Real world or torture?

A woman with clear blue eyes and a perfectly coffee blonde hair stood at the doorway. Her designer dress gummed to her slender figure, and an air of superiority radiated from her like heat. Each perfectly manicured nail seemed to be like a weapon, poised to notice any imperfection.

"You must be Emily," she said, her voice cold and condescending. "I'm Isabella, Alexander's… associate."

Associate? The word felt loaded, and a feeling of uneasiness ran down Emily’s spine. Was she his business partner, his confidante, or something more?

"It's nice to meet you," Emily managed to say out loud, forcing a smile that felt odd against Isabella's cold demeanor.

Isabella's smile was lacking warmth. "Likewise, I'm sure. Alexander will be joining us shortly for dinner. He has a… particular dislike for lateness."

The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. She nodded curtly, feeling like a small-town mouse dropped into a den of lions.

Hours later, dressed in a borrowed dress that felt more like a costume than clothing, Emily sat opposite Alexander at a mahogany table filled with a large feast. The air gave out a light tension that had nothing to do with the rich setting.

"This is all… very nice,"Emily I stammered, unsure of what to say or how to act. The largeness of the room, the shining silverware, it all felt like a mockery of her simple life.

Alexander gave a curt nod. "Indeed. Maria, the housekeeper, will show you the ropes tomorrow. We expect our guests to… contribute to the smooth running of the household."

Emily felt her stomach tightened. Guests? Did he expect her to entertain his social circle, to play the part of the perfect trophy wife? The image of herself, forced into a conversation with socialites who wouldn't understand her life, made Emily scared.

The night passed in a blur of forced conversations and stolen glances. Isabella, ever vigilant, seemed to enjoy Emily’s discomfort. Her pointed questions about Emily’s background and lifestyle were intentional, aimed at exposing her outsider status. Each question felt like a pinprick, reminding Emily of the big large world between her world and this one.

By the time dinner was over, Emily was tired, emotionally and physically. Returning back to her room, Emily felt like a character in a play, a role she never auditioned for and desperately wanted to escape.

Sleep offered no help. When she woke up the following morning, a dull ache was in her head. A knock on the door scared Emily.

It was Maria, the housekeeper, a kind woman with a warm smile and gentle eyes. "Good morning, Mrs. Steele," she greeted Emily. "Mr. Steele requested you join him for breakfast."

Downstairs, she found Alexander in the breakfast room, already engrossed in the financial section of the newspaper. He barely looked at her when she entered.

The tension from the previous night was heavy in the air. Breakfast passed in a tense silence, stopping only by the clinking of silverware. The elaborate china and crystal felt cold, a big opposite to the warmth of Emily’s chipped mugs and mismatched cutlery back in her apartment.

Just as Emily was about to excuse herself, a commotion downstairs broke the fragile peace. Angry shouts and a woman's panicked scream pierced the silence.

Emily’s heart started hammering in her chest. "What's going on?" She gasped.

Alexander slammed down his newspaper, his face a mask of fury. "Just a minor inconvenience," he said angrily, already walking out of the room.

Hesitantly, Emily followed. The commotion led her to the grand foyer, where the scene that unfolded before Emily sent a jolt of terror through her.

Isabella stood at the top of the grand staircase, her face a mixture of rage and fear. Below her, a young woman, dressed in a simple blue uniform, stood frozen, tears coming down her face. It was Clara, a maid Emily had briefly met the day before.

"You clumsy idiot!" Isabella screamed, her voice filled with venom. "You spilled wine all over the priceless antique rug!"

Clara whimpered, shaking her head in denial. "I… I didn't mean to, Miss Isabella. I slipped…"

Ignoring Clara's pleas, Isabella leapt forward, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the younger woman's arm. A harsh red mark showed on Clara's pale skin.

"Get out!" she shouted. "You're fired!"

Clara flinched, a sob escaping her lips. Her eyes went around the room, searching for escape, but there was none.

The air filled with a tension that could be cut with a knife. Alexander's entrance silenced the room. The fury in his eyes was a storm Emily hadn't witnessed before.

"That's enough, Isabella!" he shouted,his voice echoing through the vast foyer. The force of his command sent shivers down Emily’s spine.

Isabella jumped back, her eyes wide with surprise. It was the first time Emily had seen her composure falter. In the blink of an eye, Alexander was at the bottom of the stairs, taking Clara into his arms with surprising gentleness.

"Are you alright?" he asked the trembling woman, his voice a stark contrast to his earlier anger. Clara stammered, tears still streaming down her face. He turned towards the stairs, his gaze fixed on Isabella.

"You will apologize to Clara," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "And you will clean the rug yourself."

Isabella's face flushed red with anger, but she dared not defy him. She mumbled a half-hearted apology to Clara, who scurried away, clutching her arm. As Alexander helped Clara to her feet, his eyes met Emily’s. For a brief moment, a flicker of something similar to…gratitude? No, it couldn't be. This was Alexander Steele, the ruthless billionaire.

The moment passed as quickly as it came. He turned back to Isabella, his expression hardening once more. "Consider this a warning, Isabella. There will be no more outbursts like this in my house."

Isabella's lips were a thin, white line, but she simply nodded, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and something else Emily couldn't decipher.

The tension in the room was suffocating. Emily felt like an outsider, a witness to a power struggle she barely understood. Turning on his heel, Alexander stormed out of the foyer, leaving Emily alone with Isabella.

The silence continued, thick and heavy. Isabella's eyes met Emily’s and a cold smile played on her lips.

"So, the new Mrs. Steele," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Playing the damsel in distress, were we?"

"I was simply trying to help," Emily stammered, feeling defensive.

Her smile turned predatory. "Help? Or undermine me? You seem to have forgotten your place here, Emily. You're nothing but a gold digger, a wife bought and paid for."

Her words stung, echoing the doubts that had stared at Emily since she agreed to this arrangement. But before Emily could respond, she grabbed Emily’s arm with surprising strength.

"And let me make one thing perfectly clear," she hissed, her voice low and scary. "Alexander Steele might be yours in name, but he'll never be yours in heart. This house is mine, and I won't tolerate any challenges to my authority."

Panic went through Emily. Without warning, she pushed Emily backwards, and she fell down heading towards the grand staircase. A gasp escaped Emily’s lips as she stumbled, her feet failing her in the process. The polished marble felt slick beneath Emily’s shoes.

"Looks like you've made your first contribution to the household," Isabella said, a cruel glint in her eyes.

The world tilted at a funny angle. The opulent foyer turned into a kaleidoscope of colors as Emily fell. A scream came out from her throat, a sound cut short by the bone-jarring impact of the marble floor below.

Pain exploded through Emily’s body, a white-hot searing sensation that stole her breath. Shocked and disoriented, Emily lay down on the cold floor, the air knocked out of her lungs.

A throbbing pain descended on her ankle, and a sickening feeling of nausea rose up in her stomach. Through the haze of pain, she saw Isabella leaning over the railing, her face a mask of triumph.

"Seems your luck has run out, Mrs. Steele," she said, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Welcome to the real world."