Emerson Sinclair was the perfect picture—polished, poised, and quietly suffocating. For years, she played the role expected of her: obedient daughter, flawless wife, Southern society darling. But beneath the surface, she was unraveling. One day, she walked away—from all of it.
With no plan and no safety net, Emerson retreats to her late grandmother’s cabin in the Georgia mountains. For the first time, she’s on her own, forced to figure out not just what she wants, but who she is without the mask.
Then she meets Sam Sterling—steady, grounded, and fiercely loyal. He doesn’t care about appearances or expectations. He sees through the polish and stays for the mess. Her flaws don’t scare him, they’re why he’s drawn to her. With quiet strength, he offers the kind of acceptance she’s never known—believing in her not for what she could be, but for who she already is.
Their connection starts quietly but deepens into something soul-shaking. And just as Emerson starts to believe in a future of her own choosing, life delivers a devastating blow.
To hold on to what she’s found, she’ll have to fight for herself—this time, for real.
Emerson Sinclair was the perfect picture—polished, poised, and quietly suffocating. For years, she played the role expected of her: obedient daughter, flawless wife, Southern society darling. But beneath the surface, she was unraveling. One day, she walked away—from all of it.
With no plan and no safety net, Emerson retreats to her late grandmother’s cabin in the Georgia mountains. For the first time, she’s on her own, forced to figure out not just what she wants, but who she is without the mask.
Then she meets Sam Sterling—steady, grounded, and fiercely loyal. He doesn’t care about appearances or expectations. He sees through the polish and stays for the mess. Her flaws don’t scare him, they’re why he’s drawn to her. With quiet strength, he offers the kind of acceptance she’s never known—believing in her not for what she could be, but for who she already is.
Their connection starts quietly but deepens into something soul-shaking. And just as Emerson starts to believe in a future of her own choosing, life delivers a devastating blow.
To hold on to what she’s found, she’ll have to fight for herself—this time, for real.
I wore the life they gave me like a diamond collar. Beautiful. Restrictive. Designed to impress—tight enough to silence.
Because expectations are the heaviest cages. You don’t see the bars until you try to leave.
The walls felt tighter tonight, the silence sharper, heavier somehow. I moved to the closet, my fingers brushing over clothes picked more for image than comfort. Carefully, methodically, I began to pack. This wasn’t a breakdown. It wasn’t a rebellion. It was the quiet start of something I should have done years ago.
My hand hovered over the rows of designer blouses, the glittering gowns Brad loved me to wear. I skipped them all. I wanted nothing that reminded me of the woman I had been trained to be—the perfect wife standing silently by his side.
I shoved jeans, sweaters, simple T-shirts into the suitcase—pieces that felt like me, or at least, the girl I hoped I could become.
The black dress caught my eye from the back of the closet. The one from last week’s gala. The one Brad had chosen.
“This is the one you need to be seen in, Emerson,” he had said, smoothing the fabric over my hip like he was adjusting a mannequin. Not a suggestion. A decision already made.
I had smiled for the cameras, posed by his side, playing the role everyone expected me to play. Like the life we built was real.
It wasn’t.
That night, after our photo op and his usual lap around the room, we ended up at a table full of his colleagues—people who talked in dollar signs and name-dropped like it paid commission. Someone had asked what I did, and before I could answer, Brad cut in.
“She’s an editor,” he said with a tight smile. “You know, fixes typos and grammar. It’s cute.”
A few people laughed. Not kindly.
I had tried to smile, tried to shrug it off, but the heat behind my eyes said everything. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it—shrinking me down so he could feel bigger. I was never important unless I was part of his image. And even then, it was only because my father owned the law firm.
Everything else about me—my thoughts, my work, my voice—had always been something he tolerated, not valued.
It had been unraveling for months—years, really—the gnawing emptiness, the conversations that circled and went nowhere, the loneliness that lived even when Brad was standing right beside me. I had tried. God, I had tried. Therapy. Church. Self-help books. Everything they told me would fix a marriage if I was willing to work hard enough. I thought I was the problem. That if I just tried harder, prayed harder, smiled harder, it would finally feel like home.
