The sharp, insistent knocking on the suite door was like a starter pistol firing directly into Zoe Carter's already frazzled nerves. They're here. Right on schedule. The thought, a cold dread mixed with a bizarre sense of inevitability, washed over her. This was it. Page thirty-two of Manhattan's Ice King, paragraph three: "The door to Suite 1808 burst open, revealing a horrified Mrs. Sterling, several stern-faced family retainers, and a gaggle of flash-happy paparazzi, all orchestrated by the deceptively angelic Isabelle Thorne."
Original Emily Miller's reaction? A bloodcurdling scream, followed by a dramatic faint that only made her look more guilty and pathetic. Zoe, currently hijacking Emily Miller's body and life, had no intention of following that particular stage direction.
Alexander Sterling, already on his feet and radiating a palpable aura of icy fury, shot a look at the door, then a glare at her that could freeze lava. "Not a word," he bit out, his voice a low growl that promised retribution for anyone who disobeyed. He clearly assumed she was part of whatever circus was about to unfold. Typical.
"Not a word?" Sweetheart, I'm the one with the entire goddamn script memorized, Zoe thought ácido, even as she nodded meekly, pulling the silk sheet higher around her shoulders in a passable imitation of terrified modesty. Though, to be fair, the terror partículas is pretty genuine right now.
The knocking escalated, a male voice, tight with false urgency, calling out, "Mr. Sterling? Alexander, are you alright? We heard… well, there were some rather disturbing reports!"
Zoe recognized that voice from the novel's description – Bartholomew Hayes, a notoriously slimy gossip columnist for the New York Chronicle, known for his ability to sniff out scandal like a bloodhound. Isabelle's preferred media lackey.
Alexander strode towards the door, his movements economical and dangerous, every inch the predator whose territory had been invaded. He didn't bother with a shirt. Of course not. Why ruin the dramatic effect of a perfectly sculpted,怒-rippled torso when confronting one's accusers? Zoe almost snorted. The man was a walking, talking CEO trope.
He wrenched the door open.
The scene that greeted them was, indeed, ripped straight from the pages of Manhattan's Ice King, albeit with a few live-action casting choices Zoe hadn't anticipated.
Isabelle Thorne stood at the forefront, a vision in pale blue Chanel, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her sapphire eyes wide with what was clearly feigned shock and concern. Her hand was pressed dramatically to her lips, a delicate gasp escaping. Oscar-worthy, truly. Standing slightly behind her, indeed, was Bartholomew Hayes, his greasy smile already in place, a photographer with a lens the size of a small cannon practically glued to his side, flashes already popping. And flanking them, looking suitably stern and judgmental, was not Mrs. Sterling as the book foretold, but a woman Zoe didn't immediately recognize from the novel's early chapters – older, impeccably dressed, with an air of severe authority. A family elder? A powerful board member? This was new. A deviation already. Zoe's internal alarm bells clanged.
"Alexander, darling!" Isabelle cried, her voice trembling with just the right amount of horrified disbelief. "What on earth is going on? I was just passing by on my way to an early charity meeting when I heard such a commotion… and Mr. Hayes here seemed so worried…" She let her gaze drift past Alexander's shoulder, landing on Emily (Zoe) huddled in the bed. Her eyes, for a split second, glinted with pure, unadulterated triumph before reverting to wide-eyed dismay. "Oh! Oh, my heavens… a woman?"
The photographer went into a frenzy, flashes erupting like a miniature lightning storm. Click. Whirr. Click. Each flash felt like a tiny nail being hammered into Original Emily Miller's coffin.
Alexander's face was a mask of glacial rage. "Isabelle," he said, his voice dangerously soft, each syllable dripping with ice. "What a… surprise. And Mr. Hayes. To what do I owe this pre-dawn intrusion?"
"Mr. Sterling," Hayes began, his voice oozing insincere concern, "we received an anonymous tip about… well, about a certain young lady being brought to your suite under rather… questionable circumstances. As responsible journalists, we felt it our duty to investigate…"
Responsible journalists? You wouldn't know responsibility if it bit you on your cheap toupee, Zoe seethed internally. This was the moment. Original Emily had screamed, "It's not what it looks like!" – a phrase guaranteed to make everyone believe it was exactly what it looked like.
Zoe knew she couldn't stay silent, but she also couldn't sound too articulate, too composed. That would be out of character for the "naive" Emily Miller. She needed to be upset, scared, but also… just a little bit different. Enough to plant a seed of doubt, or at least confusion.
Taking a shaky breath, she let her eyes fill with tears (not hard, given the circumstances). She looked from Alexander's stony profile to Isabelle's tear-streaked (and utterly fake) face, then to the stern older woman whose gaze was currently pinning her to the bed like an unfortunate insect.
"I… I don't understand," Emily (Zoe) whispered, her voice trembling convincingly. She clutched the sheet tighter. "Last night… at the gallery… Miss Thorne, you were there, weren't you?" She looked directly at Isabelle, a flicker of something – not accusation, more like bewildered recognition – in her eyes. "You… you recommended that lovely little cocktail to me… the pink one? After someone… bumped into me and I spilled mine?"
Isabelle's perfectly painted smile faltered for a nanosecond. The novel hadn't mentioned her recommending a drink. Original Emily had been too out of it to remember such details, or too intimidated to speak up.
"Why, yes, dear, I believe I was at the gallery," Isabelle recovered quickly, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "So many people there. And you, poor thing… you seemed a little… overwhelmed. Did you perhaps have a little too much to drink?" She cast a pointed look at Alexander, a silent accusation of him taking advantage of a naive, intoxicated girl.
Nice try, bitch, Zoe thought. But two can play at the insinuation game.
