Chapter 7 - Emerald

When we get downstairs, Cohen stands in the foyer, and my brain short-circuits for a second. He's changed into a black velvet suit jacket that has to be illegal somewhere because the way it hugs his broad shoulders and narrow waist is just... unfair. Completely unfair.

And there I go again, noticing things about my stepfather that I definitely shouldn't notice. Like how his dark hair falls just slightly messy, or how his storm-gray eyes seem to catch every tiny movement I make. Or how he has this way of owning whatever space he's in that makes it impossible not to look at him.

God, I need therapy.

Our eyes meet, and something dark and hungry flashes in his gaze that makes my stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics.

"You look beautiful, little one," he says softly, and my mother shoots him a sharp look.

"Don't encourage her vanity, Cohen. Emerald, go outside. The photographers want to start with some solo shots."

The words slice through me, and suddenly I'm that little girl again, never quite good enough, never quite perfect enough. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I feel exposed, laid bare in front of Cohen. It's one thing when my mother criticizes me in private, but having him witness it makes me want to crawl into a hole and die.

I move past him toward the door, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat, when his hand brushes against my lower back, so quickly I might have imagined it. But the touch burns through my dress, sending electricity racing down my spine that definitely isn't appropriate for a stepdaughter to feel. When I dare to glance up, he winks at me and something in his expression seems to say he doesn't believe a word my mother said.

I shouldn't like that so much. I really, really shouldn't.

Hopefully she didn’t notice.

Outside, snow covers everything in an untouched white blanket that would be beautiful if it wasn't about to be used as another backdrop for my mother's endless pursuit of perfection. The photography team has set up lights and reflectors, transforming our backyard into what probably looks like a winter wonderland to anyone who doesn't know better.

"Finally!" The photographer, a tall man with an impressive beard that makes me think of a hipster Santa, claps his hands. "Let's get started. Emerald, darling, stand by that tree. Yes, just like that. Now tilt your head down slightly." I do what he says, before he gives his next command. "Smile like you're trying to get on the naughty list."

If he only knew the kinds of thoughts I've been having about my stepfather, he'd probably need to invent a whole new list.

Wait, what? No. Bad Emerald. Very bad Emerald.

I'm sure this direction wasn't run by my mother. She'd never allow me to look anything less than angelic. Still, I pose as directed, trying to ignore the weight of Cohen's gaze from where he watches by the patio doors. I can't turn to see him, but I know he's there. His attention feels physical, like hands sliding over my skin. Like those dreams I keep having...

Nope. Not going there. So not going there.

"Excellent! The camera loves you, darling."

"She gets it from me," my mother says, appearing beside the photographer like she's been summoned by the mere suggestion that I might have a quality of my own. "Now, let's do the family shots. Cohen!"

My heart kicks into overdrive as he moves toward us through the snow. We're going to have to stand close, touch, pretend we're a normal family when everything about this is so far from normal.

"Right here," the photographer directs, positioning Cohen behind me, my mother to my right. "Mr. Astor, put your hand on your stepdaughter's shoulder. Mrs. Delacroix, angle yourself toward them slightly. Just like that!"

Cohen's hand lands on my shoulder, and it's like someone plugged me into an electrical socket. Even through my dress, his touch burns, and I have to fight every instinct that says to lean back into him, to seek more of that warmth in the cold. His thumb brushes against my neck, and I feel it all the way between my legs where that weird ache from this morning still lingers. A little gasp escapes before I can stop it, and while my mother (thank every possible deity) doesn't notice, I swear I hear a low chuckle from my stepfather.

Right. Because that's exactly what I should be thinking about while my body's going haywire from my stepfather's touch. I smile wide, playing my part as the perfect daughter in the perfect family photo, while inside I'm screaming. Because Cohen's touch makes me feel things I don't understand, like I'm burning from the inside out. I can feel him behind me, solid and strong, and I know I shouldn't want him closer.

But I do.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

"Perfect!" The photographer claps his hands before gesturing toward the Gothic structure peeking through the snow-laden trees. "And the chapel in the background... the light hitting those windows would be divine for some final shots."

"No." My mother's voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "The chapel is not part of today's shoot."

The speed of her rejection makes me curious. I've caught her staring at the chapel sometimes, when she thinks no one's watching. There's something in her expression during those moments almost like fear. Which is ridiculous because my mother isn't afraid of anything.

Except maybe holy water.

The photoshoot drags on after that, and after what feels like hours of posing in the snow, my mother finally declares the it complete. I can't feel my toes, and my face hurts from fake smiling, but that's nothing compared to how my entire body's on high alert from having to stand beside Cohen for the last two hours. Every tiny movement, every breath, every subtle shift of his hand—my body noticed all of it.

"Emerald." My mother's voice slices through my thoughts like one of those fancy Japanese knives she keeps in the kitchen but never actually uses. "Don't forget you're meeting Emmitt at three to discuss the charity auction."

And just like that, my stomach drops into my frozen toes. "Right," I manage to say, though my voice comes out squeaky. "Where—"

"His office," she says, already typing on her phone like I'm not even worth looking at while she speaks to me. "Kendra will drive you."

