At three in the morning, the small desk lamp in the Brooklyn apartment cast a harsh, yellow glow.
Emerson's eyes were bloodshot. Dark purple bags hung heavily under them.
The trash can next to her drafting table was overflowing with crumpled balls of sketch paper. More rejected drawings littered the floor around her feet.
She bit down hard on her lower lip. Her right hand was cramping violently from gripping the pencil for ten hours straight.
She shook her hand out, wincing at the pain, and immediately picked the pencil back up.
The sound of the damaged door groaning open broke the silence. Alden walked in, pushing aside the makeshift barricade Emerson had placed there. The hinges shrieked in protest, a harsh reminder of the violence from days ago.
He carried two insulated paper bags that smelled like roasted chicken.
He stopped and looked at the disaster zone around the drafting table. He saw Emerson's pale, exhausted face. His brow furrowed deeply.
He walked over, reached down, and physically pulled the pencil out of her hand.
"Hey!" Emerson protested, reaching for it.
Alden ignored her. He placed a steaming cup of black coffee and a wrapped sandwich right on top of her sketchpad.
"You are going to eat," Alden ordered. His voice left no room for argument.
Emerson rubbed her throbbing temples. She let out a long breath and picked up the coffee. The heat felt good against her freezing palms. She took a large gulp.
Alden pulled up a folding chair and sat next to her. He looked down at the paper.
It was a half-finished sketch of a necklace. Black thorns wrapped tightly around a blood-red center stone.
"It's incredible," Alden said softly. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
For a brief second, the apartment felt warm. Safe.
Then, Alden's phone erupted with a shrill, obnoxious ringtone.
It vibrated violently on the table. The screen lit up with the name: Mother.
Alden's face instantly darkened. He reached out to decline the call.
Emerson grabbed his wrist. She shook her head. "Answer it. She's your mother."
Alden gritted his teeth. He pressed the green button and put it on speakerphone, wanting to prove he had nothing to hide.
Beatrice's sharp, commanding voice blasted through the small room.
"You are attending the dinner at Le Bernardin tomorrow night," Beatrice ordered.
"I'm busy," Alden said flatly.
"You will make time," Beatrice snapped. "I have arranged a meeting with Senator Hayes' daughter. She can bring massive political backing to your firm."
Alden closed his eyes. "I'm not going on a blind date, Mother."
"Stop wasting your life!" Beatrice screamed through the speaker. "Stop playing house in Brooklyn with that poor woman and her dying bastard!"
Alden snatched the phone off the table. He turned off the speakerphone.
"I said no!" Alden roared into the receiver.
Beatrice's voice was muffled now, but Emerson could still hear the hysterical crying and the sound of something glass shattering on the other end.
"If you don't go, I will pull my initial investment out of your firm tomorrow morning!" Beatrice threatened.
Alden's face turned pale. He hung up the phone and threw it onto the sofa. His chest heaved.
The apartment was dead silent. The warmth was completely gone.
Emerson set her half-eaten sandwich down. Her stomach churned violently. She felt sick.
She looked at Alden. Her eyes were completely calm, which was worse than if she were crying.
"She's right," Emerson said quietly. "You shouldn't waste your time here."
Alden panicked. He grabbed her arm. "I don't care about the Senator's daughter. I don't care about the money."
Emerson yanked her arm out of his grip.
"I do," Emerson said. Her voice was like ice. "I will not let Leo carry the guilt of ruining your life."
She pointed to the door. "Get out."
"Emerson, please-"
"I need absolute silence to finish this," she said, turning her back to him. "Leave."
Alden stared at her rigid back. He knew he couldn't win this fight tonight. He grabbed his coat and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, Emerson collapsed over the drafting table.
A single tear slipped down her cheek and landed on the paper.
She wiped it away aggressively. She picked up her pencil.
She channeled all the humiliation, all the anger, and all the pain into the tip of the graphite.
Two hours later, the final draft of the "Crown of Thorns" was complete.
