Page 20 of Unholy Nights

And there goes my ability to think straight.Again. Because that's exactly what I need right now—more evidence that I'm completely losing it over my stepfather.

I wonder if there's a support group for this sort of thing."Hi, I'm Emerald, and I get tingly feelings when my mother's husband calls me pet names."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

But then he's gone, leaving me with my skin buzzing where he touched me, wondering if I really am losing my mind.

My mother's calculating stare drills holes into my skull, but I'm an expert at pretending it doesn't bother me.

"Really, Emerald," she sighs, setting her tablet down. I thought she was leaving but it looks like she’s decided to stay. Great. She’s going to pick right back up where she left off. Of course she doesn’t care what Cohen has to say. Why would she?I don’t understand their marriage at all. They don’t seem to love each other. So why marry someone you don’t love?

The question gnaws at me. I watch them together sometimes, looking for any sign of affection, but all I see is ice between them. It makes no sense.

When I get married, it’ll be to my soulmate. Someone who’ll make every moment feel like magic, who’ll hold my hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world. The kind of love that makes everything else fade away, as if we're living in our own fairytale.

But even as I think it, Cohen's face flashes through my mind, and my stomach does that weird flip-flop thing again.

My mother's next words snap me back to reality. "You need to stop being so dramatic about everything. The photoshoot needs to be perfect, and I won't have you sulking through it."

I stare down at my untouched breakfast, my appetite vanishing. "Yes, Mother."

What else can I say? I'm trapped here, in this pristine prison, with no way out. No friends, no real education, no job skills—nothing that would let me escape. My trust fund is completely under her control until I'm twenty-five, and even then, there are probably a million strings attached that I don't know about.

I don’t even know how to drive.

She's made sure I'm completely dependent on her for everything. The perfect little doll in her perfect little dollhouse, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.Marketedto the highest bidder, I should say. That sounds more like my mother's style.

"Good girl," she says, standing up. "Now finish your breakfast and get upstairs. The beauty team is waiting."

As she marches away in her designer heels, I push my bowl away and close my eyes, trying to hold back tears. Everything feels like too much today. My skin doesn't fit right, my thoughts keep scattering everywhere, and that deep ache between my legs hasn't gone away. I don't know how much longer I can do this.

I take a shaky breath and force myself to stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor in a way that makes me wince. My mother's probably timing how long it takes me to get upstairs. We wouldn't want to keep the beauty team waiting, would we? Heaven forbid anyone have to wait an extra thirty seconds to make mecamera ready.

With restraint built up from years of practice, I hold back an eyeroll. My feet drag with each step up the staircase making me more aware of how strange my body feels today. Sometimes I wonder if my mother sees me as a daughter or just another product in her empire—a representation of her brand that she can show off. Today, I'm betting on product.

The beauty team descends on me like a flock of well-dressed vultures, armed with curling irons and makeup brushes. I sink into the chair at my vanity, letting them work their magic while my mind drifts. Every time I close my eyes, I see Cohen's face and replay the feel of his hand on my shoulder.

Under his fingers, it felt like fireworks going off under my skin. The more he touches me, I’m finding, the more I want. Like I’m starving he’s started tossing me crumbs. And I'm pathetic enough to be grateful for even that much.

"You look like you’re a million miles away today, Miss Delacroix," Maria, my usual makeup artist, says as she dusts something shimmery across my cheekbones. "Everything okay?"

I force a smile. "Just thinking about my to-do list."

She hums sympathetically, but there’s a curiosity in her gaze she doesn’t even try to hide. Everyone who works for my mother is a spy, reporting back everything I say or do. I learned that lesson early.

They may seem friendly, but these are no friends to me.

"Your mother mentioned you’ll be working with Mr. Caldwell on the charity auction," she says, switching brushes.

My stomach churns at the mention of Emmitt. "Yeah," I mutter, then immediately regret showing any negativity when I catch the glint in Maria's eyes. She just smiles and keeps working, no doubt filing away my reaction to report back to my mother.

An hour later, I'm deemed camera-ready. My dark hair falls in perfect waves, my makeup is flawless but natural-looking, and I'm wearing a different cream-colored sweater dress, this one more "festive" according to the stylist.

I look exactly like what I am: an ornament in my mother's holiday display.

"There you are!" My mother appears in my doorway, looking like she just stepped off a magazine cover in a red designer dress that's somehow both elegant and shows off the body she starves herself for. "The photographers are setting up outside. We need to—" She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. "Something's off."

My heart stumbles. Can she tell? Can she see the guilt written all over my face? The thoughts I've been having about her husband?

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