But the harder I fought, the clearer it became. I wasn’t broken. The life I had been shoved into was.
“Brad, I can’t keep living like this,” I had said one night, standing across from him at the long marble island. “I want to be in love. I want real happiness. You deserve that too.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone.
“You’re being dramatic, Emerson,” he said flatly, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “Everyone would kill for what we have. A good life, security, status. Stop making problems that aren’t there.”
It wasn’t the first time I had said it. It wasn’t even the fifth.
Every time I tried to reach for more, Brad made it clear there was nothing wrong with our marriage—as long as I stayed quiet, wore the right dress, smiled at the right parties. As long as I kept pretending.
“You don’t need to be in love to be successful,” he had told me once. “You need to be smart.”
He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a reflection of his own ambition. And I had been foolish enough to stand there and wonder why I felt invisible.
I zipped the suitcase halfway and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out across the room. The penthouse gleamed around me, cold and spotless, every surface shining with emptiness. It had never been a home. Just a stage.
My phone sat on the nightstand, face-down. I picked it up, scrolling through my recent calls. The last one blinked up at me: Mom and Dad. I hovered over it, remembering how that conversation had gone.
“I’m not happy,” I had said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’m not asking you to fix it. I’m just telling you. I can’t do this anymore.”
There had been a pause. The kind that says everything louder than words. Then my mother’s clipped voice. “Emerson, you have everything a woman could want. Why can’t you just be grateful?”
To them, this life wasn’t supposed to make me happy. It was supposed to make me enviable.
I dropped the phone onto the bed and stood up. There was more to pack. More to leave behind.
Brad hadn’t taken everything from me. But he had chipped away at the parts that mattered most—my independence, my confidence, my belief that I deserved more than curated perfection.
A month ago, I’d been laid off from the publishing house where I worked as an editorial director—the one place that had still felt like mine. When I came home and told Brad, he had barely blinked.
“Good,” he said, setting down his wine glass. “You don’t need to waste time working. Focus on us.”
By “us,” he meant himself. His career. His needs. His image.
And when I had mentioned applying for a new job, anything that would let me keep a piece of myself, his face had hardened.
“You don’t need to work, Emerson,” he said. “It makes me look bad. Like I can’t take care of my own wife.”
He hadn’t asked how I felt about losing the thing that kept me breathing. He hadn’t even pretended to care.
“You’ll regret this,” Brad had said the last time I brought up divorce. “Don’t be stupid, Emerson. You’re nothing without me. You’re going to end up broke and alone.”
But I didn’t care. Broke and alone sounded better than this. At least I’d have a chance to be happy — even if it meant starting over with nothing.
I wanted something real.
Something he would never be able to give me — because he didn’t even understand what it meant. I wasn’t broken. I just didn’t belong in the life they built for me.
Brad had always been there. Not by my choice, but by design.
Our families had been friends long before we were born—the Sinclairs and the Caldwells. Money. Power. Appearances. We grew up in the same circles, attending the same charity galas, the same family vacations, the same country club brunches. From the outside, it must have looked inevitable. And maybe, to them, it was.
When we were young, I didn’t think much of it. Brad was just another boy in a suit, another polished product of the world our parents built. But as we got older, the plan started to reveal itself. Not because I wanted it to. Because they did.
When I was seventeen, my father gave Brad an internship at his firm. It wasn’t a favor. It was positioning. They weren’t helping his career—they were setting the foundation. And I was part of it whether I knew it or not.
Dad brought him to dinner that summer, smiling in approval as Brad slid into our world with ease. “He’s great,” Dad said, grinning. “Ambitious, smart. Exactly the kind of man you need, Emerson.”
I hadn’t connected the dots yet. Brad was just… there. At every holiday. Every event. Always included. Always assumed. And when he started showing interest in me, it wasn’t a surprise. It was an expectation.
Mom had wasted no time planting the seeds. “You and Brad would make the perfect couple,” she said one morning over coffee. “Imagine your life. If you married him, the wedding would be the talk of the town.”
She didn’t ask how I felt. I had told her anyway.
