Stand in the Fire (Far From Home #9)

Chapter One

2019

Pitlochry, Scotland

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The glossy travel brochure had promised charm, and Scotland delivered. Her grandmother had spoken of mountains and glens as far as the eye could see, its rich history and culture, quaint towns and bustling cities, and Scotland did not disappoint.

Pitlochry, their current location, looked like something plucked from a postcard, its cobbled streets lined with warmly lit shops and its rooftops dusted with snow. It wasn’t large and crowded and loud. The air was crisp and clean, imbued with a hint of pine, a harsh contrast to the exhaust and steel of Manhattan. Though it was mid-February, twinkling lights still hung from the eaves of pubs and boutiques, remnants of the holidays.

Scotland, Emmy decided, was every bit as breathtaking as she'd hoped. New York was vibrant, diverse, and fast-paced, but Scotland truly felt like something—some place —special.

She adjusted the thick faux-fur collar of her coat—a gift from her mother, nearly indistinguishable from real mink, and just as costly—and tucked her gloved hands into her pockets. Beneath the coat, she wore a green silk dress that hugged her figure in all the right places, paired with sleek, black, heeled boots that weren’t entirely practical for winter but made up for it in style. Every inch of her outfit was curated—and looked effortless in a way that took considerable effort.

Her friends strolled ahead, their laughter floating back toward her on the crisp air. Emmy followed at a more leisurely pace, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. They’d been traveling together for a week now, touring Scotland in style, hopping from boutique hotels to Michelin-starred restaurants. It had been—as intended—a carefree getaway to celebrate Emmy’s 24 th birthday, a perfect blend of luxury and adventure, but something about the trip felt... off.

Emmy feared her friends were beginning to grate on her.

“Please tell me they have espresso martinis here,” Vanessa groaned as they neared The Stag’s Crown, a pub Serena had chosen for its rustic charm and ‘Instagram potential’. Vanessa flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder, squinting into the windows as she passed. “I need caffeine or alcohol, preferably both.”

“It’s a pub, not a cocktail bar,” Madison pointed out with a smirk. “They have whisky and beer. Pick your poison.”

Vanessa wrinkled her nose. “Fine. As long as it’s strong.”

Emmy didn’t know why she did that—why she made it sound as if the day had been so long and exhausting. It hadn’t been. They’d had breakfast in Edinburgh, their last day there, had enjoyed a fabulous spa treatment in the city before catching the bus to Pitlochry; the inn here was charming—The Thistle’s Rose boasted roaring fireplaces and plaid upholstered chairs, garnished with strategically placed wool throws, perfect for Instagram-worthy pictures, and they each had their own room; and they’d been shopping—laughing and spending boatloads of money for the last two hours—why did she pretend the day had been so taxing? It had been busy, but neither demanding nor strenuous. Why the hell did she need a drink?

Serena paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied the pub’s facade. “This light is incredible,” she murmured, pulling out her phone. She angled it toward the building, snapping a series of photos before turning it on herself for a quick selfie. “Em, you’re in my shot. Move a little to the left.”

Emmy stepped aside and rolled her eyes—possibly for the hundredth time this week. She was familiar with Serena’s obsession with documenting every moment of her life for her social media following, but this week had shown Emmy exactly how fixated Serena was. In Serena’s world, life wasn’t about experiencing things, it was about curating them.

Madison bumped her shoulder into Emmy’s. “It could be worse,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “She could have asked you to be in it again.”

This was in reference to a similar incident on day one, when Serena had made them retake the same group selfie fourteen times, until she was satisfied with every friggin’ aspect of it—their hair, the lighting, their poses, their smiles (“My God, Madison, you look like you just ate rancid sushi!”)—which probably would have gone on if Emmy hadn’t simply walked out of the shot, wryly telling Serena to use one of those editing apps she liked so much.

“You should be flattered,” Vanessa chastised mildly now, obviously having overheard Madison’s remark. “Serena’s followers are going to think you’re living the dream. Scotland with your closest friends? Luxe hotels and endless photo ops? What more could you want?”

