The house gleamed. Every candle flickered just so, every orchid on the table bloomed like it had been paid for its beauty. The staff had been doubled. Catering trays lined the kitchen island like a coronation feast. There were toys in the living room, banners strung across the fireplace, and a pastel cake shaped like a rocket ship.
Victoria had outdone herself.
"This is just a little celebration," she'd said breezily to Emily earlier that morning, brushing lint off a throw pillow like she was dusting royalty. "A welcome party for Julian. He deserves to feel loved."
Emily nodded. She didn't disagree. But something about it felt... manufactured.
By seven-thirty, the house was full. Champagne glasses clinked. Waiters floated by with hors d'oeuvres. Margaret Sinclair held court in the corner with a few political donors, discussing policy like it was poker. A few of Adrian's colleagues from the retreat mingled near the fireplace, whispering about investment portfolios. Strangers filled the living room, laughing too loudly, wearing too much perfume, and making it increasingly clear that this wasn't a party for a child.
It was a parade. A show. A reinstatement of the Sinclair legacy, with Victoria as its high priestess. Emily hovered near the kitchen island, one hand on a glass of water she hadn't touched. She wore pale pink silk, the kind that hugged her a little too tightly now, her skin itchy with nerves. She smiled when spoken to, nodded when expected, but the eyes around her weren't warm. They were watching. Measuring. Comparing. And somewhere in the center of it all, Victoria moved like a wraith.
Her laughter was low and musical, like she was the world's little bride. She had Julian by her side, hand in hand, like a queen with her prince. And she kept glancing at Emily. Small, sharp glances.
"You alright?" Sophia murmured at one point, appearing at Emily's side like a shot of espresso. Her red curls were coiled in a perfect updo, her dress the color of blood. Emily nodded, but Sophia didn't buy it.
"She's setting something up," Sophia said under her breath. "Don't let her corner you. If that bitch smells weakness, she'll pounce."
Emily gave a shaky smile. "Thanks for the pep talk."
Sophia's eyes narrowed across the room. "I'll be nearby."
The incident happened just before cake.
One moment, guests were laughing. The next, a scream pierced the room.
"JULIAN!"
Heads whipped toward the hallway.
There he stood — Julian — tears streaking down his cheeks, a trembling hand held out in front of him, blood blooming across his palm in thin red lines.
Emily felt her stomach drop.
Victoria was across the room in seconds, falling to her knees. "Oh my God Julian, baby, what happened?!"
"I—I found something sharp in the bathroom," he sniffled. "I think it was a razor…"
A murmur spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Victoria looked up, horror painting her face like a Renaissance tragedy. "There were razors," she gasped. "In the guest bathroom. Where he goes."
Emily's heart stopped. "I—I used that bathroom earlier there were n_" she began, but Victoria stood slowly, eyes locked on her.
"You used that bathroom?" she asked, her voice soft and sharp.
The pause that followed was deafening. Guests stared. Someone whispered something behind their hand.
"He could've cut an artery," Victoria said, voice cracking with emotion. "He's five, Emily."
"I swear, I would never leave razors lying around, there was nothing there."
Victoria wrapped Julian in her arms. "Children mimic what they hear, you know. What they absorb."
Julian pulled away and looked straight at Emily.
"You said you didn't want me here."
The room tilted. Emily stared at him. "What?"
Julian's face crumpled. "You said it. That you wished I wasn't here."
A collective inhale. A beat of disbelief.
"I never said that, Julian," Emily whispered. "Sweetheart, I would never—"
"But you did," he insisted, voice trembling. "When you thought I wasn't listening."
Victoria looked devastated. "Oh, Julian…"
Sophia was moving before anyone else could process.
"Oh hell no," she snapped, heels clicking like war drums. "You want to play innocent, Victoria? After this?"
Victoria turned with a practiced flinch. "I didn't say anything to him—"
"Liar," Sophia spat. "You planted that in his head. You're poisoning him to win some petty war. What kind of mother figure manipulates a child to assassinate someone else's character? I've been with Emily the entire time and she hasn't talked to anyone."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Sophia growled. "Emily's not perfect. But she's ten times the woman you'll ever be. And you—" she swung to face Adrian "—should be ashamed. Standing there like a mannequin while the woman you supposedly love gets torn to shreds in your living room."
Adrian opened his mouth. Then closed it. The silence was louder than Victoria's outburst.
Emily's mouth dried. Her vision blurred. She turned to him, one last time.
Then she walked out. Sophia insisted on driving her home, or atleast taking her to Nate's, ranting half the way. Emily just nodded, eyes fixed on the city lights as they zipped by. She felt numb. Hollow. Like something vital had been scooped out of her chest.
She didn't even cry. Not yet. She just sat. Breathing. Existing.
When they got back to the apartment, Emily sat on the couch in silence for a long time, staring at nothing. Then, after Sophia left for groceries, reluctantly, Emily stood, grabbed her coat, and headed back to the Sinclair Penthouse.
Not for closure. For her things. She didn't want to leave even a hairbrush behind.
The house was quiet.
She slipped in through the side entrance, moving like a shadow through the quiet halls of the mansion. Lights were low, flickering faintly from distant sconces. The party was long over. The scent of champagne and fading roses lingered in the air like ghosts of the evening's decadence. Somewhere upstairs, a faint melody floated through the silence. Soft piano notes, deliberate, delicate. Victoria. Likely basking in the afterglow of yet another performance, another perfectly orchestrated evening in her gilded cage.
Emily crept through the corridors, her breathing shallow. She reached the bedroom, barely daring to breathe. Emily crept to the bedroom, grabbed the small jewelry box from her nightstand, then the envelope of sonograms hidden in the sock drawer. Packed her clothes and such. She was halfway down the hall when a voice, smooth and sharp as glass, sliced through the quiet.
"Going somewhere?"
Emily froze mid-step. At the top of the grand staircase, Victoria stood like a queen surveying her court, clad in a crimson robe, her bare legs gleaming under the dim light. A glass of wine dangled from her fingers, her lips curled into that same infuriating smirk.
"I'm just leaving," Emily replied, her voice calm but coiled.
Victoria descended a step, the wine swirling. "Aw. No goodbye kiss for Julian?"
Emily's jaw clenched. "You're disgusting."
Victoria chuckled. "No, darling. I'm real. That's what scares you. You thought you could belong here? With him?" She scoffed. "Adrian doesn't want you. He wants chaos. And you, you're a safe zone."
Emily's eyes burned, but her spine straightened. "You're right. I am a safe zone. And I survived every explosion you threw at me."
The smirk faded. The mask cracked.
"You don't get to win," Emily whispered.
And then Victoria moved. Quick as a knife. One manicured hand slammed into Emily's shoulder.
The world spun.
Emily screamed as she fell. Her body tumbling, legs twisting, arms flailing, pain slicing through her back, her side—
Her stomach.