Chapter Eleven
Emily
The rain lashed against the windows of the master suite, a rhythmic, punishing sound that matched the drumbeat of Emily’s heart.
She watched the screen of Ryan’s phone—left face-up on the vanity for a split second too long—fade to black. But the name Sloane was already burned into her retinas.
"I can't do this, Ryan," Emily sobbed, the sound raw and jagged. She grabbed a heavy silk decorative pillow from the bed and hurled it with every ounce of her frustration. It hit the floor with a soft, pathetic thud. "I’m not a fool. Everyone is whispering. I see the way you look at her. I see the way your hand lingers on her shoulder when you think I’m distracted. How am I supposed to walk down that aisle in front of three hundred people knowing I’m just a placeholder? "
Ryan didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his voice. He stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the gray light, then turned and walked toward her with a terrifying, measured grace. He took her by the shoulders, his grip firm enough to make her stop shaking.
"Emily, look at me," he commanded. She tried to pull away, but he held her in place until she met his eyes. They were dark, unreadable, and dangerously sincere. "Stop this. The hysterics don't suit you. You’re acting like a child when you should be preparing to lead this house."
"Lead this house?" Emily laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You promised me a life, Ryan. You promised me respect. I burned my bridges for you!"
"And you are mine," he murmured, his voice softening as he pulled her a fraction closer. "Is she the reason you’re so upset? A junior associate? Emily, you are the mother of my son. You are the woman who will carry the Sinclair name into every room we enter. Do you think I’d risk the future of our family, for a distraction? "
"It doesn't feel like a distraction when I see her name on your phone at midnight," she whispered, her forehead dropping against his chest.
"It’s just noise," Ryan said, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline.
"A man in my position... there is a certain level of stress that requires an outlet.
But it means nothing. She is a tool, Emily.
You are my life. I promise to always respect you in the ways that matter.
Our family is my priority. Always. Now, dry your eyes. We have a wedding to finish planning."
Emily wanted to scream that respect wasn't a consolation prize for infidelity. She needed him to be the man he promised, because the alternative—returning to the life she’d escaped—was too terrifying to face.
***
The bistro was quiet, tucked away in a corner of the city where Ryan’s usual associates didn't linger.
Emily sat at a small, iron-wrought table, her spine straight, watching Sloane walk toward her.
The girl looked younger in the daylight—sharp, polished in her blazer, but with a lingering vulnerability that she tried to hide behind a designer bag.
She sat down, her hands trembling as she reached for her coffee. Emily didn't give her the chance to speak first.
"I could have you fired with a single phone call to Ryan’s partners," Emily said, her voice low and lethal. "I could make sure your name is mud in every architectural firm from here to the coast."
Sloane’s face went white. She looked down at her cup, her eyes suddenly filling with tears that looked far too genuine for Emily's liking.
"I know," Sloane whispered, her voice cracking. "I know it’s wrong. I’ve tried to stop, Emily, I swear. I love him... but he’s stronger than me.
When he looks at me that way, when he tells me I’m the only one who truly understands the pressure he’s under.
.. I don't know how to say no. I’m lost in it. "
Emily felt a sickening jolt of recognition. Sloane was using the same excuses Emily once used to justify her own betrayals.
"He tells everyone that," Emily snapped, leaning across the table.
"But here is the reality: I am the mother of his heir. I am the woman whose name is on the invitations sitting in the mailboxes of the city’s elite.
You are a dirty secret, and a temporary one at that.
If you want to keep your career, you will step away from his bed. Now."
"I don't want to lose him," Sloane sobbed softly.
"You never had him," Emily countered. "But I’m willing to be generous. I need someone who actually knows Ryan to help me navigate this wedding. Someone efficient who understands exactly what is at stake."
Emily watched her, a new, desperate idea forming.
If she kept her close, she could watch her.
She could control the narrative. "One of my bridesmaids just dropped out. I want you to take her place. You’ll be by my side, in my sight, every step of the way until I say 'I do.' It’s the only way I’ll believe this is over. Do we have an agreement?"
Sloane looked up, her eyes wide with shock and a strange, pathetic gratitude. "You... you want me in the wedding?"
"I want you where I can see you," Emily said, standing up and leaving the bistro without looking back.
***
Over the next two months, a bizarre bond formed. Emily kept Sloane close—inviting her to coffee, letting her help with the seating charts and the floral tallies. They became a team. Sloane was efficient, seemingly loyal, and constantly reassuring.
A week before the wedding, as they sat in Emily's living room surrounded by ribbon samples, Emily looked Sloane in the eye. "Tell me the truth, Sloane. Have you been with him? Since our talk at the bistro?"
Sloane didn't blink. She reached out and squeezed Emily’s hand, her expression one of pure, sisterly concern. "No, Emily. I swear on my life. I realized you were right. He belongs to you and Charles. I’ve kept it entirely professional. I value our friendship too much to go back there."
Emily exhaled, a massive weight lifting from her chest.
***
The morning of the wedding at the five-star hotel was a frantic symphony. Emily sat in the bridal suite, feeling a strange, detached calm. Ryan had been perfect for weeks—attentive, kind, and present.
"I'll be right back," Emily told the other girls. "I want to take Ryan his gift before I get into the dress."
She had bought him a platinum Patek Philippe watch, engraved with today's date. It was a seal on their new arrangement. She slipped out of the room, her silk robe billowing, and made her way to the Groom’s Suite.
The double doors were slightly ajar. She pushed them open, a smile already forming on her lips.
"Ryan, I have something for—"
The words died in her throat. The heavy gift box slipped from her hand, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud.
The suite was bathed in harsh morning light. Ryan was there, already in his tuxedo trousers and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. But he wasn't alone.
Sloane was draped across the vanity chair. Her bridesmaid dress—the one Emily had picked out, the one they had laughed over during fittings—was pushed up to her waist. Her silk stockings were hooked over Ryan’s shoulders.
Ryan was positioned between her legs, his head lowered, his mouth moving against her skin with a hungry, practiced ease.
"God, Ryan," Sloane gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, her head thrown back in a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
Ryan let out a low, dark chuckle, his voice muffled against her skin. "You always were the best part of the bridal party, Sloane. I love your taste. Much better than the vintage champagne they’re serving downstairs."
Emily stood in the doorway, a ghost in white silk, realizing that the "respect" was a lie and the "friendship" was a trap.
Every warning Sarah had ever given her echoed in the silence of the room.
She had destroyed her sister's life to get into this room, and now she realized the gilded cage didn't just have bars—it was filled with snakes.