Page 23 of Necessary Cruelty

Forcing my attention away from my money-grubbing stepmother and back to the detested statue, I raise an eyebrow. As much as I hate the thing, facing your fears is the only way to keep them from owning you. “I’m sure you found a minimally acceptable number for the required donation.”

“Of course I did, we’re not here to be taken advantage of.”

If my eyes roll any harder, they’ll fly out of their sockets. I’m about to say something agreeable and make an excuse to get the fuck away from her, when I hear an annoyed shriek come from upstairs.

“Is Emma still awake?” I ask incredulously.

Giselle makes a sound of annoyance. “This is the third nanny I’ve hired this year. There is no such thing as good help these days.”

It’s always the same shit, different day, at Cortland Manor.

Makes me wonder how I was ever young and dumb enough to think I could love my stepmother.

I’m already taking the stairs two at a time when her complaints filter through my ears. The nanny isn’t the problem, and Giselle fucking knows it. Emma acts out because no one in this house pays any attention to her.

I push open the door of a bedroom that looks like it was decorated by a middle-aged man with a fetish for diaper play.

Pink walls clash with the lavender curtains on the window. Dead-eyed porcelain dolls dressed like princesses line up like dutiful little soldiers on a shelf beside the four-poster bed made of white wood and trimmed in gold. Every bit of decoration, from the lamp on the bedside table to the gold tiaras painted on the ceiling, is done in a princess theme.

Being in here is like overdosing on Pepto Bismol while trapped inside Disney Land.

Emma is thirteen going on thirty, and Giselle treats her like she is still in preschool. My little sister would much rather be on a baseball diamond practicing her fast pitch than playing pretty-pretty-princess with these creepy ass dolls.

But it’s not like her own mother gives a shit.

Right now, Emma has a nanny standing over her that looks like an extra from an 80’s movie about mental asylums. Giselle apparently has a thing for women who can double as linebackers.

When I walk in, they’re arguing about whether ten o’clock is an appropriate bedtime for a middle schooler. Nurse Ratchet is obviously in the pro position. I’m inclined to take Emma’s side, because that’s always the case. But this screaming fit has got to stop.

I step completely into the room so they both see me and hold up a single hand. That’s enough for both of them to go instantly quiet. This level of control, it’s the same I hold over everyone in my life. I have to admit that I used to get off on it, but this isn’t the kind of power that does good.

It’s the kind that tricks you into doing bad.

By the time you realize just how bad you’ve gone, it’s too late to stop.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The nanny, whose real name I can’t remember for the life of me if I ever knew it at all, brings herself to her full height. “Miss Emma doesn’t want to go to bed like she should.”

Emma interrupts before I can say anything, her voice practically a screech. “No! Mom said that I could stay up to see her before going to bed, and she hasn’t come in yet.”

Giselle has been home long enough to say good night to her daughter, but obviously other priorities take precedence. I would say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I stopped keeping track of all the promises my stepmother makes without any intention of keeping them a long time ago.

Emma will have to learn eventually, but I’ll try to protect her from the worst of it for as long as I can.

“I’ll take care of this,” I murmur, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it into a puffed armchair covered in pale pink velvet. “You’re relieved for the night.”

Nurse Ratchet looks like she wants to argue. “But—”

I shoot her the look, the one I mastered years ago when I was just a snot-nosed kid who thought he ran the entire world. The look that doesn’t brook any argument and promises swift retribution for any dissent. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

The nanny shakes her head, and wisely keeps her mouth clamped shut as she skirts past me and toward the door. I resist the urge to snap my teeth at her as she passes me. This is at least the dozenth nanny we’ve had since Emma was born, and not one of them have been younger than Methuselah. I can’t help but wonder if Giselle keeps choosing these old battle axes to watch over Emma because she wants to make sure my father doesn’t screw them.

God forbid her daughter’s nurturing take precedence over irrational jealousy.

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, stubborn chin thrust forward, as I approach the bed and sit down on the end. “I’m not going to bed until Mom comes in to read to me like she said she would.”

“Now I’m not good enough? You’re killing me, kid.” I bend over to rifle through the pile of books on the floor next to the bed. Not a single one of them has more words than pictures. “Is this what Giselle is reading to you?”

---