Chapter 2 - Emerald

I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to suffocate, and now I know.

It feels a lot like waking up in this house.

Morbid? Maybe. But there’s something sort of beautiful about the idea of taking your last breath and slipping away from this world.

It’s got to be better than this.

Through my window, the Delacroix chapel's dark spire stands tall even through the trees and snow. Most mansions in Emerald Hills come with the typical extras—pool houses, tennis courts, guest cottages. But our estate has something different: a Gothic chapel that's stood here longer than the main house. I think it’s from the 1800s or something, but I don’t really know. My mother refuses to talk about it.

I’ve always been drawn to it, though. I don’t know what it is, but looking at it makes me feel… hopeful, I guess. Through my window, I love staring at its stained-glass windows, trying to pick out the different colors. They’re dull in the gray, at least until the sun hits them just right.

But this morning there’s no sun. Just an endless blanket of heavy gray.

The chapel’s been locked my entire life, and my mother won't go anywhere near it. She’s probably afraid she'll burst into flames if she steps foot on holy ground. I snort, letting myself picture it. I'm pretty sure Satan himself sends her a holiday card since, you know, they’re besties.

Outside, the snow covers everything. More must have fallen while I was sleeping. It’s thick and fluffy without so much as a footprint, like someone’s thrown a down comforter over the whole world. It’s hushed, almost peaceful. But this place isn’t peaceful at all. The house is no doubt buzzing with staff, getting everything ready for another day of perfection, and all I can think about is how badly I just want to disappear.

My bones are heavy. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet and already I want to crawl back into it, yank the blanket over my head, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. I don’t know how I’m going to drag myself through another day of my life.

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 7:30 a.m. My mother’s bitchy robotic assistant, Kendra, will be knocking on my door any minute now with my outfit for the day. Something boring and expensive and handpicked by my mother. There will be no room for personality. No room for self expression.

No room for me.

Yay. Another day of my life wasted, spent being Madeline Delacroix’s daughter. I’m her favorite accessory. I might as well be a tiny dog in a handbag on my mother’s arm.

I stare at the ceiling with its hand-carved crown molding while I try to breathe out my claustrophobia. It’s not a small space I'm trapped by, though. It’s my whole life.

At that panic-inducing thought, my breathing gets shallow and fast, like I’m trying to breathe through a straw. I swear my ribs are squeezing my lungs, and every inhale’s a battle I’m not sure I want to keep fighting. Knowing what’s coming today, all the mindless tasks my mother’s going to heap on me and the way I’ll be expected to wear a mask at all times wraps ghost fingers around my throat and starts to choke the life out of me.

There’s this sense of inevitability that hits me every morning, but today for some reason it’s worse. Maybe it’s the few minutes of attention I got last night from my stepfather that made me feel like an actual human being. Cohen’s attention last night was like... like when you’re freezing cold and someone wraps you in a blanket straight from the dryer. That’s what his words felt like—warm and safe and comfortable.

Maybe it’s the added pressure of the holidays.

I don’t really know. But it doesn’t matter how I’m feeling, I’m still expected to play my part. I can already hear the faint sounds of the house waking up, my mother’s staff scurrying around, doing her bidding.

What Cohen said is still bouncing around in my head. The words are impossible to ignore, especially because they’re exactly what I’ve always wanted to hear.

You won’t be trapped anymore. One day, you’ll be free.

Unfortunately, he’s the wrong person to say them.

I bite my lip as I try to ignore the memory of his voice—the way it wrapped around me like the best hug in the strongest arms. The way it gave me all sorts of warm tingles like nothing ever has.

Cohen Astor is dangerous in a way that makes my stomach twist into knots whenever he’s around. There’s something about him that feels so… right. But it should feel wrong. So, so wrong.

Is this what a crush feels like?

I mean, he’s my mother’s husband. My stepfather. He should be this safe, boring authority figure who ignores me, not someone who makes me feel like the ground isn’t steady under my feet. Not someone who makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

He’s thirty-two and so much older than me, and he radiates this darkness that should send me running in the opposite direction. But God, the way he looks at me... I think he’s the only one who sees the girl underneath all the blank expressions, bland smiles, and layers of makeup. Like he knows the real me—the one I had to bury so deep sometimes I forget she exists.

The one my mother spent years trying to suffocate with designer clothes, proper manners, and PR-approved talking points

Stop obsessing over your stepfather, Emerald.

