Page 17 of Unholy Nights

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 ridinghorses 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 hadthatin 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 Kendrawantme 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 youwillgive 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."

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