Chapter 27 Samantha
SAMANTHA
The smell of cinnamon and pine always takes me back to the last Christmas with Mom.
I was seventeen. She’d been in remission for six months, and we actually believed she’d beaten it. The cancer was gone. The doctors were optimistic. We had our lives back.
She went overboard that year. Decorations in every room. Cookies baking constantly. Christmas music playing from morning until night. Like she was making up for the Christmas before, when she’d been too sick to leave the hospital.
I helped her string lights around the living room windows of our small apartment. She stood on a step stool while I handed her the strands, and she hummed along to Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases.
“This is perfect,” she said, stepping back to admire our work. “This is exactly what Christmas should feel like.”
“It’s just lights, Mom.”
“It’s not just lights.” She pulled me into a hug. “It’s hope. It’s joy. It’s believing that good things can happen even when everything’s been terrible.”
We spent Christmas Eve baking her famous sugar cookies, the recipe her grandmother taught her. She let me cut out the shapes while she mixed frosting in bowls, adding food coloring until we had every color imaginable.
“When you have kids someday,” she said, piping green frosting onto a tree-shaped cookie, “you’ll make these with them. And you’ll tell them about your grandmother who made the best cookies in Chicago.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I told her. “You’ll make them with your grandkids yourself.”
She smiled, but something in her eyes was sad. “Maybe. But just in case, pay attention to how I do this. The trick is getting the consistency right. Too thick and it won’t spread. Too thin and it runs everywhere.”
I paid attention. Watched her hands move with practiced ease. Memorized every step.
Three months later, the cancer came back. Six months after that, she was gone.
I never made those cookies again.
Standing in the Hale estate kitchen on Christmas Day, watching Mrs. Borris pull sugar cookies from the oven, the memory hits me so hard I have to grip the counter to stay upright.
“You alright, dear?” Mrs. Borris asks.
“Fine. Just remembered something.” I force a smile. “They smell amazing.”
“Old family recipe.” She sets the tray down to cool. “Been making these for the Hales since the boys were small.”
I watch her work and think about Mom. About that last Christmas when we believed everything would be okay. About how quickly hope can turn into grief.
I’m pregnant with a baby for men I was supposed to destroy. Men who are planning nurseries and discussing parenting strategies like we’re a real family.
But we’re not a real family because they don’t know the truth about me. And I can’t bring a child into this lie.
The thought has been growing for days, settling into certainty that makes me sick. I can’t have this baby. Can’t bind myself permanently to people I deceived. Can’t raise a child built on the foundation of betrayal.
I need to end this before it goes any further.
“I should get back to work,” I tell Mrs. Borris. “Thank you for letting me help.”
“Anytime, dear. You’re always welcome in my kitchen.”
I leave before the tears can start and head toward the medical wing.
The pharmacy is empty like it was before. I move quickly, finding the section with medications I shouldn’t be looking for. Mifepristone. Misoprostol. The two-pill regimen for early pregnancy termination.
My hands shake as I read the labels. Instructions. Dosage. Side effects.
This is insane. I’m stealing abortion medication from the estate pharmacy like some kind of criminal.
But what choice do I have?
I can’t tell them the truth. Can’t admit I came here to destroy them. Can’t watch their faces when they realize everything between us has been built on lies. Better to end the pregnancy quietly. Tell them I miscarried. Let them comfort me while I grieve something I chose to terminate.
The guilt is suffocating, but I shove the pills into my pocket and leave before anyone can find me.
Back in my room, I hide them in the bottom of my drawer, wrapped in tissues and buried under clothes. Evidence of a decision I haven’t fully committed to but can’t walk away from.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the drawer.
This is wrong. I know this is wrong.
But so is lying to them about who I am. So is pretending I came here for any reason other than revenge. So is carrying a baby conceived during a mission to ruin their lives.
Everything is wrong, and I don’t know how to make any of it right.
My phone rings. Robert’s name flashes on the screen.
I almost don’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail so I can have a few more hours of pretending everything’s fine.
But I answer anyway.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” His voice is warm, but there’s an edge underneath. “How are the celebrations?”
“Good. We’re having a nice day.” I move to the window, watching snow fall outside. “How are you?”
“I’m actually in Colorado. At the main resort.”
My blood goes cold. “What? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“It was last-minute. Business opportunity I couldn’t pass up.” He pauses. “We need to talk. In person.”
“Robert, I can’t just leave right now. We’re in the middle of Christmas—”
“This can’t wait.” His tone shifts, becomes harder. “I’ve been patient, Samantha. I’ve given you space to do what needs to be done. But I need an update. A real one. Not the vague texts you’ve been sending.”
“I’ve been busy. The pregnancy—”
“I know about the pregnancy. That’s part of why we need to talk.” Silence stretches between us. “You’re in deeper than we planned. I need to know where your head is and whether you’re still committed to what we discussed.”
The revenge plan. He’s asking if I’m still committed to destroying the Hales.
“Of course I am,” I lie. “I just need more time.”
“Time is running out. The roads are starting to clear. Soon you’ll have no excuse to stay, and we’ll have wasted months with nothing to show for it.”
“That’s not true. I’ve learned about their operations, their business—”
“Surface information I could have gotten from public records.” His frustration bleeds through. “I need details, Samantha. Real intelligence. Access to their accounts. Names of their associates. Something I can actually use.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Are you? Or are you playing house with three men and forgetting why you’re there?”
The accusation stings because it’s true.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I say quietly. “I remember exactly why I’m here. I remember what they did to Mom. I’m handling it.”
“Then handle it faster. Meet me at the main resort. Tonight. We’ll discuss next steps.”
“I can’t just leave. They’ll ask questions. Why didn’t you tell me before coming? I could have arranged it properly. Told Grant my father was visiting. Made it seem normal.”
“I’m telling you now. And it couldn’t wait.” His voice softens slightly. “Samantha, I know this is hard. But your mother deserves justice. The Hales destroyed everything she built. They killed her as surely as if they’d pulled a trigger. You can’t lose sight of that.”
The guilt crashes over me again. Mom. The whole reason I’m here. The reason I spent a year planning this with Robert.
Except I’m not sure they destroyed her business anymore. I’m not sure about anything except that I’m drowning in lies and don’t know how to surface.
“What time?” I ask.
“Seven. The Lakeside Restaurant is in the main resort building. It’ll be crowded enough that no one will notice us, but we can talk privately.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Good girl. And Samantha? Don’t tell them you’re meeting me. This stays between us.”
“I understand.”
“See you tonight.”
The call ends, and I’m left staring at my reflection in the dark window.