Emma glowered a the lit up screen clutched in her hand while Cynthia weaved around the living room furniture, pacing as her eyes darted between Emma's perch on the sofa and mine on a nearby stool.

"He pleaded guilty," my sister repeated. "They're saying he made some deal with the prosecutor—"

"He shouldn't get a deal," I bit.

"He may not get jail time," Cynthia chided me through gritted teeth, "But he's on probation at least, which means he can't go near Emma or hurt anyone else and for what it's worth—"

"They released the photos," Emma whispered, suddenly leaning back into the abundance of pillows my mother's designer had piled onto the couch.

"Of the bar?" I asked, confused.

Those had infested the Internet for weeks, plaguing both of us and—to my sister's increasing concern—the foundation.

Whatever algorithms dictated search engine results had thoroughly linked the foundation's name to articles and pictures of the night at the bar. The damn pictures of me wailing on that prick were everywhere, and it seemed there was nothing our PR team could do to lessen them or the negative impact they had on the brand my sister had so meticulously constructed for us.

Emma merely shook her head.

"I didn't see any photos of the arrest," Cynthia frowned, her temper giving way to concern.

"Of me," Emma breathed.

My eyes widened in horror as I leaned over Emma's shoulder and stared at the photo of a pale wrist with familiar yellow and purple bruises.

"The police took it when I made the report," she explained in a whisper.

Cynthia slowly lowered herself into the seat beside Emma's. "H-He did that to you?"

She hesitated before bobbing her head, yes.

Cynthia twisted around, seething up at me. "You should have nailed him in the—"

"I would've, but Emma beat me to it." My eyes flicked from the screen to Emma's face, trying to get a read on her expression, but a curtain of loose ringlets blocked my view.

Cynthia readjusted herself and nodded approvingly at Emma. "Good girl."

Emma didn't acknowledge her praise; in fact, she hardly seemed to register any of it. She scrolled through another article and then another, each prominently featuring the same photo.

I glanced toward my sister to send her a stern look warning not to push any farther, but Cynthia didn't meet my gaze. Instead, she sat perfectly still without saying a word.

A baffled grin slowly began to tug at the corners of my mouth as I wondered how my sister—never one to be passive, but rather always the one to take control of a situation—had known to wait, to give Emma the time and the quiet she needed.

Several minutes past before Emma made a sound, but, eventually, she exhaled forcefully. "What the fuck is with the world's fetish with battered women?"

"I don't know," Cynthia chirped, "But I'm sick of the bloody rubbish they're spewing."

Slowly, Emma tilted her chin toward Cynthia, assessing her before asking: "How do we make it stop?"

My heart lurched into my throat as I failed to devise a solution that didn't end with us breaking up.

Cynthia leaned forward with a Cheshire grin. "We changed the narrative."

While it was still better than any of my ideas, I could see the mechanisms turning in my sister's mind and I didn't trust it one bit. "Cynthia..."

Emma ignored my warning tone and turned her shoulders to face her. "What do you have in mind?"

"There's a Gala tonight," Cynthia said quickly, capitalizing on the moment. "You could come—the both of you—and present a unified front."

Emma's brows lifted. "That'd be enough?"

"No—" I cut in, but Cynthia held on strongly to the helm of the discussion.

"It'd be a start," she nodded eagerly.

I gripped the back of the couch, feeling the cool leather grow taught beneath my fingertips. "She's not a damn show pony, Cynthia!"

"I didn't say she was!" She exclaimed as she sent a glare over Emma's shoulder at me.

"But you're asking her to trot around a room and use her good grace to get the donors back into ours?"

Cynthia's well-composed smile faltered into a taught scowl. "I was just suggesting—"

"I'll do it."

I softly placed my hand on her shoulder closest to me and dropped into a kneel so as to be closer to her eye level. At my touch, Emma glanced over at me.

"Emma, please listen to me," I begged. "It's not worth it."

She hesitated, and I could tell she was considering my words as well as my expression. "If it'll help the foundation, then it's worth it—besides it's a gala, not a torture chamber," she added with an attempted smirk.

I did my best not to roll my eyes. "Says the introvert," I said instead.

"Tom," she smiled softly as she placed her hand over mine, squeezing it. "I'll be fine."

I shook my head, adamant that she understand me, that she understand the true consequences of what she was offering to do. "It's different when you're putting on a show. It's not... it's just not the same as to what you're used to."

"I'll be fine," she said again, and then added with a conspiratorial smile. "You'll be there, how could I not be?"

I opened my mouth to retort, but she had already turned to back to Cynthia. "I don't know what you're supposed to wear to an event like this. I don't think I have anything suitable."

"Do you have any evening wear? Something elegant but also something you can dance in?"

Emma shook her head, no.

"Sounds like the perfect excuse to go shopping!"

A flush of red blossomed on Emma's cheeks. "Oh, well, I—"

I sighed and attempted to admit my defeat with grace. I gave Emma's hand one final squeeze before raising myself up to stand behind her. "Trisha works at a couture boutique, doesn't she?"

She nodded. "Well, yes, but—"

"Ask her to pick out whatever you like and put it on my card."

Emma blanched. "Tom—"

"You'll need armor if you're going into the trenches," I grumbled before leaning down and planting a kiss in her hair. "Call her."

"Brilliant!" Cynthia exclaimed, clapping her hands. "You're a dream, Emma, really. And ignore my brother—we'll be with you the whole time. It will all go smoothly, I promise."

I turned and stalked into the kitchen, unable to stomach watching Emma swallow yet another empty royal promise.