This little obsession I’m developing is at least twenty-five different kinds of messed up.

I’ve only got maybe minutes before I have to pack up my new fixation on Cohen and my pity party to pull on my Madeline Delacroix-approved Emerald costume.

I force myself to sit up, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed just as the knock I’ve been dreading sounds at the door.

Kendra, punctual as always. Must be in her programming. I laugh to myself, picturing ripping out her battery pack and watching the light die in her eyes.

“Miss Delacroix, your mother has requested that you join her for breakfast in thirty minutes,” she calls through the door, her voice sharp and monotone as she repeats the same words she does every morning. Seven. Days. A. Week. “You’ll find your outfit in the closet.”

I don’t bother answering. Why waste the energy? Instead, I drag myself to the closet, my feet sinking into the carpet that’s one of the few soft things in this house. Sure enough, today’s costume is hanging there waiting for me. See? Robot-Kendra sneaking into my room while I sleep to hang up clothes like I’m a child isn’t creepy at all.

If I could, I’d change the lock on my door in a second to keep her out. But I can’t drive and don’t have any of my own money, so there’s not a lot I can do. I did once try to block the door with my dresser and for that little stunt, Mother didn’t let me eat for three days.

So this is my reality, staring at another outfit picked out by someone else, living in a room I can’t even keep people out of. Awesome.

Today’s prison uniform is a boring cream-colored cashmere sweater dress that’s going to wash out my fair skin. It’s cinched with this dainty gold belt that I’d never be able to wear if my mother wasn’t a complete Nazi about my carb intake and workout regimen. Add knee-high suede boots and boom—instant Stepford daughter. It’s elegant, sophisticated, and makes me want to projectile vomit.

I stare at it, fingers twitching with the urge to rip it off the hanger and maybe set it on fire. But it’s not Robot-Kendra’s fault she’s caught in my mother’s web of crazy.

Actually, you know what? Screw that. It is Kendra’s fault. Unlike me, she chooses to be here. She chooses to work for my mother, to carry out her insane orders, to sneak into my room like some creepy fashion ninja while I sleep. She could get another job literally anywhere else, but no—she likes being Mother’s head minion.

With a sigh that comes from my soul, I yank the dress on. The fabric feels like heaven against my skin, and it fits like it was painted on because God forbid anything in this house be less than perfect. I look amazing, obviously. I always do. That’s kind of the whole problem—I’m just a mannequin for my mother to dress up in whatever makes her look best.

I can’t even throw my hair in a messy bun in my own room because someone might see. “What if there was a fire, Emerald? The horror. I roll my eyes so hard I probably strain something, then hurry to finish getting ready before the Robot Assistant returns to beep at me until I comply.

By the time I make it downstairs, the house is already operating at peak efficiency. The staff moves through the kitchen like they’re programmed with the same software as Kendra, setting out croissants that look like they just fell out of an Insta travel influencer’s story about their trip to Paris and fruit cut into precise quarter-inch slices.

How do they even do that? Is there some class on how to arrange breakfast so it looks too pretty to eat?

I step into the dining room and there she is—the Queen of Everything herself, Madeline Delacroix, perched at the head of the table like she’s about to start ordering beheadings. Her perfectly blonde hair (five hundred dollars every three weeks to maintain that exact shade, the complete opposite of my almost black) is pulled back in a chignon so tight it’s probably cutting off blood flow to her brain. Maybe that explains... everything about her. She’s scanning the room with those icy blue eyes, probably cataloging every microscopic flaw to torture the staff about later.

She’s wearing a tailored white blouse and a skirt that shows off how many hours she spends on her Peloton. The perfect ruler of her perfect plastic kingdom. I do a quick scan of the room, and my shoulders relax when I don’t see Cohen. Then immediately tense again because why do I care if he’s here?

Why does my stomach feel hollow knowing he’s not?

Snap out of it, Emerald.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mother chirps with all the warmth of a shark circling its prey. She gestures to my chair like she’s granting me permission to exist in the same space she does. “You’re just in time.”

Of course I am. When you grow up with a mother who thinks being five minutes early is ten minutes late, you learn to be punctual or else .

Her eyes do their usual inspection, like she’s checking merchandise for defects. I hold my breath while she catalogs every potential flaw. “You look lovely,” she finally pronounces, her tone making it clear that being anything less than lovely would be unacceptable. “I trust you slept well?”