Emmy gave a quiet snort— what the hell did she care what Serena’s followers thought?— and pushed the pub door open. Warmth washed over her, and she was hit almost immediately by several aromas, one of which was clearly garlic and another, more subtle aroma, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, that suggested the pub was very old. The restaurant's vaulted ceiling featured dark, crudely carved, ancient looking woodwork, where hung a giant chandelier with what looked to be several sets of antlers from some very large deer. The floor was carpeted in a low-pile, red tartan pattern—a bold choice for a restaurant. Admittedly, it seemed none the worse for wear, the reds, gold, greens, and blacks appearing unblemished. They were shown to a round table near the central fireplace with four mismatched chairs. Emmy’s was tall-backed and upholstered in a rich green velvet, the back being curved so that it was easy, almost natural, to sit back and be enveloped by the warm cushion.

“This is perfect,” Serena declared, surveying the space before she sat. “Authentic and cozy. So much better than that overhyped restaurant in Edinburgh.”

Madison shot Emmy a sidelong glance. “But Serena,” Madison said innocently, slipping off her coat and draping it over the back of her chair, “you said in your Twitter post that it was,” she paused and waved her hand in an arc as she finished, “sublime.”

“Of course I did,” Serena said practically. “I don’t want people to think I’m not living it up in style.”

“Micheline stars and tiny portions is the good life,” Madison remarked.

Emmy grinned, though neither Serena nor Vanessa picked up on the sarcasm.

“Right?” Vanessa concurred.

Emmy settled into her chair, letting the warmth from the fire seep into her bones. She slipped off her gloves, flexing her fingers as the tension in her shoulders began to ease. Three more days and they were going home. She could manage three more days, all of tomorrow in Pitlochry—Emmy wanted to see the house her grandmother was born in—and then an entire day and night out on the Isle of Skye. I’ll be back in my loft, blessedly alone, on Saturday , she reminded herself.

A waitress came, delivering menus, and returned only moments later with a round of whisky Serena had ordered. Emmy wrapped her hands around the glass, savoring the cool weight of it. The amber liquid caught the light, shimmering like molten gold.

“To Scotland!” Serena said, raising her glass. “To castles, kilts, and all the hunky men we’ve yet to meet!”

“To Scotland!” Vanessa echoed, clinking her glass against Serena’s. “And to the birthday girl! Well, tomorrow’s birthday girl.”

“Happy birthday, Emmy,” said Madison, clinking her glass with Emmy.

“Cheers,” she responded.

Vanessa leaned forward toward Emmy. “Do you think it helped? This trip?”

Nonplused, Emmy lifted a brow. “Helped with what?”

“The rut you were in,” Vanessa answered. “Or are in, whatever.”

“I wasn’t in a rut,” Emmy defended.

Vanessa frowned and looked between Serena—still with her head bowed over her phone—and Emmy. “But...Serena said you were. Serena, you said that’s what this whole trip was about—getting Emmy out of her routine, away from New York, that she was dying inside.”

A little dramatic, Emmy considered, but not unexpected.

As if suddenly realizing her name had been mentioned, Serena’s head snapped up. “What? I didn’t say...all of that. But Emmy, c’mon. You were one black-tie event or ribbon-cutting or disastrous date away from total existential crisis.”

“I was not,” Emmy protested, laughing self-consciously.

Madison leaned in, her tone less forceful. “You did say you felt stuck, though.”

Emmy hesitated. Madison wasn’t wrong. She’d been restless for months, maybe longer. Drifting from event to event, surrounded by wealth and privilege, yet feeling... untethered, which had her feeling profoundly guilty.

“Maybe I was,” Emmy admitted, but refused to add more. These weren’t friends you shared your deepest, darkness, most private thoughts and fears with. Actually, Emmy didn’t have a friend like that. “But this has been great,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Scotland’s been... this has been fun,” she exaggerated.

