Chapter 5 - Emerald

I wake up feeling like my brain’s made of cotton candy.

My head is fuzzy, sure, but more concerning, there's this deep ache between my legs that I've never felt before. Like I've been split in two and hastily glued back together, but the glue hasn't quite dried yet. Every tiny movement makes me aware of places inside me I didn't even know could hurt, places I've never thought about before.

I blink up at my ceiling, marveling at the little imperfections in the paint on the crown molding as I try to piece together what's wrong with me. The gray light from the snow-covered world outside leaves dull and dark enough that I want to bury myself in my covers and go back to sleep.

I know I can't give in to that, and even if I wanted to, it'd be impossible because everything feels... off.

Maybe I'm getting sick?

The thought drifts through the marshmallow fluff in my mind as I shift under the covers, wincing at the soreness that radiates through my body. My muscles ache as if they've been stretched beyond their limits. It reminds me of the day after one of my trainer Ilya’s brutal workouts.

Except all I did was sleep, so what the heck?

And Pilates with Ilya never gets me sore between my legs.

I glance down at my sheets, and my stomach drops when I see the brownish-red stains on the formerly pristine white fabric. Ugh, just what I needed—my period to show up two weeks early. I guess this explains why I feel like death warmed over. Cramps have always been horrible for me, but I don't remember ever having cramps quite like this before.

Fragments of the dreams I think I had last night float through the sticky cloudiness of my mind. Really, you could call them sensations more than actual memories. Warmth. Pressure. Pleasure mixed with pain. The ghost of hands on my skin. But trying to grab onto any specific memory is like trying to catch smoke. The more I reach for it, the faster it dissipates.

I must have had some weird dreams last night. Really weird dreams that I can't quite remember, but that left me feeling...

Well, a whole lot like I'm going crazy.

Huh, maybe it was aliens. That's a thing, right? Getting abducted and... probed?

I snort at how ridiculous I'm being. Obviously, the stress of everything yesterday with Emmitt and the extra pressure my mother puts on me at this time of year is getting to me.

I force myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it. My thighs tremble and my hips ache. When I stand, the soreness only gets worse, and I have to grip the mattress to keep from falling back onto it and forgetting about this day.

Let's just throw the whole thing away and try again tomorrow.

"What is wrong with me?" I mutter to myself, pressing my free hand against my lower abdomen where a dull ache has settled.

Everything feels amplified—it's like all my nerve endings are raw and exposed, hypersensitive to every sensation.

I stumble toward my bathroom, my reflection in the mirror stopping me the second I step through the door and flip on the light. I look... wrecked. My cheeks are flushed, my lips slightly swollen like I've been biting them in my sleep, and my hair is a tangled mess around my shoulders.

A knock at my bedroom door makes me jump, and my heart launches itself up into my throat.

"Miss Delacroix?" Kendra's voice filters through the wood. "Your mother expects you downstairs in thirty minutes."

Of course she does. Because God forbid I get to have a sick day.

"I'll be down soon," I call back, my voice raspier than usual, like I've been screaming or crying or something.

Maybe I really am sick.

I take stock of my symptoms. Despite my flushed cheeks, I don't feel feverish. No stuffy nose, cough, or stomach problems. I'm going through a mental checklist and nothing's adding up.

Not that it would matter if I was sick. No doubt my mother has my entire day already planned out, sickness or not.

I turn on the shower, cranking up the heat until steam fills the bathroom. As I peel off my nightgown, I notice more brownish stains on my underwear. Definitely my period then. Though something doesn't feel quite right about that, but I don't know what else it could be.

The hot water helps ease some of the soreness in my muscles, but it can't wash away this strange sense that I'm missing something huge. This sense that the world tilted on its axis while I slept.

While I rinse my hair, my mind drifts to Cohen. It's been doing that a lot lately, my thoughts wandering to my stepfather at the most random moments. But this morning, thinking about him makes my body react in ways I don't understand. My skin flushes with heat that has nothing to do with the shower, and my stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that's becoming way too familiar when I think about him.

Or when he walks into a room.

Or speaks.

Or does anything, really.

Like exist.

Ugh.

I remember how he defended me yesterday at the boutique, the way his hand felt on my back, strong and steady. Warm. Tingly. How safe I felt with him there, even though I probably shouldn't. He's my mother's husband, for crying out loud. I shouldn't feel anything when I think about him.