"No, she won’t." Cohen's voice comes from behind me, making me jump. His tone carries an edge of warning that makes my skin prickle. "Or did you forget our discussion about my attending Emerald's meeting with Emmitt?"

My mother's shoulders stiffen, and when she looks up from her phone, her expression is carefully blank. Of course she hasn't forgotten—my mother never forgets anything. She was probably hoping Cohen would.

"I thought perhaps your schedule had changed," she says, her voice tight. "You mentioned a meeting—"

"My schedule is clear for this," Cohen cuts her off. "As I said before, either I attend, or she doesn't go at all."

The silence that follows feels... dangerous . I watch as something passes between them. It’s the same battle from this morning, but this time my mother seems to realize she's already lost.

Her lips press into a thin line. "Fine." She glances at her watch, her movements sharp with irritation. "But don't be late for dinner. We have the menu tasting for the party tonight."

She walks away across the snow in her heels, leaving me alone with my stepfather. The oxygen vanishes from the space between us, and even the winter air isn't enough to fill my lungs.

"Go change," he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. "Wear whatever you want."

Whatever I want.

Those three words turn my world sideways. My mind empties of everything except pure panic, which starts creeping in around the edges. My mother chooses everything— everything —down to the shade of nude in my stockings. The thought of standing in my closet and having to decide for myself is suddenly terrifying.

"I... I don't know what to wear," I whisper, feeling about two inches tall and completely ridiculous. My chest tightens as the panic builds. "I don't even know where to start. Do I dress professionally? Business casual? Formal? What if I pick wrong and everyone laughs and—"

His hand comes up to brush my cheek, gentle and soothing, and my rambling cuts off like someone hit a mute button. His fingers ghost across my skin like he's testing boundaries. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. Like he’s writing secrets into my flesh that I'm not sure I’m ready to read.

"There are no expectations," he murmurs, his voice calm, like he’s talking me down from the side of a bridge. "No wrong answer. Just put on something comfortable. Something that makes you feel good."

I nod, trying to swallow the fear that's lodged in my throat. The idea of choosing still feels too big, too impossible. I bite my lip, my eyes on the floor as my mind whirls with uncertainty.

He grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his, and oh wow , his eyes should come with a warning label. "Let me help you choose," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion. "We'll do it together."

I look up at him, meeting those stormy eyes, and something in his gaze—dark, hungry, but carefully controlled—makes the panic start to fade. I nod again, this time more sure.

"Such a good girl," he growls softly, his hand sliding possessively down my back as he guides me toward the house.

The way he says those words makes my whole body tingle, which is so not okay. When my mother says them, they make me feel about as significant as a speck of dust. But when Cohen says them? It's like being wrapped in the world's softest blanket while sitting by a fire drinking hot chocolate.

I am so, so screwed.

I let him lead me toward my room, because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation. Every step makes my heart beat faster, like it's trying to warn me that letting my stepfather into my personal space might not be the smartest decision I've ever made.

When we reach my room, Cohen doesn't hesitate at the threshold—just walks in like he owns the space. Like he owns me . He's never been in here before, and watching him move through my bedroom makes me jittery and breathless. His large frame turns my spacious room tiny, and the air around us shifts into something dangerous and thrilling that I probably shouldn't like as much as I do.

"Show me your closet," he orders, the gentleness in his voice feeling like a reward for my obedience.

I lead him into my walk-in closet, every nerve ending suddenly aware of how alone we are. He prowls through the rows of designer clothes like he's hunting for something specific. His fingers trail over fabrics, and he pauses at a silk dress. The way his fingers stroke the material makes heat bloom across my skin. Something about the way he touches them makes me imagine those fingers on me instead, and the thought sends electricity racing through my veins.

I shouldn't want that. He's my stepfather. He doesn't want to touch me.

Does he?

"Perfect for dealing with men like Emmitt." There's such darkness in how he says the name, such raw hatred, that my heart does this weird flutter-skip thing in my chest—the same feeling I got when he stood between Emmitt and me at the boutique. His fingers trace the soft fabric as his lips curve into that dangerous half-smile that makes my heart race. "Innocent on the surface... but we both know better, don't we?"

My face flushes at his words. I want to ask him what he means—I am innocent, aren't I? But the look in his eyes leaves the question stuck in my throat.

"Try it on," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower. When I don't move immediately, his eyes darken. "Now."

I grab the dress with trembling fingers, but then my brain catches up with what's actually happening. I'll need to change. In front of him. Oh god .

"I... um..." I stammer, clutching the dress to my chest like it might protect me from the way he's looking at me.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. "Don't worry, little one. I'll turn around." He moves to face the wall. "This time," he adds, and his words slip beneath my skin, past every wall I've built, every defense I thought I had. They nestle somewhere deep inside where I can't dig them out.

My fingers shake as I unzip my photoshoot dress, letting it pool at my feet. Every cell in my body pulses with knowledge of Cohen's presence, just a few feet away, separated only by his turned back. Electricity crackles through the air as I yank the sweater dress over my head, my fingers stumbling over the fabric.