“I love Scotland,” Madison agreed on a sigh. “It’s like stepping back in time.”

Vanessa snorted. “Magical if you’re into freezing your butt off. Personally, I prefer the magic of good cell service, heated floors, and a hotel suite that doesn’t smell like a medieval barn." She tugged at the cashmere scarf circling her neck, shuddering dramatically. "Honestly, I don’t get how people romanticize the past. No electricity, no decent plumbing—sounds like a nightmare to me.”

The waitress returned, taking their orders, which included a bottle of wine, and collected the menus as she left.

Madison and Vanessa started talking about a guy who’d been watching them with not-so-subtle interest this morning when they’d had breakfast in Edinburgh.

“Captain Obvious, you mean? The one who stared so hard I thought there might be burns marks on my chest?”

Admittedly, Vanessa did have the best boobs in the group.

“He wasn’t even trying to be subtle,” Madison agreed.

Vanessa shrugged. “Honestly, I was impressed with his commitment.” Vanessa sipped her whisky, then sighed dramatically. “Too bad he wasn’t my type.”

Madison grinned. “Too bad he wasn’t looking at you, you mean.”

Vanessa tipped her head and challenged, “You think he was looking at you?” She snorted her disbelief.

Madison shrugged, unbothered. “I think he was looking at Emmy, and then Serena.”

The conversation shifted, Serena finally setting down her phone and joining in.

Emmy watched them banter, a small smile tugging at her lips. She tried to engage, but the effort felt hollow. Their conversations always seem to circle back to shallow competition or performances for unseen audiences.

Her attention drifted to the flickering candle on the table. The soft light danced across the white linen, and for a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be somewhere else—anywhere else—where things were simpler, more... meaningful. Where relationships weren’t so transactional.

It had been a long time since she’d vacationed with people who were not related to her. Fairly quickly, only days inside Scotland, Emmy Clarke decided it would be the last time she traveled anywhere with people who were not family. Her parents and brother could be annoying, but they had nothing on this crew. So, while Scotland was everything promised by Mel DeVries at Jetstream Journeys and her grandmother—charming, friendly, and filled with character—her traveling companions were none of those things, she realized.

Actually, she hadn’t just realized this. She’d known it for some time—maybe from the start with one or two of them—but had ignored the signs and her own assessment.

It wasn’t hard to make friends as the rich girl, but it was difficult to find deep and fulfilling connections. Rich est girl, actually, since her friends came from wealthy families also. Emmy’s family just happened to be the wealthiest by far, her father being a hedge-fund manager and her mother an interior designer to the stars and anyone else with big money in NYC.

Admittedly, Emmy had secretly given titles to these friends of hers.

Serena was The Social Media Maven .

A glamorous, image-obsessed brunette, she was constantly glued to her phone, curating her life for her large—if not quite influencer-level—following. Selfie Serena , Emmy sometimes called her in her head, because that phone’s camera was always at the ready, snapping and posting in a relentless loop. She documented everything and tagged Emmy often, soaking up the clout from Emmy’s slightly larger audience.

Serena worked as a Public Relations Executive for a high-end fashion brand. It was her job to manage social media strategy, plan exclusive influencer events, and ensure the right celebrities wear their designs at red carpet events. While technically she landed the job on her own, it was no secret that her mother, being well-connected in the fashion world, having attended the Met Gala for years, actually got her in the door. Serena loves her job as it put her in glamorous circles. She thrived on the attention, networking, and prestige. Plus, in her mind, it gave her an excuse to be on her phone constantly without being judged.

It was more common than rare for Serena to interrupt conversations for the sake of a perfect shot, and she had a maddening tendency to narrate their trip as if they actually had a live audience. When they’d arrived that afternoon at their picturesque hotel, Serena had paused dramatically when she stepped out of the car, extending her arms.

“And here we are!” she’d gushed. “Nestled in the rolling Scottish Highlands, a hidden gem of opulence and tranquility. You can practically hear the Outlander soundtrack swelling in the background. Cue the bagpipes!”

