Winning Back Mrs. York

Emma

I stared at my phone for a full minute, my thumb hovering over the send button like it might explode. My hands were shaking. Goddamn it, Emma, just do it.

[Tara, I need your help with something urgent!]

The three dots appeared immediately. Tara never kept anyone waiting—one of the many reasons she was my best friend.

[What's up? Everything ok with you and Mr. Iceberg?]

I grimaced at her nickname for Noah, my stomach twisting into knots. If only she knew how accurate it was—the cold exterior visible to everyone, and the massive, dangerous depths hidden below that could sink you without warning.

My fingers trembled as I typed the next message.

[I need to find a girl. Like, ASAP.]

The dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. I could practically hear her brain short-circuiting three miles away.

[Excuse me, what? Aren't you Noah's wife? Now you're finding him a woman? Have you LOST YOUR MIND?]

I closed my eyes, leaning against the brick wall outside Tara's studio in Chelsea. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. How the hell could I explain this insanity? The truth was, I needed to find Noah's supposed one-night stand before he did—because that woman was me.

[It's complicated. Can we meet? I'll explain everything.]

My hands were still shaking when I shoved the phone back in my pocket. "Shit," I muttered under my breath, pressing my palms against my eyes. "What the hell are you doing, Emma?"

Three days later, I was taking my third subway transfer, my nerves wound so tight I thought I might snap. Every person who glanced my way sent a jolt of paranoia through me. This wasn't just anxiety—this was self-preservation.

In the three years I'd been married to Noah York, I'd learned that walls had ears.

I finally arrived at the small bar in Chelsea where Tara had arranged our meeting. The neon sign reading "Velvet" glowed softly against the twilight sky. I adjusted my plain black baseball cap for the hundredth time, pulled it lower over my eyes, and pushed through the door. My pulse was racing.

Tara waved from a corner table, her wild auburn curls impossible to miss even in the dim lighting.

"You look like you're on the run from the feds," she said, eyeing my nondescript outfit with raised eyebrows.

"I might as well be." I sank into the chair opposite her, my legs suddenly weak with relief at seeing a friendly face. "Thanks for setting this up."

"Vanessa and I went to Parsons together. She owns this place now, and she's totally discreet. Whatever cloak-and-dagger shit you're pulling won't leave these walls." Tara took a sip of her Manhattan, her eyes searching my face. "Now explain to me why you're suddenly in the market for a girl for your husband? Because I swear to God, Emma—"

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles went white. "I need to find someone who can pretend she had a one-night stand with Noah."

"I'm sorry, what?"

My voice came out tight, barely controlled. "Noah thinks he slept with someone during that charity gala last month when he was blackout drunk. And now he's trying to find this mystery woman." I twisted my wedding band nervously, the familiar metal suddenly feeling like it was burning my skin. "I need to find her first. "

Tara stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Your marriage is so twisted I don't even know where to start."

"Tell me about it," I muttered, taking a gulp of the water glass in front of me. My throat was dry as hell.

Before she could continue, a tall woman with a sleek bob approached our table. "Tara, your 'applicants' are here. I've put them in the VIP section as requested."

"Thanks, Vanessa." Tara stood up. "Emma, this is Vanessa, the owner. Vanessa, my best friend Emma."

Vanessa's eyes widened slightly. "Emma Wells? From York Ventures?"

Oh shit. My entire body tensed, every muscle coiling like a spring ready to snap.

But Tara jumped in smoothly. "Who is here strictly as my anonymous friend looking for an art assistant. Right, Vanessa?"

Vanessa nodded quickly, catching on. "Of course. The VIP section is this way, ladies."

I exhaled slowly, my heart still hammering against my ribs as we followed her through a door marked "Private" and into a small lounge where four young women sat waiting. Each looked expectantly at us as we entered.

"I told them they're interviewing for an assistant position at my gallery," Tara whispered. "Just go with it."

I scanned the room, my eyes moving methodically from face to face. Two were clearly wrong—one had flamingo-pink hair that screamed for attention, another looked barely old enough to be in a bar. The third was perfectly polished in a way that reminded me too much of Lucy Manning, which was an immediate hell no.

Then I noticed the fourth woman, sitting quietly in the corner. She had long brown hair, hazel eyes, and a gentle face that conveyed both intelligence and vulnerability. Most importantly, her body type was similar to mine—petite but with curves. She was pretty in an unassuming way that wouldn't necessarily catch everyone's eye, but would definitely catch Noah's.

Damn it. She was exactly his type. He had a thing for quiet intelligence, for women who looked like they had secrets hiding behind their eyes.

"That one," I whispered to Tara, nodding subtly toward the corner. My stomach churned.

Tara raised an eyebrow but called out, "Jenny? Would you come over for your interview first?"

The young woman approached us, her hands fidgeting slightly with the strap of her purse. "Hi, I'm Jennifer White—but everyone calls me Jenny." She offered her hand with practiced politeness.

"Emma," I said. "Please, sit down."

Vanessa leaned in before walking away. "Jenny's one of my part-timers. NYU student from Minnesota, working her way through school. Good kid."

As Jenny sat across from us, I studied her more closely, my fingers drumming anxiously against my thigh under the table. There was something almost Lucy-adjacent about her—not the polished glamour, but something in the bone structure, the wide-set eyes.

Our marriage might be a business arrangement, but fidelity was part of the contract. I'd made damn sure of that.

"Jenny, this isn't actually about an art assistant position," I said directly. Just rip the band-aid off, Emma.

Her eyes widened. "Oh?"

"I need someone to pretend they had a... brief encounter with someone." I chose my words carefully, each one feeling like glass in my mouth. "Just pretend. No actual encounter would happen."

Jenny's posture stiffened immediately. "I don't—I'm not—"

"It would just be a conversation. Maybe a coffee meeting. Nothing inappropriate." I slid my business card across the table with fingers that wouldn't quite stay steady. "And it would be very well compensated."

Jenny stared at the card, and I watched recognition dawn on her face like a sunrise. "You're Emma York. From York Ventures."

I nodded, my jaw tight.

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I'm sorry, I should go. I don't think I'm the right person for... whatever this is."

As she turned to leave, desperation clawed at my throat. I called after her, "How much?"