Chapter 1

The air in Kyler Hamilton's room always felt thin.

Today, it was worse. He paced, a caged animal in his own silk pajamas.

"You're just a human tranquilizer, Emily." His voice, usually a low drawl, was tight. "A highly paid, breathing sedative."

My stomach clenched. I kept my face smooth. That was the job.

"Your 'aura' is what they're buying. Nothing more."

He stopped, glared at me. His handsome face, usually just pale, was flushed.

"Don't ever forget that."

I nodded. A small, barely perceptible movement.

It started four years ago. A phone call to our cramped house in rural Georgia.

Mrs. Hamilton's voice, crisp and distant. She'd heard about me, about my... gift.

A local woman, one who read palms and tea leaves, had told a visiting relative of the Hamiltons about me.

Said I had a "calming presence," an energy that could soothe troubled minds.

My family was drowning in debt. My father's medical bills were a mountain.

The offer was obscene. Enough money to pull us out, to let us breathe.

The price was me.

I was to live in their Long Island mansion. To be a companion, an "emotional stabilizer," for their son, Kyler.

He suffered from severe anxiety, debilitating mood swings.

I remember the drive up. The trees got taller, the houses bigger.

The Hamilton estate wasn't a house. It was a fortress of old money and quiet desperation.

I walked in, clutching a worn canvas bag with my few clothes.

Mrs. Hamilton, elegant and cool, led me to Kyler's wing.

He was propped up in a vast bed, looking like a fallen angel. Pale skin, dark hair, eyes that missed nothing.

He studied me. A flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"So, you're the miracle worker from the sticks," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

The words weren't loud, but they landed hard.

"Mother seems to think you're a good investment."

He gestured to a pitcher of water and a glass on a nearby table.

"Pour me some water, miracle worker."

I did, my hands steady despite the tremor inside me.

He took a sip, then looked at the glass as if it were a curious, slightly distasteful object.

"Tap water?"

"It's filtered, sir," I said.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Of course. Only the best for the broken heir."

The glass remained on the table, untouched.

My throat felt tight. The air, even then, was thin.