“Mom, stop. I don’t love him,” I said, frustration cracking through my voice. “He feels like a brother.” She only smiled, as if it didn’t matter. “Passion is for the movies, Emerson. Real life is about partnership. Stability. You’ll grow to love him.”
Dad had agreed. “Trust me, sweetheart,” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Brad will take care of you. He’s the kind of man you need.”
And I trusted them. Because I didn’t know any better. Because I had been raised to believe they knew what was best.
The night before the wedding, I sat them down, trembling, trying to find the courage to make them hear me. “Mom, Dad, I can’t do this. I don’t love Brad. I don’t even like him that way.”
My mother’s face had hardened immediately. “Do you have any idea how much money has been spent? How much planning has gone into this? You’re not calling it off, Emerson. Think about how bad that would look.”
Dad had been calmer, but his words cut deeper. “You’re just nervous. Every bride feels that way. Trust me, you’ll be fine. Brad is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
The next day, I walked down the aisle, numb inside, the whole world blurring as I moved through the motions. The wedding was everything my mother had dreamed of. Grand. Impeccable. A spectacle designed to be envied.
Everything, that is, except me.
Maybe that’s why I never changed my name. Deep down, I had always known I wasn’t really Mrs. Bradley Caldwell—not in any way that mattered.
Tears burned my eyes as I yanked the suitcase closed. I had trusted them. I had smiled for the pictures, let everyone believe I was content. Let myself believe that maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could be. But I wasn’t. And deep down, I knew I never would be. Not here. Not with him.
I reached for the nightstand and picked up my grandmother’s journal, the worn leather soft under my fingers. She had been the only person who ever truly believed in me. The only one who saw the girl underneath the polished packaging.
“Follow your instincts, Emmy,” she used to say. “You know what’s right for you. Don’t let anyone else decide your life.”
Gram never fit the Sinclair mold. She was wild in a way that scared my parents. Unapologetic. Authentic. When I was younger, her words had been a lifeline—a whisper that maybe, just maybe, I was allowed to want more than the life my parents carved out for me.
I tucked her journal carefully into my purse, pressing it close to my heart for a moment. The room around me felt colder now—the walls, the furniture, even the air. It had never been a home. It had only ever been a mirage.
Two days ago, I had given my parents one last chance to see me. To hear me. To believe me. I had gone to their house, my heart pounding, my words tumbling out. How lost I felt. How much I needed something real. How I couldn’t stay in this marriage any longer.
My mother had barely let me finish. “For God’s sake, Emerson,” she said with a sigh. “Not this again.”
She didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask what I needed. She asked what it would look like. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” she said.
When I tried to explain—when I tried to tell them how hollow it all felt—it was met with the same polished, practiced dismissals.
“You’re overwhelmed,” my mother said, her voice cool and composed. “You just need a few days away. Clear your head. You’ll see things differently.”
Dad, ever the strategist, had only nodded in agreement. “Brad is a good man,” he said. “The son I never had.”
Their loyalty wasn’t to me. It was to the life they built. To the story they told themselves and everyone else.
There were good memories, too—before everything became about image and control. Back when I was still small enough to be loved without conditions. I remembered sitting on Dad’s shoulders at the Fourth of July parade, clutching a sparkler in one hand and a dripping snow cone in the other, certain I was the luckiest girl alive. Or the way Mom used to braid my hair while singing along to old records, calling me her little star. That love had been real. But it didn’t survive who I grew up to be.
The tears had burned, but I had refused to let them fall. I had spent my whole life trying to fit into the flawless image they expected.
But I wasn’t doing it anymore. I wasn’t staying where I didn’t belong. This time, I wasn’t asking for permission. This time, I was choosing myself.
With a sharp crack, the door flew open, cutting through the silence like a gunshot.
I went still. His footsteps were heavy as he entered, each one deliberate. The air shifted, colder, thicker. Brad stopped in the doorway, his tie hanging loose, his face flushed. His eyes landed on the suitcase by my side, narrowing.
“What the fuck is this?” His voice was low, cutting.
Adrenaline surged through me, but I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.
“I’m leaving, Brad.” I forced the words out. They felt shaky, like a bridge about to collapse.