"Oh, no, not at all," Emily (Zoe) said, her voice still small and shaky, but with an undertone that wasn't quite… right. "I only had that one… the one you suggested. It was very strong, though. I felt… so dizzy afterwards. I don't remember much after that. Just… blurry lights. And then… waking up here." She looked around the room with wide, terrified eyes, then back at Alexander, as if seeing him properly for the first time. "Who… who are you, sir? Why am I here?"
This was a gamble. Original Emily knew who Alexander Sterling was – he was a celebrity CEO, even a small-town art student would recognize his face from magazine covers. But by feigning complete amnesia about him and the events after the drink Isabelle "suggested," Zoe was subtly shifting the narrative. She wasn't a willing participant; she was a victim of… something. And she'd just linked Isabelle to the last clear thing she "remembered."
Alexander's head turned slightly, his gaze flicking to her. It was unreadable. Was that a flicker of… interest? Or just deeper annoyance at this unexpected deviation from whatever sordid script he'd imagined?
The stern older woman finally spoke, her voice crisp and authoritative. "Alexander, what is the meaning of this? And who is this young woman?"
Before Alexander could reply, Isabelle interjected, oozing concern. "Aunt Caroline, please, don't be harsh. It's clear this poor girl is… confused. Perhaps even unwell. Alexander, you really should have been more careful."
Aunt Caroline. Zoe mentally filed that away. So, this was Caroline Sterling, Alexander's aunt, a powerful figure in Sterling family affairs according to the less-than-subtle exposition dumps in Manhattan's Ice King. A notorious traditionalist and a stickler for reputation. Isabelle bringing her along was a masterstroke of manipulative genius, designed to box Alexander in.
Alexander ignored Isabelle, his steely gaze fixed on his aunt. "Aunt Caroline, this is a private matter that appears to have been… grotesquely misrepresented by certain opportunistic individuals." His eyes flicked contemptuously towards Hayes, who flinched slightly. "Miss Miller here," he gestured vaguely towards Zoe, "was feeling unwell last night. I offered her a place to rest. It seems my kindness has been… misconstrued."
Kindness? Oh, please. You were probably hoping for a quick, anonymous lay, just like in Chapter Zero of your fictional biography, Zoe scoffed internally. But outwardly, she looked up at him with wide, grateful (and utterly fake) eyes.
"Yes… yes, that's right," she stammered, playing along. "He was… very kind. I felt so dizzy… so strange…" She looked at Isabelle again, a tiny frown wrinkling her brow. "That drink… it really didn't taste like a normal cocktail, Miss Thorne."
Isabelle's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. This wasn't going according to her plan. Emily Miller was supposed to be a weeping, incoherent mess, not a slightly dazed but oddly lucid victim pointing vague, insubstantial fingers.
Bartholomew Hayes, sensing his juicy scandal slipping away into a boring tale of a Good Samaritan CEO, tried to interject, "But Mr. Sterling, the anonymous tip clearly stated—"
"Anonymous tips, Mr. Hayes," Alexander cut him off, his voice like the Arctic wind, "are often the refuge of cowards and liars. Now, if you and your… associate," a pointed look at the photographer, "don't remove yourselves from my private suite immediately, I will have my legal team make sure the New York Chronicle spends the next decade printing retractions and apologies. Am I clear?"
The threat, delivered with absolute conviction, hung heavy in the air. Hayes, for all his bluster, knew when he was outgunned. He swallowed, his greasy smile vanishing. "Of course, Mr. Sterling. Just… doing our job. No offense intended." He practically dragged the photographer out of the room.
Isabelle, however, wasn't so easily deterred. "Alexander, darling, I'm still very concerned about this… situation. And about you. And this… Miss Miller."
"Your concern is duly noted, Isabelle," Alexander said, his tone making it clear it was anything but. He turned to his aunt. "Aunt Caroline, I will handle this. I assure you, everything is under control."
Caroline Sterling looked from Alexander to Emily, then back to Isabelle, her expression thoughtful and unreadable. "Very well, Alexander. I expect a full explanation later. And as for you, young lady," she addressed Emily, her voice a shade softer but still firm, "I suggest you get dressed. We will have a car waiting to take you… wherever it is you need to go."
It was a dismissal, albeit a relatively polite one. Zoe knew that in the original script, this was where Emily Miller's real public nightmare began, as she was hounded by paparazzi on her "walk of shame."
As Aunt Caroline and a reluctant, fuming Isabelle finally departed, with Alexander's loyal assistant Marcus Wayne (who had appeared silently at some point to manage the Vultures) escorting them out, the heavy suite door clicked shut, leaving an echoing silence.
The immediate explosion had been… contained. Defused, even. Thanks to her subtle deviations, it hadn't been the utter catastrophe the book described for Original Emily. But Zoe knew this was just Round One. The photos had still been taken. Isabelle was still out there. And she was still trapped in a luxury suite with a billionaire CEO who probably thought she was either a very clever actress or a complete imbecile.
Alexander Sterling slowly turned from the door, his gaze now fully fixed on her. The earlier annoyance was still there, but it was now overlaid with a layer of something new, something sharp and assessing. It was the look of a man re-evaluating a previously dismissed variable in a complex equation.
"Miss Miller," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sent an involuntary shiver down Zoe's spine despite her modern-soul bravado. "It seems you and I have a great deal more to discuss than just a payoff amount." He took a step closer. "And I believe the first order of business is to decide exactly what our 'story' is going to be."
Zoe Carter, a.k.a. Emily Miller, cannon fodder turned reluctant actress, met his gaze. Her heart was still pounding, but a strange, almost exhilarating sense of challenge was beginning to bubble up through the fear. The script had changed. And she, it seemed, was about to be offered a starring role in a drama far more complex than even Manhattan's Ice King had ever envisioned.