Page 5 of Unholy Nights

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 itshouldfeel 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 creepyat 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. ItisKendra’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 makesherlook 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 punctualor else.

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

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