Page 1 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Robin

I peel the glitter off Emmie’s nose with a damp paper towel, trying not to laugh as she scrunches her face like a disgruntled kitten. “But Miss Robin, it tickles!” she giggles, bouncing on her tiny sneakers.

“Hold still, sparkle monster,” I tease, dabbing at the last stubborn piece of silver glitter.

Around us, the kindergarten classroom buzzes with controlled chaos—five-year-olds wielding safety scissors and construction paper with the focused intensity of surgeons.

The smell of Elmer’s glue and apple juice boxes fills the air, mingling with the sound of small voices chattering about their weekend adventures.

I try to memorize it all. Tuck it away in my heart. I’ll miss it so much, all of it.

“Miss Robin!” Tommy hollers, and waves his crooked paper crown in the air, the purple construction paper already wilting. “Look! I’m the king of dinosaurs!”

“That’s amazing, Tommy.” I crouch down to his eye level, adjusting the crown so it sits properly on his dark curls. “But remember, even dinosaur kings need to use their inside voices.”

He nods solemnly, then immediately roars at his best friend.

Mrs. Henderson, the lead kindergarten teacher, approaches with that tired smile I know so well.

There’s a suspicious orange stain on her cardigan that might be paint or might be goldfish crackers.

But I’m sure I’ve got glitter in places I’ll only find once I shower.

“Robin, honey, could you see why Sophia’s put herself in the quiet corner?

I think it might have something to do with—” She mouths the word, the separation .

Sophia’s mother mentioned it this morning when she dropped Sophia off.

Sure enough, Sophia sits cross-legged in the quiet corner, clutching a crumpled piece of paper to her chest. Her dark eyes are glassy with unshed tears and my heart squeezes. I know that look.

I’ve worn it myself.

“Of course.” I make my way over, settling beside her on the colorful alphabet rug. “Hey, sweetheart. Want to tell me what’s making you sad?”

She sniffles, holding up her paper, where she’s drawn herself, her brother, and her mom. “I don’t know if I should put my daddy on here. He doesn’t live with us anymore.”

I smooth her dark hair back from her face.

“Sometimes daddies live somewhere else, but that doesn’t make them any less part of the family tree.

You can add him in here, just above you and your brother.

” I point above the place where she’s already written her own name and her brother’s. “Then Mommy goes over here.”

Her face brightens. “Can I add my dog too? Bluebell sleeps in my bed every night.”

“Absolutely. Dogs are definitely family.”

As Sophia gets back to work, Mrs. Henderson pulls me aside. Her expression grows serious.

“Robin.” Her voice is soft, careful. “I hate that today is your last day. I hate it more than I can tell you.”

“I know.” The words come out thick. “I hate it too.”

The district has cut funding for teacher’s aides across all elementary schools. Budget constraints, they called it. Necessary adjustments. A dozen other phrases that meant the same thing: there was no money for people like me.

“These kids adore you,” she continues, glancing around the classroom where several children are vying for my attention even from across the room, holding up artwork or broken toys that need fixing. “You’re a natural, Robin. They light up when they see you.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” I start, but she holds up a hand.

“Then let me finish. You’ve been saying for two years now that you want to go to college, become a teacher. Well, now you don’t have an excuse not to, and I’ll support any application you make for financial aid or scholarships.”

Her voice is firm, the same tone she uses when Tommy tries to convince her that he definitely put his worksheet in his backpack, and I find myself smiling.

“But Robin…there’s something else,” she goes on quietly, and my stomach drops. “About the insurance. The school has agreed to hold off submitting your final termination for thirty days. That’ll keep your benefits active through next month. But after that...”

“After that, we’re on our own.” I finish the sentence she can’t quite say. I already knew it, but I’ve been hoping I’d somehow get another job before my time here was up.

Now I have thirty days to figure out how to get health insurance for five people when our monthly income barely covers rent and groceries. Thirty days to find a way to pay for Maisie’s medications without the partial coverage we’ve been relying on.

Thirty days to perform a financial miracle.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Henderson says, and I can hear that she means it. “I wish there was more I could do.”