Now, as the waitress arrived with their food, Emmy sat forward and set down her wine glass, ready to dig in—only to be stopped short.

Across from her, Serena adjusted the candlelight, held her phone over her plate, and began snapping photos of her perfectly plated scallops from multiple angles.

“Wait, no one touch their food yet!” she commanded, not looking up. “This one’s going viral. Look at the drizzle on the sauce—perfection.”

Emmy paused, fork in hand, waiting.

Seated to Emmy’s left, Vanessa sighed and flexed her perfectly manicured fingers. “I swear, Serena, you’ve got more pictures of scallops than actual memories.”

Serena, still typing out a caption, retorted breezily, “Memories fade. Posts last forever.”

Madison leaned back in her chair, lazily swirling her wine. Dressed in a relaxed knit sweater and jeans—somehow still managing to look effortlessly chic—she was the only one among them not wearing heels. Her auburn hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she smirked as she sipped.

“And don’t you know it,” she teased. “Cabo last spring—what was it? ‘Margaritas and good viruses’?”

Serena gasped, her cheeks flushing pink.

Emmy nearly spit out her wine. “Oh, God, I forgot about that one.” She hadn’t been there, but she’d laughed her ass off when Madison had sent her the screenshot. That darn autocorrect had transformed Margaritas and good vibes into Margaritas and good viruses .

Vanessa held her breath, lips pressed together in amusement, waiting for Serena’s response.

Serena shook her head and defended in a soft hiss, “I fixed that in, like, two minutes.”

Madison raised an eyebrow over the rim of her wine glass. “Tell that to the screenshot floating around your comments section. That’s forever, Serena.”

Vanessa leaned in with mock sympathy. “Glitches happen,” she offered. “It’s long forgotten, I’m sure. I mean, I’ve seen and heard worse.” She sent a fleeting glance toward Madison before picking up her fork and concentrating on her meal.

Her tone was sugary sweet, but the sharpness beneath it didn’t escape Emmy.

Vanessa was The Passive-Aggressive Frenemy .

While she could be hugely entertaining and did, on occasion, display evidence of an actual heart, she was also famous for her subtle digs —“You’re so brave to wear that color.” She was super competitive—especially when it came to attention from men—and regularly downplayed the accomplishments or attractiveness of others. She and Serena were a bonded pair; you didn’t get one without the other.

Vanessa worked as a junior editor for the glossy lifestyle magazine, Town it was something deeper, stranger—an intense, jarring pulse that shot up Emmy’s arm and spread through her chest like a ripple in a still pond. She stiffened, startled, her breath hitching as an unfamiliar warmth surged through her, tinged with an almost imperceptible hum, like distant thunder.

The world seemed to tilt slightly, the noises of the street fading into a muffled haze. Emmy couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to. There was something unsettling and magnetic about the old woman’s touch, something that felt ancient and otherworldly, as if she carried with her the weight of countless stories and lifetimes.

The woman smiled faintly, the expression enigmatic and knowing, and Emmy’s heart skipped a beat.

“Kind ye are, and dinna I choose well,” said the woman, her Scottish accent carrying the weight of ages. “Go now and see to him,” she added softly.

“Take your hand away!” Serena snapped, her voice sharp with unease as she drew close.

But Emmy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the woman. Her presence was magnetic, otherworldly, as if the very air around her was charged with something unseen and ancient.

“Go,” the woman commanded again, her voice low and resonant.

Emmy opened her mouth to protest, to ask what she meant, but the words refused to come. Her knees buckled as a wave of weakness swept through her, and a strange, disorienting sensation overtook her, as if she were unraveling, coming apart. The last thing she saw was the woman standing over her, smiling faintly, her green eyes glowing with an impossible light. Then, as if a gust of wind had blown through her very existence, the woman simply ceased to be. No sound, no flicker, no trace. One moment she was there, and the next, she was gone, leaving only an eerie stillness in her wake.

Emmy slumped to the ground as darkness rushed in, swallowing everything.