But I do.

And that terrifies me more than this unexplained soreness, more than these half-remembered dreams, more than the idea of spending the rest of my life under my mother’s thumb.

Because the way my body responds to even the thought of him? That's not normal. That's not okay. That's not something I can explain away if anyone were to find out—say, my mother or any of her horrible friends.

Or worse, Cohen himself.

I press my forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, trying to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts spinning around in my head. "Get it together, Emerald," I whisper to myself. "You're just tired. Or sick. Or hormonal. Or all of the above. You will not obsess over your stepfather."

I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a fluffy towel, ignoring the fact I'm lying to myself. Who am I kidding? Pretending I haven't spent at least eighty percent of the last three days thinking about Cohen is an exercise in futility. It's like trying to ignore a fly buzzing around my head.

It's so much easier to just deal with getting dressed and pretending there's not something seriously wrong with me.

Yep, I'm just a normal girl.

Nothing to see here.

When I step into my closet, something feels off. I glance around, expecting to see my outfit laid out like every other morning, perfectly arranged and ready to go. But today? Nothing. I blink at the empty space where my clothes usually hang, a weird knot forming in my stomach.

No way did she forget. I've had a long-standing debate with myself about whether Kendra's a human or one of those AI chatbot things wearing human skin.

Jury's still out.

Which makes the fact Kendra hasn’t laid out an outfit for me today so strange. For a fraction of a second, I wonder if my mother's allowing me to pick my own clothes for once. If maybe I've earned that privilege. But then I remember Madeline Delacroix is the ultimate control freak and not even if a zombie apocalypse was happening would she loosen the noose she drags me around with.

Which brings me back to... why? What happened?

And if this isn't on my mother's orders, how am I supposed to know the right thing to wear that won't piss her off?

I frown while I search through my clothes, starting to sweat as I consider my options. Eventually I settle on a soft gray cashmere sweater dress. It's modest but tailored and the color will hopefully blend in with the weather and keep Mother's attention off of me. Pairing it with black tights and knee-high boots seems like a safe bet, and just the kind of thing she loves. Elegant and sophisticated and lacking any sort of personality at all.

Getting dressed is an exercise in pain management. Every movement sends little shockwaves through my body, and the tights are basically torture devices disguised as clothing. By the time I make it downstairs, I'm walking like I've been riding horses all day, which is ridiculous because I've never even been on a horse.

The smell of coffee and fresh-baked croissants hits me as I enter the dining room, and my stomach does a weird growl-twist thing that's either hunger or nausea. I'm not quite sure which. My mother sits at the head of the table like she's holding court, her fingers tapping away at her tablet while she pretends not to notice me.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she says after she's waited long enough to be sure I know I only get her attention when she decides she's ready to give it. Of course she doesn't bother looking up, and her voice carries that artificial warmth she only uses when there are witnesses around. Today, that's the kitchen staff standing at attention in case my mother's coffee drops below the halfway point of her cup. "You're almost late."

Almost late in Madeline-speak means I'm exactly on time, but not early enough to satisfy her impossible standards. I sink into my usual chair, trying not to wince at the pressure against my sore muscles.

"Sorry," I mumble, reaching for a croissant just to have something to do with my hands. My mother would never allow me to eat it, not with all the butter and fat. "I wasn't feeling well this morning."

That gets her attention. Her ice-blue eyes snap up from her tablet, scanning me like she's running some kind of diagnostic test. "You look flushed," she says, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together. "I hope you're not coming down with something. We have the website holiday photoshoot this afternoon, and I need you looking your best."

Of course that's what she's worried about. Heaven forbid I mess up her precious photoshoot by being human enough to get sick.

"I'm fine," I lie, tearing the croissant into tiny pieces that she eyes, daring me to take a bite so she can criticize me for something else. "Just... tired."

"Hmm." She sets down her tablet, and I immediately tense. When my mother gives me her full attention, it's never good. "We need to discuss your role in the Christmas party."

The moment her gaze drags down to my outfit, my stomach sinks. "I wasn't aware you had that in your closet." Her voice is sugary sweet, but the undertone is as sharp as a knife. "And black tights? You know black makes your legs look even shorter. Why are you not wearing what I selected for you?"