"Done," I whisper, and my voice sounds strange even to my own ears.

He turns, and the look in his eyes makes me feel exposed, like he can see every part of me even though I'm fully dressed. His gaze travels slowly up my body, and I feel myself dissolving under the weight of it, melting from the outside in. When he finally meets my eyes again, there's something intense in his expression that splits me right down the middle—half of me wanting to run, the other half wanting to step closer.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, stepping closer. His hand reaches out, adjusting the collar of the dress. When his knuckles brush against my collarbone, I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping. "So fucking beautiful." Then his gorgeous eyes lift to mine while I breathe in a lungful of his expensive earthy cologne and Cohen . "But what do you think?"

Beautiful.

I've heard that word a thousand times, always measured against my mother's impossible standards—beautiful means perfect, untouchable, cold. A word that's never felt like it belonged to me. But when Cohen says it, something cracks open inside me. His version of beautiful shatters every mirror my mother ever held up to me. In his eyes, I exist beyond her carefully drawn boundaries—I'm something wild, untamed. Something that's been clawing beneath my skin all this time, only now waking up.

My fingers run over the fabric and his gaze drops to follow the motion. It takes me three times to swallow and get my voice to work. It does feel nice, and the color is pretty, but... "I don't know," I whisper. "It's hard to choose."

He nods, his dark gaze pinning me in place. "I know. But I want you to try. Pick something that feels good."

I glance back at the rows of clothes, my eyes scanning over the dresses, the sweaters, the skirts... My heart is pounding, and my chest feels tight. The thought of making this decision— any decision—is completely overwhelming. But Cohen's presence beside me somehow makes it a little easier to breathe.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice so small it’s almost nonexistent.

Something pulls me toward the back of my closet to a section I never visit. There's a dresser back here that I doubt my mother's touched in years.

I know I haven't.

I pull open a drawer, digging through old workout clothes and— oh . My heart skips about five beats when I find a pair of jeans with a tear in the knee and a black hooded sweatshirt.

The fabric is soft in my hands, probably left behind by someone on staff. It feels dangerous and exciting, like I'm finally doing something real . Something that's actually me.

Am I really doing this?

If my mother sees me or Emmitt reports back…

My stomach does a nervous flip as I imagine her reaction. She'll probably come up with some creative new punishment, like making me attend all her business meetings for a month. Or worse—forcing me to do another round of finishing school etiquette classes.

Still…

I think I want this. Need this, even.

There's a spike in my heart rate, like a warning shot fired before the battle begins. To most people, this would be nothing—just picking out clothes for the day. Normal people do this every morning without having an existential crisis.

But to me? This is my first real choice. My first step toward figuring out who I am. Who I want to be.

Cohen's eyes go midnight-dark as he takes in my choices, his smile promising all kinds of trouble. "Look at you, already learning to push boundaries," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Try them on."

My fingers tremble around the soft fabric as I nod.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "It's time to learn to take what you want."

As I turn to change, I notice my top drawer's open enough that my cotton and lace underwear are visible. My face flames as I snap my hand out to close it, but Cohen's faster. His hand shoots out, catching a piece of pale pink lace between his fingers.

"Look what you've been keeping from me," he murmurs, voice thick with something that makes my stomach clench. My heart stops as he examines the delicate fabric, treating it like something precious and forbidden. His thumb traces the lace edge in a way that makes me think of how his fingers felt against my collarbone earlier, and something hot and unfamiliar pools low in my belly.

I should be mortified. I should snatch them back, tell him he can't just take my underwear. But watching him handle something so private, so intimately mine... it does something to me I can't explain.

He tucks the lace into his pocket with deliberate slowness, like he's claiming a piece of me. His smoky eyes lock onto mine, daring me to challenge him. "I'm keeping this," he states, no room for argument in his tone. The possessiveness in his voice makes me feel marked somehow, like he's branded me without touching my skin.

I can't speak, and even if I could, what would I say?

"Get changed." The words rumble from his chest as he backs toward the door, his burning eyes pinning me in place. "I'll be right outside."

I wait for him to leave, surprised and maybe a little disappointed that he's not staying this time. The door clicks shut behind him. I can't move for a second. My heart races while my body can't decide what to do with itself. Every logical thought dissolves like sugar in hot tea, leaving behind only this new, impossible wanting that Cohen creates.

I change quickly, hands shaking as I pull on the clothes. The denim feels so wrong against my skin after years of designer dresses that I almost laugh. But wrong in the best possible way. Like breaking a rule you never agreed to follow in the first place.

I can taste the smell of him on my tongue. It's like he's infused the air with possibility, with the courage to be someone... different .

God, my mother is going to have an aneurysm when she sees this. The thought should terrify me, and it does, but there's also this tiny spark of satisfaction that makes me want to grin like an idiot.

Am I really going to do this? Risk whatever creative punishment my mother dreams up when she sees me in clothes that aren't perfectly curated for the Delacroix image?

Yes . Yes, I think I am.