Marcy Vanderbilt's idea of "calming down" involved being locked in my childhood bedroom like a disobedient schnauzer.
I am twenty-four years old and on a time out.
Her order was simple: stay locked in my room like a rebellious teenager until it was time to face the cameras, read the script her PR ghouls had prepared about "pre-wedding jitters" and "a minor misunderstanding," and announce to New York City that the wedding of the century was back on track.
I am to walk the aisle in a week to wed my teenage heartthrob, Preston fucking Eugene Astor.
It wasn't even a discussion. It was how it was going to be and in our world where she ruled with iron and fist, it was law.
And my secret, quickie kitchen marriage to Carson? Was to be annulled quietly and never spoken of again.
And just like that, I was a prisoner in my own little room filled with faded hot boys posters and a bookshelf full of my own romance novels. The irony was so thick you could spread it on a bagel.
I paced. I plotted. I contemplated the various ways I could use an antique hairbrush to commit a felony. Maybe shove it up Preston's ass except something tells me the son of bitch might actually like it.
Five years. Five freaking years.
What do I have to show for it? A baby with inbred genes. A cousin-fucking fiancé. And a grandmother who would sell me to the Astors for a headline in the Times.
I thought I was going to stay locked up until I heard the sound of the power drill.
The door flew open and Lark was standing there with this smirk on her face, wielding our father's power drill like she was a warrior princess or something.
"Did someone order a jail break?" She asked. She was awfully proud of herself.
I jumped up, a wide smile covering my entire face. "Larkie, sweetie, you are awesome!"
"I know," she said, hugging me. "Emmy, your new husband is a hottie, I accidentally touched his abs...hot!. Where did you buy him?"
"eBay," I joked.
"You think you can order me one of those? Preferably younger. I got Daddy's card."
"Lark, focus! What's going on downstairs?"
"Oh, nothing much...just the Grandwitch calling a coven meeting with bloodsucking lawyers. I'm afraid she will be flying in on her broom soon to make you do her bidding."
I straightened my posture, an idea popping into my head. "Tell her I'll do it. I'll have the press conference."
Lark's face fell. "What? No! After all that? No!"
I rubbed her shoulder. "Do you trust me?" I asked her.
It took a while but she nodded.
"Tell Grandwitch that I will do her stupid press conference but you have to make sure two people are in that room. Carson Gibbs and Preston Astor. Do not take no for an answer, Lark."
"Sure" She agreed way too easily.
"Preston has to be conscious for it, Kid" I reminded her.
"Does he, though?" She asked me, half serious.
"Lark?" I narrowed my eyes on her.
"I will do my best. No promises".
**
An hour later, I walked side-by-side with Grandmother toward the assembled press.
She moved like a queen, her hand resting on my arm in a grip that would definitely leave a nasty mark.
"Stick to the script, Emilia" She pressed a notecard into my palm. "Word for word, no going rogue. Your life and that of your unborn child may depend on it, Little girl"
I didn't look at it. "Yes, Grandmother"
Her grip tightened on me. "Do not try me or you will be paying a visit to your dead whore of a mother. Do you understand me? Now smile"
I always hate it when she brings my mother into conversation for maximum control… the very dead and the very beneath her, Amara Kendall, was the very best of me. The very best of Dad, her death broke us…especially Dad yet seven months later, she forced him to marry Kelsey Bradley. Who neither loved Dad or me but that union gave me Lark and my brother, Jack, how could I ever complain about that, Lark was the best person I knew.
"Leave Mom out of it. I'm here, aren't I?"
The room was filled with bloggers and newscasters just like I wanted.
And so was Preston, standing by his uncle, already looking vindicated.
Carson lurked in the back corner, half-hidden by a potted fern.
Of course. The man who delivered beef could not be a man who craved the spotlight.
I broke from Grandmother's side and beelined for him.
"I see you've made a new friend. Hey Fern. It's me, wife. It's very nice to meet you," I joked.
"Hey, wife. Don't be jealous. It's just a fern. Strictly casual," he teased, leaning in to whisper. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I like you more. No offense, fern. Wife over plants."
His tone was flirty and it made me want to smile. "So, Husband," I said, taking a step closer. "Do you want to stand by me while I tackle a herd of reporters? There's a 1000 bucks in it for you."
"How about I just wrestle a tiger for you? Would be easier?" He joked.
"Please, Carson. Couldn't you just do this once…"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Emilia." He was firm. Gave no room for argument. "I'll be right here, cheering you on from the sidelines."
Great. Cheering me on from the sidelines. My knight in greasy flannel was sitting this one out.
Before I could argue, Preston materialized, oozing toward me with his hand outstretched, a slimy public-ready smile plastered on his face.
