Page 7 of Unholy Nights

“Good girl,” she says, her smile as artificial as everything else about her. Like an AI chatbot trying to mimic human emotion.

She turns back to her tablet and waves me away like an annoying bug that dared to interrupt her morning. “You’re dismissed. Don’t be late for the shoot.”

I push myself up from the table, my legs feeling like jelly like they always do after I dare to ask my mother for anything. The anger and helplessness and disappointment churn together in my stomach, mixing together into something bitter and sharp. Though maybe that’s just hunger—not that I’d dare touch one of those perfect, Instagram-worthy croissants.

The loneliness hits harder as I walk down the hallway, my footsteps dull against the polished Carrara marble. I’ve never been allowed to just... be. Every interaction, every potential connection has been checked and approved by my mother to serve some greater purpose in her master plan for the Delacroix dynasty.

No distractions.

I bite my lip, her words playing on repeat in my head, and because apparently I enjoy torturing myself, my thoughts drift to Cohen. He’s definitely a distraction—the kind that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing I should step back but wanting to jump anyway. The kind that turns my whole world upside down and shakes it until nothing makes sense anymore.

The kind that makes me feel alive for the first time in my life, even though those sparks of life will only make things worse.

I escape the house as fast as my Stuart Weitzman boots will carry me before one of my mother’s fashion goblins can drag me into another two-hour meeting about the difference between eggshell and ivory. She’s sent me to grab stuff for the Christmas party, and for once I’m actually grateful for one of her endless errands. At least it gets me out of the Museum of Misery.

The home décor boutique sits right in the middle of Emerald Hills, crammed between all the other fancy shops where the town’s elite drop thousands on things no one actually needs. Things my mother decides are trends and tells them to buy.

The second I walk in, I’m assaulted by enough expensive candles and leather to give me an instant headache. Before I can even suck in a breath through my mouth, I’m surrounded by sales associates with fake smiles plastered on their faces like they’ve won the lottery just by my stepping inside the door.

“Miss Delacroix! Welcome!” One of them bounces on her toes, her blonde ponytail swinging. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Of course they have. Robot-Kendra probably called ahead with my exact arrival time.

I pull my face into the same bland, pleasant expression I used at breakfast with my mother as she drags me over to the holiday display. “Your mother selected these for the party,” she gushes, waving at some gold and silver ornaments that look like they were handcrafted by artisans flown in from Venice or wherever my mother sources her ridiculously elaborate decorations these days. “Aren’t they just divine?”

I nod along while she rambles about holiday trends and how my mother is basically the God (goddess?) of Christmas decorating or whatever. Like I care about any of this. ButI know my role. Smile. Nod. Act interested. Be the well-trained Delacroix daughter so everyone can gush about what an excellent job my mother did training her little show pony.

Just as I think I might be able to make my escape, when she’s rushed off to answer the phone, a voice behind me gives me the full-on creeps. Like spiders skittering over my skin.

“Emerald Delacroix,” the voice drawls, oozing all kinds of charm—the gross fake kind. “As stunning as ever.”

I turn slowly, my stomach doing that awful dropping-elevator feeling when I see Emmitt Caldwell, one of my mother’s sleaziest business associates. He’s tall, with the kind of artfully dyed hair that screams “midlife crisis,” and he has that permanent smug expression that makes my palm itch to introduce itself to his face.

He’s what Living Delacroix would call “distinguished”—all custom Italian suits and a sharp jawline—but something about him has always set off warning bells in my head. I’ve suffered through countless parties where I’ve caught him staring at me just a little too long to believe he has good intentions.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his eyes doing that gross crawling thing over me that makes me wish I was wearing a hazmat suit instead of this stupid sweater dress. “But I suppose you’re here for the same reason I am—preparations for your mother’s big event. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the Delacroix party.”

I manage what I hope passes for a smile, but probably looks more like a grimace. “Yes, I’m just picking up a few things.”

Emmitt takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to grab one of those pretentious crystal snow globes and use it as a weapon. His voice drops into what I’m sure he thinks is an intimate whisper, but just sounds slimy enough to make me want to take a shower. “Your mother has quite the plan this year. She always knows how to impress, doesn’t she?”

I nod mechanically while my heart slams against my ribs hard enough that I’m surprised he can’t hear it. I take a small step back, wishing I could teleport myself literally anywhere else. “Yes, she does.”

His straight, white smile widens. “You’re lucky to have her, you know. Not everyone gets to be part of such a desirable family.”

I’m trying to come up with a response that won’t end with my mother sending me away for an “attitude adjustment”, which is her favorite threat lately, when I feel it. It’s like gravity suddenly shifted directions, pulling me toward him instead of down to the Earth. My body knows he’s there before I do, every inch of me suddenly straining backward, wanting to be closer to the one person I should stay far away from.

Relief floods through me so fast, I let that pull win for just a second, swaying back toward him like my body’s finally found its center of gravity.

Cohen.

Emmitt’s smile cracks at the edges as he glances past me, his eyes narrowing. “Cohen. I didn’t realize you were around as well.”

My stepfather’s hand settles on the small of my back and everything inside me goes quiet. His fingers press into my skin through the dress, and it hits me—this is the first time anyone’s touched me without an agenda of fitting or styling or fixing me. Just touch for the sake of touch.

I know it should feel weird. Wrong. But instead it feels like... coming up for air.

“Emmitt,” Cohen says, and his voice has that scary-calm quality that makes the hair on my neck stand up. “I didn’t think you’d be lurking around here. This isn’t exactly your usual hunting grounds.”

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