I force my face into the bland smile I’ve perfected over years of practice, even though sleep was basically impossible last night. Cohen’s words kept bouncing around in my head like a pinball machine, making my brain buzz and my stomach do these weird flips that are probably a sign of impending death. Or worse—feelings.

We are definitely not discussing what his cologne did to me. Or how his breath on my neck made parts of me tingle that I didn’t even know could tingle.

I mean, seriously. What is that about?

And why does he have to be so handsome?

“Yes, Mother. Thank you.”

She nods, satisfied with her inspection, and turns to her tablet. “We have a busy day ahead. I’ve arranged for a photo shoot this afternoon to promote the holiday collection for the website,” she announces, not looking up. “The photo shoot is at two. Marketing team call at noon. You’ll be present for both.”

I nod because what else can I do? Every minute of my life is scheduled, planned, and A/B tested for maximum brand exposure. I’m not a daughter—I’m a walking, breathing advertisement.

The worst part is she doesn’t even want my input. I’m just supposed to sit there, look pretty, and nod at appropriate intervals while she maps out my entire future. Her master plan is probably saved in a spreadsheet somewhere titled “How to Turn Your Daughter Into a Carbon Copy of Yourself in 500 Easy Steps.”

I’m pretty sure step one is crush all signs of personality .

Spoiler alert: I’d rather throw myself off the roof than turn into her. I mean, I don’t know exactly what I want out of life, but I know it’s not... this.

Maybe I want to be messy sometimes. Maybe I want to be real.

Not that I’d know what either of those things feels like.

Mother’s imperial ice-queen stare locks onto me again. “And Emerald?” Her voice drops into that tone that means she’s about to issue a proclamation and I better obey. “The Christmas party is approaching. We’re hosting some very important guests this year.” Her lips thin. “Everything must be flawless.”

Flawless. Perfect. Impeccable.

The holy trinity of my mother’s religion. Everything has to be perfect, no matter the cost.

And trust me—I’m not talking about money.

The price is always paid in pieces of your soul.

“I won’t forget,” I mutter, already dreading another night of playing Living Barbie at my mother’s social circus.

“Good.” She sips her tea. “And Emerald...” Her eyes narrow. “Let’s avoid any unpleasantness this year. No boys. No distractions.”

I blink. Wait, what? She says this like I’m some wild child sneaking out to party every weekend. “Boys?”

Her lips twist into something that might be a smile if you’ve never actually seen one before. “Yes, sweetheart. I don’t need you getting any silly ideas in that head of yours. This party is far too important for teenage dramatics.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Since when have I ever caused drama? Between being homeschooled by the most boring tutors on earth and having every minute of my life scheduled down to when I’m allowed to breathe, I’ve barely even seen a boy my age, let alone talked to one.

And friends? That’s literally a foreign concept in the Delacroix household.

Not that I don’t want those things. God, I want them so badly it hurts. But asking for anything resembling a normal life isn’t just guaranteed to piss her off—it’s completely useless. Mother would never let anyone else into the bubble she’s built around me.

Still... maybe...

“Actually,” I start, hating how small my voice sounds, “I was thinking maybe I could bring someone? Not even a date necessarily. Just... a friend? Someone my age?” Her eyes slice into me and I scramble to add, “Just to talk to? I’ve never—” I swallow hard, despising how pathetic I sound, but I’m so lonely I could scream. “I’ve never been allowed to have friends, and I thought maybe this year...”

She studies me like I’m a holiday tablescape that doesn’t match her aesthetic. Then she sighs. “You know how important appearances are, Emerald. This party isn’t the time for... experiments.” Her eyes get that calculating look that almost never ends well for me. “However, if you behave properly, perhaps after the holidays we can discuss finding you an appropriate companion. Someone who meets our standards.”

Translation: Someone as boring and soulless as she wants me to be.

My stomach drops as the reality of her words settles over me. Of course, even my friendships need her seal of approval, like everything else in my life has to pass her inspection first. I don’t know why I thought turning nineteen would change anything. I’m still completely dependent on her—no money, no life skills, not even allowed to learn how to drive. I’m an idiot for even bringing it up. Now she has something else to hold over my head, another weakness to add to her spreadsheet of my faults.

I force my face into that blank, pleasant expression I’ve perfected over the years. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good girl,” she says, her smile as artificial as everything else about her. Like an AI chatbot trying to mimic human emotion.