Brad laughed, sharp and bitter. “Leaving? That’s cute.” I flinched at the sound of his keys hitting the floor. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
My pulse roared, but I forced myself still. Chin up, eyes locked. My voice came quieter this time, but I made sure it didn’t waver. “Anywhere but here.”
His expression darkened. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
His laugh died, replaced by a dangerous calm. He stepped closer. “You’re pulling this shit again?”
I held my ground. “I’m done, Brad. I’ve been done for years.”
His fists clenched. “After everything I’ve given you. Everything I’ve done for you. You’re really going to pull this shit with me?”
“You didn’t give me anything. I worked for this, too. And everything you’ve done has been for you and your image. Never for me.”
His eyes darkened further. “You’re insane. Do you even hear yourself? You’d be nothing without me, Emerson. Nothing.”
The words landed like a slap. But they didn’t break me.
I took a step back. “Maybe. But I’d rather be nothing than stay here with you.”
His smirk vanished. Something darker replaced it. The air between us felt tense, like static before a storm.
Brad moved in a blur, his steps deliberate and heavy, until he was towering over me. Brad’s fists clenched. Without warning, he turned and punched the wall, the crack of drywall splitting sharp through the air. Dust rained down as a jagged dent bloomed beside the doorway. He’d always had a temper.
“Do you think the world owes you something?” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “Spoiled, useless little brat.”
My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the silence.
“I’ll figure it out,” I said, my voice unsteady but firm. “I’m done living for you. And for them.”
His laughter was cold. Harsh.
“You won’t last a month. When you’re broke, alone, and begging for help, don’t even think about crawling back.”
My fingers locked around the suitcase handle. “I’m not coming back.”
Brad’s bitter laugh followed me as I moved toward the door—sharp, ugly, full of everything he didn’t have the words to say. Not love. Not regret. Just anger. Just failure.
I moved past him, keeping my steps steady even as my pulse raced. At the threshold, I paused for half a breath. Not because I doubted myself. But because this was the last time I’d ever stand inside a life I never chose.
The door shut behind me with a final, hollow click. Louder than his threats. Louder than any argument.
It wasn’t only a door closing. It was everything ending.
The hallway was quiet, my footsteps the only sound. My chest was tight, my steps unsteady, but each one felt lighter. My hands shook, but my resolve held.
The elevator chimed. I stepped in, gripping my suitcase. As the doors closed, I exhaled slowly, releasing the weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
The penthouse, Brad, my parents… they all felt farther away. Their expectations and control had been a second skin, but it was finally starting to fade.
As the elevator descended, it felt like layers of it were peeling away. Piece by piece.
The crisp night air hit me, sharp and clean. I inhaled deeply, letting it fill me. The city lights sparkled ahead, distant and untouchable.
I didn’t bother looking back.
I slid into the car, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring me. My eyes drifted to the passenger seat, where my grandmother’s journal rested. I ran my fingers over the creased leather as I picked it up, holding it close for a moment.
I started the engine. The hum calmed my nerves.
Atlanta shrank in the rearview mirror, mile after mile pulling me further from everything I had known. The further I got, the more the world outside shifted. The sharp edges of glass and concrete softened into rolling hills and stretches of open land. The trees lining the highway stood half-bare, clinging to the last chill of winter while reaching for the warmth of spring. A season between seasons. A life between lives.
My phone buzzed on the seat beside me. Brad’s name lit up the screen.
I didn’t answer.
I knew what would come next. He would call my parents. He would spin his story, paint himself as the victim. And they would believe him.
Their voices rose in my mind, sharp and disparaging.
Brad’s a good man, Emerson. You’re being emotional.
But their words didn’t have the same weight they used to. I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I was free.
Where to even begin with this masterpiece? I cannot believe this is a debut! This was such a wonderful and very touching story that will have you hoping you find someone who looks at and looks after you the way Sam Sterling does with Emerson “Emmy” Sinclair. There have been only a handful of books that have made me cry and this one really did it for me (and if you make it to page 314, you yourself will see why)!
Elle Christopher’s writing is truly stunning. She masterfully weaves together vivid descriptions, witty banter, and deeply developed characters. But what elevates her work is the powerful, poignant message at its heart: that you deserve the world and should never settle for anything less, because the right person will ensure you get it.