I cross my arms, trying to shield myself from her sharp judgement, but her words find their way through anyway, slipping between my ribs like they always do. Each criticism lands exactly where she aims it, in all the soft, vulnerable places she's spent years learning how to hurt. "Kendra didn't lay out my clothes this morning," I mutter, hating that I have to defend myself over something little kids do on their own every day. Here I am, nineteen years old, getting in trouble with my mother for picking out my own outfit.

Some days it's hard to want to keep breathing.

She holds up a hand, cutting me off as I open my mouth to argue that I should be allowed to wear what I want. "Excuses, Emerald. Always with the excuses. I understand you’re not feeling well, but you should've notified me immediately if Kendra failed to do her job. You can’t let a little discomfort deter you from looking presentable."

I glance down at my outfit again, the soft fabric suddenly feeling too tight and too plain under her scrutinizing gaze. The truth is, Kendra has a key to my room, but the door was locked from the inside this morning and I don't know why. Did Kendra want me to get in trouble?

Why am I the only one expected to play by the rules in this house?

"Really, a little color wouldn't kill you," she continues as I tune back in, her chin raised while she looks down her nose at me.

I flush, swallowing hard but not daring to argue. Because in my mother's world, looking perfect isn’t just a requirement—it’s a way of life. "You'll change after breakfast." Her voice leaves no room for argument as she lifts her coffee and takes a small sip. Once she's set her cup down on its saucer, she clears her throat, and I brace myself. "I've come up with the perfect idea for how your particular skill set will be most beneficial in helping to plan the Christmas party."

Oh god. Not the party. I'd almost managed to forget about the worst part of my year.

"What about it?" I ask carefully, knowing even if I don't upset her with my questions, I'm not going to like what comes out of her mouth. Whatever she's about to say, it's going to be bad for me.

"Emmitt has specifically requested your assistance with the silent auction," she says, watching my reaction with those sharp eyes of hers. "He thinks it would be good exposure for you, learning how these events work from the inside, and I agree."

Any appetite I might've had disappears. "Emmitt?" I repeat, my voice small. "But... doesn't he have an assistant? Why would he need my help?"

"Because," she says with an edge of impatience, "he's asked for your help and you will give it." Her icy eyes flash at me, like lightning in the clouds threatening to strike. "Emmitt is an important business partner, one who I don't want to lose. Besides," she waves her hand in my general direction, "his connections could be valuable for your future."

My future. Right. The one she's planned out for me without bothering to ask what I want.

"I don't..." I start to protest, but she cuts me off with another wave of her hand, this one sharper. Like a blade.

"This isn't up for discussion, Emerald." Her voice has gone cold, all pretense of warmth vanishing. "You'll meet with him at his office this afternoon to go over the details."

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. Memories of yesterday flood back—Emmitt's eyes on me in the boutique, the way he looked at me like he was starving and I was a perfect medium-rare steak. If it hadn't been for Cohen...

Cohen.

Just thinking his name makes my body temperature spike, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair as that strange ache between my legs intensifies.

What even is that?

"Good morning, ladies."

His voice slides over me like melted butter, and my heart does a stupid little skip-jump that’s really unsettling. I don't have to look up to know it's him. My body seems to have developed some kind of radar where Cohen's concerned, and the second he stepped into the room, I felt him in the tiny hairs on the back of my neck that lifted up and in the heat spreading over my skin.

"Did you sleep well, little one?" he asks, his voice low and intimate like we're sharing secrets while he walks behind my chair to his seat at the head of the table. The way he says 'little one' is different from how he says anything else. It’s softer, darker, like he's tasting the words before letting them go. I nod, and the tips of his fingers brush along the back of my neck. I shiver. His touch is nothing like my mother's clinical adjustments. It feels personal, like he's laying claim to the skin beneath his fingers.

Goosebumps run down my arms in the wake of his attention and when his touch lifts off my skin, I immediately mourn the loss.

Crap, crap, crap.

I hope he didn't notice.

I may not have to look up, but I do.

I do look up, because I can't not look at him.

He's wearing a charcoal grey suit that fits his fit body perfectly, his dark hair slightly messy like he's been running his fingers through it. He looks... really good.

Like breath catching in my throat good.

Like heart skipping a beat good.

Like please look at me and no one else ever again good.

When his steel-gray eyes meet mine, something electric zips down my spine.

And I officially want to slap myself.