"Hey, Honey" He was already smiling at the camera.
I met him halfway, my own smile just as bright and twice as deadly. I leaned in when he tried to take my hand to say…
"If your tabooed, cousin-fingering hand touches me, I will find the nearest stable and stab you through the heart with a pitchfork. Okay, honey?"
His smile didn't falter, but his eyes widened a fraction. He froze, his hand hovering uselessly in the space between us.
Alone, I walked to the center of the makeshift stage. The lights were blinding. I unfolded the notecard.
I looked at Grandmother then I crumpled the card in my fist and looked directly into the nearest camera.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," I began, my voice surprisingly steady. "There's been a lot of speculation. The truth is, Preston and I have come to a wonderful, mutual understanding. We've decided to remain the dearest of friends and pursue our… heart's desires."
Preston took a step closer to stop me but my look stopped him. The threat was clear.
There was a brief silence and then the whole dam broke.
"So the wedding is off?"
"Was there a third party, Emilia?"
"Is that why you called it off?"
"Who is the secret man?"
"Did you have an affair?"
The last one hit me like a physical blow. He screwed up but somehow it was my fault?
Suddenly, the lights felt hotter, the room smaller. My carefully constructed composure began to slip away. I could feel the panic rising, the heat creeping up my neck. I was about to either scream or cry, and either would be a disaster. Vanderbilt wasn't supposed to break.
And then, I felt it.
A large, warm hand on mine, enveloping it.
It was calloused and strong, giving it a firm, steadying squeeze. I flinched, looking up.
It was Carson. He'd left his fern.
He wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking directly at me.
"I offered to fight a tiger for you but I guess, what my wife wants…my wife gets," he murmured.
"Carson," I whispered, surprised. "I thought you hated cameras."
"I do," he said, his hazel eyes holding my gaze. "Just not as much as I hate watching you take them on alone. Take a deep breath. I'm here."
The courage that flooded me was dizzying. I turned back to the press, gripping his hand like a lifeline.
"This," I said, my voice ringing out, "is the man I married today. Carson Gibbs."
"Take off your mask!"
"Is he ugly?!"
"You left an Astor for him?"
"Let us take a picture!"
"Is he ashamed to be seen with you?"
"LET US SEE YOU!"
"Don't speak about my Carson Gibbs in that manner!" I snapped, rambling in my defense. "He doesn't have to take off his mask. He has a cold. And it's none of your business if he's ugly, wrinkly or scarfaced!"
But as I spoke, Carson lifted his free hand to the strings of his mask. In one slow, deliberate motion, he pulled it down.
The air left my lungs in a silent whoosh.
"You are not ugly," I whispered.
He chuckled. "Thank you. I think."
He wasn't just handsome. He was… breathtaking. Chiseled jaw, a mouth that looked like it was made for sin, and those hazel eyes—now fully visible—were like looking into a forest fire, warm and golden and intense. The greasy flannel and the delivery-boy persona were a disguise. This man was a god who had fallen to earth and decided to take up meatpacking.
The room erupted in a frenzy, a million camera flashes exploding like silent fireworks.
"Do you want to get out of here?" He asked me.
I couldn't talk. I simply nodded.
---
The aftermath was as swift and brutal as an execution.
Back in the main living room, Grandmother stood surrounded by three lawyers in suits that cost more than Carson's truck. The air was cold enough to freeze hell.
"Effective immediately," one of the lawyers began as soon as I stepped inside, reading from a tablet, "you are hereby removed from the Vanderbilt family trust and disinherited from all holdings and assets."
Grandmother's eyes were cold as I stared at her in shock.
"You have two hours to remove your personal effects from the villa. You are no longer a Vanderbilt. Anyone in this family caught giving you so much as a handout will receive the same punishment."
I looked at this tiny, ancient woman who had just lit my future on fire and thrown my unborn child into the gutter. All for a headline. All for control.
The hurt was a hotness in my belly. But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
I met her gaze. "Why?" I asked, the word barely a whisper. "Why is it that other people get grandmothers who smell like cookies and give them hugs, and I get an old bitch like you?"
I didn't wait for an answer. I turned my back on her and walked away.
I found Carson by the front door, waiting. He'd put his mask back on, but I could still see him in my mind.
The fantasy was over. The real world was here, and it was brutal.
"The marriage is off, Carson Gibbs," I said, my voice flat, all the fire from the press conference extinguished. "There's no money. No Tesla. No Ford F-150. There's nothing. I can't pay you to marry me."
The words were showy in their devastation, a beautiful, heartbreaking declaration of my own bankruptcy.
I was no longer Preston's Precious. No longer Emilia Vanderbilt. I was just Emmy. Pregnant, penniless, and utterly, completely alone.