When I read the opening lines alone, I knew this was going to be a good read:
“I wore the life they gave me like a diamond collar. Beautiful. Restrictive. Designed to impress—tight enough to silence. Because expectations are the heaviest cages. You don’t see the bars until you try to leave.”
And to give you an idea of what I mean by her dazzling descriptions, just look at how she describes this:
“The night was unseasonably warm—low fifties, crisp but bearable, the kind of cold that made you breathe deeper instead of shiver. The sky stretched deep indigo, scattered with stars. The bonfire crackled at the heart of the marina, flames twisting upward, sending embers drifting like fireflies set loose. Laughter and music rolled over the water, the glow flickering across the lake’s surface—like the shimmer of a struck match, brief and electric, alive for just a moment before vanishing into the night.”
Indeed, Christopher really captured the essence of a person when they leave a toxic relationship and enter a healthy one. You often make yourself small or stay silent to avoid confrontations, lose a lot of confidence and find yourself trying to earn love at every opportunity. Worse, there is this feeling of dread and inevitability that good things are not, cannot be permanent, a constant waiting for the other shoe to drop even when someone genuinely cares for you. All because of the narcissists in this world like Brad are shallow and insecure enough to put others down. This was all explored exceptionally well!
As someone who has been through such a journey myself (albeit a while back and thankfully in not such a drastic manner), Emmy really resonates with me and I am sure a lot of people will feel the same way. In some ways (other than being a few years younger), I feel I’m very similar haha like the author read my mind – Elle, how did you know I’m also 5ft nothing, love Pride and Prejudice and have some editing experience myself?? On a serious note, her growth through this story was lovely to see. I was rooting for her every turn of the page!
Emmy is an inspiration to us all: she goes through so much and handles everything with grace, standing up for herself whenever she needs to because her feelings are valid. I cannot imagine having a family where everyone is so unsupportive; it was heartbreaking how she clings to memories of her childhood –where her mother used to cut her sandwiches into hearts and her dad looked after her when she fell from her bike– especially given the stark contrast of how these people treat her now. Those little details make this story all the more realistic and devastating!
The relationship between Sam and Emmy is so wholesome with their chemistry, banter and bond over their hardships. I love them FBOW (if you know, you know – okay, for those who don’t know it’s “for better or worse” but go find out why). I looked forward to every time Sam appeared. He really is “love is patient, love is kind” personified. He is confident and cocky and loves her to the extent he opens up about himself, cooks for her but also gets her to help him make food, is a gentleman and despite wanting her badly is patient and waits, comforts her, encourages her, remembers the small things about her, takes her on surprise trips, makes things for her, gives her jewellery, there is nothing this man won’t do for her.
I tried to get the words out, but I couldn’t find them. How could I? How do you thank someone for this? I’d been given flowers. Apologies. Promises. But never this. Never plans. Never permanence. Never the kind of love that was built like a house—measured, crafted, and meant to last. How do you tell someone that this—this quiet, deliberate care—is the most loved you’ve ever felt in your entire life?
Sam must have seen it in my eyes, because his grip on my hand tightened, like he was reminding me that I didn’t have to find the words—not with him.
Just a few things that I could say were negatives about the book but don’t detract from the overall story:
• A few interactions/moments felt repetitive (like Emmy being upset by something and Sam finding her upset, interruptions where Sam is called away; Emmy describing things as “incredible”)
• There was a potential to explore the actual Tunbridge community as Emmy only really interacts with Ute. Perhaps when Emmy works at the diner, there could have been more scenes where she gets talking more and more to her coworkers and we see the bond form better with them as it is hinted at on her last day there.
• The explanation of why peonies are Emmy’s favourite flower (their symbolism) should have come up the first time it’s mentioned rather than the second.
• The motorbike trip to see the view felt very fast. Perhaps this should have been one of the scenes where Sam opened up instead of down at the Sundancer.
I could talk about this story all day apparently haha but I must cease here. I’m sure we shall see more amazing things from Elle Christopher and if you’re still here don’t read me; read this book!