He stares at me, our eyes locked together, and I'm trapped in his snow cloud eyes until my mother's voice breaks the spell. "Cohen," my mother greets him with her public smile. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing Emerald's involvement with the Christmas party planning."

His expression doesn't change, but when he shifts his gaze off of me and in my mother's direction, I swear I see something dangerous there. Almost like when he stood up for me with Emmitt yesterday. After his proclamation that he'll handle all things Emmitt Caldwell from now on, I wonder how he's going to take my mother's orders about my role in the party planning. "Oh?" he says, his voice deceptively casual as he takes his seat. "And what involvement would that be?"

"Emmitt's requested her help with the charity auction," my mother says, and I swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. "It's an excellent opportunity for her."

I can feel Cohen's gaze on me, intense like he's trying to force my eyes back up to his with only the power of his mind, but I stay fixated on the mutilated croissant in front of me. My hands are trembling, so I hide them in my lap.

"Is that so?" Cohen's voice is smooth as glass, but there's an edge to it that makes me shiver. "And you think that's appropriate, considering his... reputation?"

My mother's smile tightens. "Emmitt is one of my most valued business partners, Cohen. His reputation is impeccable."

"Is it?" He reaches for the coffee one of the staff sets in front of him, his movements deliberate and controlled. "Because that's not what I've heard."

The tension in the room is crazy, like one wrong move could shatter everything around us. Someone's going to break first, and I really hope it's my mother and not Cohen. I need him to win this. To stand up for me because for some reason, when it comes to my mother, I can't seem to do it myself.

I risk a glance at my stepfather, and the look on his face stops the breath in my lungs. There's something in his expression that makes my stomach clench. It’s not with fear exactly, but with recognition. His eyes lock onto my mother with an intensity that reminds me of those nature documentaries where the camera catches the exact moment before the lion attacks, when everything goes still and quiet and you know something's about to happen but you can't look away.

"Perhaps," my mother says, her teeth clenched together in a smile that's more of a bearing of her teeth than anything else, "we should discuss this later. In private."

"No," Cohen says simply, setting down his coffee cup with a soft clink. "We shouldn't." His attention shifts to me, and it feels like when I'm standing at the edge of our pool, knowing the water's freezing but wanting to dive in anyway. That moment of terrifying anticipation where my body's already leaning forward before my brain can catch up and tell me to stop. "Emerald, do you want to work with Emmitt?"

The question catches me off guard. No one ever asks what I want. His steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and that new heat spreads through my body, settling low in my belly where that strange ache has lived all morning. Something about the way he's looking at me makes me feel like my answer actually matters—like I matter.

"I..." I swallow hard, glancing between him and my mother. Her eyes are boring into me, silently commanding me to say yes. The weight of her expectations presses down on my shoulders, threatening to crush me. But Cohen... Cohen's looking at me like he sees past all my mother's careful programming, past the perfect porcelain doll she's tried to make me into. His gaze strips away all the layers until I'm just me—just Emerald. And for the first time in my life, that feels like enough. "No," I whisper. "I don't."

The word comes out soft, barely more than a breath, but it feels like the biggest act of rebellion I've ever attempted. My pulse pounds in my ears, and that ache between my legs throbs in time with my heartbeat, like my whole body is coming alive with this one small act of defiance.

"That's it then," Cohen says, his tone final. "She won't be working with him."

My mother's perfectly manicured nails dig into the tablecloth as she glares daggers first at me and then at her husband. The look she gives me promises consequences later, but for once, the thought doesn't terrify me like it should. Maybe it's because of the way Cohen's presence seems to fill the entire room, making everything else, even my mother's fury, feel smaller.

"Emerald is my daughter and you have no right—"

"I have every right," Cohen barks. His voice is loud enough that I flinch. The staff turns and leaves before my mother can fire them for witnessing something they shouldn't, but I barely notice. I'm too caught up in the way Cohen's words seem to vibrate through me, settling deep in my bones like they belong there.

The silence that follows feels like those moments at one of Mother's endless charity galas when I sneak a glass of champagne and the room goes fuzzy around the edges and the ground shifts beneath my feet. My body feels weightless, untethered, like all the rules that have kept me bound are suddenly fraying at the edges. I think something just broke in this pristine glass mansion of ours, and I don't think all of my mother's rules and control can put it back together again.