look "mysterious and untouchable."

Alexander was already there, sitting at a corner table. He stood when he saw me, and I noticed he wasn't wearing a suit for once. Just dark jeans and a navy button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. It made him look younger, more approachable. Almost normal.

"Emma," he greeted me, pulling out my chair. 

"Trying to look casual?" I asked, settling into my seat. "Very convincing."

"My publicist suggested I look less 'intimidating corporate robot.' Her words, not mine."

I almost laughed. "Your publicist knows you well."

"Unfortunately." He signaled the waiter, who appeared instantly. Money had a way of doing that. "Would you like wine? Or something else?"

"Wine is fine." Once the waiter left, I looked across the table at my soon-to-be husband. "So, are we here for the food or the photo opportunity?"

"Both?" He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Though I admit I'm also curious about you. We're getting married in two weeks and I know almost nothing about you."

"Whose fault is that? You could have called anytime in the past week."

"You could have called me too."

He had me there. "Fair point. So what do you want to know?"

"Everything. Start with the gallery. Your father mentioned it, but I don't actually know what kind of art you showcase."

That surprised me. Most people didn't care about my work, especially not wealthy businessmen who probably saw art as just investment pieces. "Contemporary art, mostly. Emerging artists who need a platform. I'm not interested in the big names everyone already knows. I want to find the ones who deserve recognition but can't afford the connections to get it."

Something shifted in his expression. "That's... not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something more commercial. More profitable."

"It is profitable," I said defensively. "Not billion-dollar profitable, but enough to support itself and pay the artists fairly. Not everything is about maximizing returns."

"I didn't mean to offend you." He leaned back as the waiter returned with our wine. "I actually think it's admirable. Building something based on passion rather than just profit."

"Is that what you did? With Knight Industries?"

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No. I built Knight Industries to prove something to my father. To prove I was more than just his disappointment of a son. Passion had nothing to do with it."

The bitterness in his voice caught me off guard. I'd assumed Alexander Knight had everything money, success, power. I hadn't considered what he might have sacrificed to get there. Or what might have been taken from him.

"Were you?" I asked quietly. "A disappointment?"

"I wanted to study architecture. Design buildings, create spaces that meant something. My father wanted me to take over the company." He took a sip of his wine. "Guess who won that argument."

"You could still do it," I said. "Architecture, I mean. You're CEO of a tech company. You can do whatever you want."

"Can I?" He looked at me with those dark eyes, and for a moment I saw something vulnerable there. Something real. "I've spent the last eight years building this company into what it is. If I walk away now, everything I sacrificed was for nothing."

"But if you stay, you're sacrificing your entire life for something you never wanted in the first place."

The words hung between us, heavy with implications that went beyond just his career choices. We were both here, both about to marry someone we barely knew, both sacrificing pieces of ourselves for other people's expectations.

"Tell me about your mother," he said, changing the subject. "What's she like?"

I smiled despite everything. "She's amazing. Stubborn, creative, way too optimistic for someone going through chemo. She's a painter, actually. That's where I got my love of art. She used to take me to museums when I was a kid, tell me stories about the artists, make them come alive." My voice caught. "She hasn't been able to paint in months. The treatment makes her too weak."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just..." I looked at him directly. "Don't make me regret this. I'm giving up two years of my life, my freedom, everything. If it doesn't help her, if this is all for nothing..."

"It won't be for nothing," he said firmly. "The treatment facility in Switzerland is the best in the world. If anyone can help her, they can. And the merger will be finalized before the wedding. The money will be transferred immediately. Your father can make the arrangements as soon as you're ready."

Something in my chest loosened. At least that part was real. At least my sacrifice would mean something.

Our food arrived, and we fell into easier conversation. He told me about growing up in Seattle, about his mother who had loved astronomy and used to wake him up in the middle of the night to watch meteor showers. I told him about my disastrous attempt at sculpture in college and how I'd nearly burned down my dorm room trying to make ramen at 3am.

It was strange, sitting there with someone who was essentially a stranger, finding pieces of common ground. Finding out he was actually funny in a dry, sarcastic way. Finding myself laughing at his stories about terrible tech conferences and awkward investor meetings.

By the time dessert arrived, I'd almost forgotten this was an arrangement. Almost forgotten that in two weeks I'd be Mrs. Alexander Knight in name only, sleeping in a separate bedroom, counting down the days until our contract expired.

"Thank you," I said as we left the restaurant. The paparazzi were waiting outside ”of course they were”and Alexander immediately moved closer, his hand finding the small of my back. Playing the part of the devoted fiance.

"For dinner?" he asked, his voice low as cameras flashed around us.

"For not being completely terrible."

He laughed, genuine and warm, and for the cameras it probably looked perfect. The happy couple, so in love, so natural together.

If only they knew the truth.

He walked me to my car, still playing the gentleman. Before I got in, he caught my hand. "Emma? For what it's worth... I'm glad it's you. If I have to do this arranged marriage thing, I'm glad it's with someone who actually has opinions and calls me out on my bullshit."

I squeezed his hand once. "I'm not glad. But I guess you're not the worst person I could be stuck with for two years."

"High praise," he said with a slight smile.

As I drove away, watching him in my rearview mirror, I tried to ignore the small voice in my head that whispered maybe this wouldn't be as terrible as I thought. Maybe, just maybe, two years wouldn't be long enough.

But that was a dangerous thought. This was business. Just business.

I needed to remember that.