She turns back to her tablet and waves me away like an annoying bug that dared to interrupt her morning. “You’re dismissed. Don’t be late for the shoot.”

I push myself up from the table, my legs feeling like jelly like they always do after I dare to ask my mother for anything. The anger and helplessness and disappointment churn together in my stomach, mixing together into something bitter and sharp. Though maybe that’s just hunger—not that I’d dare touch one of those perfect, Instagram-worthy croissants.

The loneliness hits harder as I walk down the hallway, my footsteps dull against the polished Carrara marble. I’ve never been allowed to just... be. Every interaction, every potential connection has been checked and approved by my mother to serve some greater purpose in her master plan for the Delacroix dynasty.

No distractions.

I bite my lip, her words playing on repeat in my head, and because apparently I enjoy torturing myself, my thoughts drift to Cohen. He’s definitely a distraction—the kind that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing I should step back but wanting to jump anyway. The kind that turns my whole world upside down and shakes it until nothing makes sense anymore.

The kind that makes me feel alive for the first time in my life, even though those sparks of life will only make things worse.

I escape the house as fast as my Stuart Weitzman boots will carry me before one of my mother’s fashion goblins can drag me into another two-hour meeting about the difference between eggshell and ivory. She’s sent me to grab stuff for the Christmas party, and for once I’m actually grateful for one of her endless errands. At least it gets me out of the Museum of Misery.

The home décor boutique sits right in the middle of Emerald Hills, crammed between all the other fancy shops where the town’s elite drop thousands on things no one actually needs. Things my mother decides are trends and tells them to buy.

The second I walk in, I’m assaulted by enough expensive candles and leather to give me an instant headache. Before I can even suck in a breath through my mouth, I’m surrounded by sales associates with fake smiles plastered on their faces like they’ve won the lottery just by my stepping inside the door.

“Miss Delacroix! Welcome!” One of them bounces on her toes, her blonde ponytail swinging. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Of course they have. Robot-Kendra probably called ahead with my exact arrival time.

I pull my face into the same bland, pleasant expression I used at breakfast with my mother as she drags me over to the holiday display. “Your mother selected these for the party,” she gushes, waving at some gold and silver ornaments that look like they were handcrafted by artisans flown in from Venice or wherever my mother sources her ridiculously elaborate decorations these days. “Aren’t they just divine?”

I nod along while she rambles about holiday trends and how my mother is basically the God (goddess?) of Christmas decorating or whatever. Like I care about any of this. But I know my role. Smile. Nod. Act interested. Be the well-trained Delacroix daughter so everyone can gush about what an excellent job my mother did training her little show pony.

Just as I think I might be able to make my escape, when she’s rushed off to answer the phone, a voice behind me gives me the full-on creeps. Like spiders skittering over my skin.

“Emerald Delacroix,” the voice drawls, oozing all kinds of charm—the gross fake kind. “As stunning as ever.”

I turn slowly, my stomach doing that awful dropping-elevator feeling when I see Emmitt Caldwell, one of my mother’s sleaziest business associates. He’s tall, with the kind of artfully dyed hair that screams “midlife crisis,” and he has that permanent smug expression that makes my palm itch to introduce itself to his face.

He’s what Living Delacroix would call “distinguished”—all custom Italian suits and a sharp jawline—but something about him has always set off warning bells in my head. I’ve suffered through countless parties where I’ve caught him staring at me just a little too long to believe he has good intentions.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his eyes doing that gross crawling thing over me that makes me wish I was wearing a hazmat suit instead of this stupid sweater dress. “But I suppose you’re here for the same reason I am—preparations for your mother’s big event. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the Delacroix party.”

I manage what I hope passes for a smile, but probably looks more like a grimace. “Yes, I’m just picking up a few things.”

Emmitt takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to grab one of those pretentious crystal snow globes and use it as a weapon. His voice drops into what I’m sure he thinks is an intimate whisper, but just sounds slimy enough to make me want to take a shower. “Your mother has quite the plan this year. She always knows how to impress, doesn’t she?”

I nod mechanically while my heart slams against my ribs hard enough that I’m surprised he can’t hear it. I take a small step back, wishing I could teleport myself literally anywhere else. “Yes, she does.”

His straight, white smile widens. “You’re lucky to have her, you know. Not everyone gets to be part of such a desirable family.”

