The presenter cleared his throat, shuffling his notes with the kind of theatrical pause that made me want to storm the stage and read the damn card myself.
“And this year’s recipient of the North Carolina Emerging Artist Award is...” He smiled out at the audience. “Emily McIntyre.”
The silence around us was deafening for a split second, before the roar of applause washed over us. Emily didn’t move. She just stared at the stage like it was a foreign country she wasn’t allowed to enter.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
I leaned in close. “Sweetheart, that’s you. You have to go up there now.”
“Oh god.” She released my hand and stood on shaky legs. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
I watched her make her way to the stage, my heart pounding like it was me up there instead of her. She climbed the stairs, accepted the award from the presenter, and turned to face the audience.
The stage lights caught the gold of her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes. She smiled for the photographer, the trophy clutched to her chest, and I couldn’t look away.
That was my girl up there.
My girl, who’d been told a thousand times she wasn’t good enough. Who’d carried scars and shame and a lifetime of someone else’s cruelty. Who’d clawed her way out of the dark and built something beautiful from the wreckage.
Pride burned through me, fierce and hot.
She came back down the stairs with a smile that could rival the sun. I was on my feet before she reached me, pulling her into my arms right there in the middle of the nominee’s section.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” I murmured against her hair.
She laughed, the sound wet and shaky. “I didn’t throw up.”
“I noticed. Very impressed.”
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. More awards, more applause, none of it registering because Emily was pressed against my side, her fingers tangled with mine, her trophy balanced on her lap.
When it finally ended, we joined the stream of people flowing toward the exits. Emily kept looking down at the award in her hands like she expected it to disappear.
“It’s real,” I told her.
“I know.”
“You keep checking.”
“I know that too.” She grinned up at me, radiant. “It’s just because I can’t believe it’s real.”
We reached the wide double doors leading out to the atrium and Emily stopped dead.
I followed her gaze and my stomach dropped.
Monica and Anthony McIntyre stood just beyond the threshold, clearly positioned to intercept us. Monica wore a fixed smile that honestly looked a little ghastly. Anthony looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, which was at least consistent.
Every muscle in my body pulled tight, coiling like a spring, ready to snap. I didn’t care if we were in a gallery. I didn’t care if there were cameras. If they said one wrong word to her, I was going to cause a scene that would make the evening news.
I stepped forward, putting my body between them and Emily.
But she squeezed my hand. Hard. A silent plea to stand down.
Monica stepped forward. “Emily, darling.”
“Sorry.” Emily’s voice was pleasant. Polite. Ice cold. “Do I know you?”
Monica let out a brittle laugh. “What are you talking about? I’m your mother. I love you.” She pressed a hand to her chestin a gesture that was probably meant to look sincere. “We just wanted to see you get your award.”
