Chapter 13 Emma
The weekend’s here, and I’m walking barefoot along the beach, phone pressed to my ear, listening to my sister ramble about everything going on in New York.
Part of me wonders if coming here was the right choice. She needs someone to guide her. And spending every day with Silas Walker is definitely not helping her see things clearly.
I let the waves kiss my toes and breathe deeply, letting the ocean air fill my lungs with salt and oxygen and something that feels like... peace.
The heat. The humidity. The breeze. Miami, in all its sticky, glowy glory, feels perfect today.
I couldn’t stop myself from asking Luca that question last week. I was desperate. I needed to hear it. And yet his answer only brought more confusion, more ghosts from the past, more ache I wasn’t ready to unpack.
But he didn’t even need to say the words. His eyes spoke for him. And what I saw wrecked me. So much loneliness hiding behind that deep, ocean-blue gaze. So much pain. And God, it shattered me. Just remembering it now makes my chest feel cracked and raw.
I end the call with Lauren, feeling that guilt-heavy mix of sisterly worry and helplessness. I glance at my phone and spot a new message.
Gargoth:
Is happiness essential?
His questions always throw me off—quiet little thought bombs. And somehow, I can’t help answering.
Talking to strangers is supposed to be risky, I know. But this feels harmless. He doesn’t know my name, where I live, nothing real. It’s just words. And it feels… safe.
Love Lamb:
It’s necessary, definitely. But not constant. Happiness only shows up when it wants to.
Gargoth:
When was the last time you felt it?
The image slams into me before I can block it.
Luca. Sliding a ring onto my finger. Whispering promises against my lips. That night. His hands. His voice. Our bodies—whole and tangled and full of belief.
How can that be the last time I remember feeling happiness? Years ago. Lifetimes ago. Why is he still the memory that sticks?
Love Lamb:
More years ago than I want to admit. You?
Gargoth:
Same.
God. Who are you, Gargoth?
The rest of the afternoon, I go back to my canvas—my escape, my medicine, my confessional.
For this piece, I pick the colors deliberately: Red for passion, desire, everything I can’t say out loud.
Yellow for energy, the kind I fake every day.
Blue for authority, and the trust I broke.
Orange for ambition, for what we could’ve had.
Black for elegance… and for the darkness that lingers no matter how much I pretend it doesn’t.
I step back to look. It’s not finished. But it hums. It buzzes with tension, with feeling.
My hands tingle with the adrenaline of it.
Because I see him in it. His eyes. His pain.
His ghosts. And whether I want to admit it or not…
I see betrayal, too. I know I broke the trust between us.
He doesn’t know why I did it—why I had to. That I did it for him.
That was the most selfless thing I’ve ever done.