I’m trying to come up with a response that won’t end with my mother sending me away for an “attitude adjustment”, which is her favorite threat lately, when I feel it. It’s like gravity suddenly shifted directions, pulling me toward him instead of down to the Earth. My body knows he’s there before I do, every inch of me suddenly straining backward, wanting to be closer to the one person I should stay far away from.

Relief floods through me so fast, I let that pull win for just a second, swaying back toward him like my body’s finally found its center of gravity.

Cohen.

Emmitt’s smile cracks at the edges as he glances past me, his eyes narrowing. “Cohen. I didn’t realize you were around as well.”

My stepfather’s hand settles on the small of my back and everything inside me goes quiet. His fingers press into my skin through the dress, and it hits me—this is the first time anyone’s touched me without an agenda of fitting or styling or fixing me. Just touch for the sake of touch.

I know it should feel weird. Wrong. But instead it feels like... coming up for air.

“Emmitt,” Cohen says, and his voice has that scary-calm quality that makes the hair on my neck stand up. “I didn’t think you’d be lurking around here. This isn’t exactly your usual hunting grounds.”

Emmitt’s eyes drop to where Cohen’s hand rests on me, his smile going brittle before he plasters on another fake one. “I was just helping Madeline with a few party preparations at a shop down the block,” he says, trying to catch my eye like we’re sharing some secret. As if I’d ever want to share anything with him. “You know how important these little details are to her.” He waves his hand around with a smile that reminds me of my mother’s socialite friends cooing over babies they don’t actually want to hold. “When I saw Emerald in the window, I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”

Cohen’s fingers press harder into my back, and when I glance up, his smile is arctic. “It’s easy to wander into dangerous territory without realizing it. I suggest you watch your step around Emerald.”

Emmitt lets out this empty laugh that sounds about as genuine as my mother’s concern for my wellbeing. Something dark flashes in his eyes that makes me wish I understood the game these two are playing. It’s like they’re having a whole other conversation underneath their words, and I don’t speak the same language. “Always watching, right?”

My stepfather’s smile doesn’t waver as he meets Emmitt’s stare. “Always.”

The tension is thick, like I could almost reach out and touch it. Cohen’s fingers shift and curl around my hip as he tugs me closer into his body and further away from Emmitt. He smells like something fresh, like the forest after rain, with a little bit of warmth that makes me want to lean closer and breathe him in. Emmitt shifts uncomfortably under Cohen’s glare, and after a beat, he clears his throat.

“Well, I should be going. Busy day ahead.” He flashes me a tight, strained smile. “Always a pleasure, Emerald.”

I nod, trying not to shudder with revulsion, and watch as he finally turns and leaves. The second he’s gone, the room feels like it gets a little bigger, a little easier to breathe in, but Cohen hasn’t let go of me even though we’re essentially alone.

The quiet between us crackles like a storm about to break. I can still feel his fingers curled around my hip, and even though I know I should step away, I don’t. I shiver and sink a little further into his touch, trying to memorize the feel of it.

How long has it been since anyone’s touched me?

I can’t remember my last hug.

How depressing is that?

“You alright?” Cohen’s voice is softer than I’m used to, and when I look up at him, his gray eyes are stormy and locked on mine.

I swallow hard against the intensity of that look, nodding. “Yeah. I just… I hate that guy.”

His gaze darkens, his expression hardening in a way that sends a chill through me. “You let me handle him from now on, alright?”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me think he isn’t just talking about today. It makes me wonder what my stepfather’s willing to do to keep me safe, and a part of me—the part that hates how helpless I feel all the time— likes the thought of that a lot.

“Okay.” I let out a shaky breath and glance toward the door. “I should go. My mother’s waiting.”

It’s the last thing I want to do, to move away from him. The whole left side of my body is warm and tingly in a way I’ve never felt before, radiating out from where his hand is still gripping my hip. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to let go either.

I… don’t know what to do with that.

Cohen’s eyes stay on me for a beat longer, and then his hand slowly drops away from my body. I shiver at the sudden intrusion of cold. “Of course.”

I turn, my legs like Jell-O, and give my best attempt at a polite smile as I pick up the shopping bag and wave goodbye to the salesgirl, because that’s what’s expected of me. But even as I step outside onto the freezing sidewalk, I can still feel Cohen’s gaze on me, intense and burning.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing he’s watching, that right now he’s the only person on this Earth that has my back.

For now, it’s enough to know I’m not alone, even if the person standing between me and the rest of the world is the one person I shouldn’t want to get closer to.

Unfortunately for me…

I do.