“You’re doing everything you can. More than enough.” I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Thank you. For the insurance thing, I mean. That thirty days might make all the difference.”

“Robin Rivers.” Mrs. Henderson fixes me with that look that made decades of five-year-olds confess to crayon-related crimes.

“Promise me something.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.

“Promise me you won’t give up on your dreams completely.

I know you have responsibilities at home.

But don’t let those responsibilities become an excuse to stop believing in yourself. ”

I promise her, and I even sound convincing to my own ears. But dreams are for people who can afford them. And right now, I need to focus on keeping my family alive.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of coat and hat distribution and the controlled chaos of dismissal. I help zip jackets, tie shoes, and make sure everyone has their backpacks.

“See you on Monday, Miss Robin!” Sophia sings, and my heart breaks a little more. We haven’t made a big deal out of my leaving, because we agreed it was better for the kids that way. But now Sophia seems to have forgotten.

“No, sweetheart. Remember, I’m going away to try some new things. But Mrs. Henderson will take wonderful care of you.”

“But I like you better,” she says with the devastating honesty of a five-year-old.

“I like you, too. So very much.”

The classroom empties, leaving behind the battlefield of any good day with kindergarteners—scattered crayons, forgotten sweaters, and the lingering scent of childhood. I help Mrs. Henderson straighten up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs.

Then I grab my purse—a worn leather thing I found at Goodwill three years ago—and step into the harsh Vegas afternoon.

The transition is always jarring. Inside the school, I’m surrounded by finger paintings and the innocent chaos of childhood.

Out here, the real world waits with all its edges and complications.

I unlock my ancient Honda Civic, praying it starts on the first try. The engine turns over with a reluctant wheeze, and I pull out of the school parking lot, navigating through traffic toward the apartment complex I call home.

All the gleaming casinos are miles away from our apartment complex, which is in the middle of a neighborhood that’s seen better decades.

The parking lot is more pothole than asphalt, and someone’s music thumps from a first-floor unit.

I climb the interior stairs to the second floor, fishing my keys from my purse.

The smell hits me before I even open the door—tuna casserole—and my stomach grumbles as I enter. I skipped lunch today so that there’s be enough for the kids. A note is stuck to the refrigerator in Adrian’s scrawl: Dinner’s in the fridge. Maisie had a good day.

Adrian’s eighteen now, technically an adult, but he’s never gotten to be a kid. None of them have, really. I’ve tried to give them that, but some days I feel like I’m failing everyone.

Including myself.

I set my purse on the kitchen counter and call out, “I’m home!”

“Robin!” Maisie’s voice drifts over the back of the couch, weaker than I’d like but still bright. I find her wrapped in her faded blue blanket. She’s pale, with tired eyes, but she smiles to see me.

“Hey, baby girl.” I settle beside her, pulling her into a gentle hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she lies. “Adrian made grilled cheese for lunch, and I ate it all.”

“That’s wonderful.” I search her face for signs of cyanosis and, finding none, I breathe a silent sigh of relief. “What are we watching?”

“Some cartoon. It’s new, I think.”

I settle in beside her, letting the mindless chatter of animated characters wash over me.

These quiet moments with Maisie are precious and terrifying.

She’s getting worse, and we all know it.

Maisie was born with a heart defect that was partially corrected with surgery when she was just a baby.

Now, at 11, she needs further surgery. And she needs it soon.

The insurance company has been fighting it for months.

The front door opens and Alicia shuffles in, her backpack dragging behind her like an anchor.

“How was school, honey?”

“Awful.” She flops into the chair across from us, her blonde hair hanging in her eyes. “Mrs. Peterson assigned another essay, and I don’t even know how to start it. I read the book, but it didn’t make sense .”

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe Dane can help.”

“He’s already helping me with math.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’m so stupid, Robin.”

“Hey.” I lean forward, catching her eyes. “You are not stupid. Your brain just works differently, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Some of the most brilliant people in the world struggled in school.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway.

Dane wanders in from his bedroom, fifteen years old and carrying himself like the weight of the world rests on his broadening shoulders. His sandy hair needs a cut, and there’s that stubborn set to his jaw that means he’s about to argue with me about something.