Chapter 17 #2
The routine comes back like muscle memory. I fake energy, falling into the steps and stunts like I’d not missed an entire month, smiling like it doesn’t hurt to exist. After, a girl from our squad approaches hesitantly.
“Hey,” she says. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. About Ethan.”
I freeze, my blood turning to ice. She means well, I know she means well. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that he’s dead because of what he did to me. She doesn’t know he’s dead because someone who owns my freaking soul killed him.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “I’m… still processing.” I offer her a small smile and vanish before she can say anything else.
Later that day, I visit Professor Doyle’s office. He’s kind, but stern, with salt-and-pepper hair, his reading glasses on a chain around his neck.
“You’ve missed four weeks, Miss Sandoval,” he says, steepling his fingers. “But your early coursework was strong. You’ll need to write two makeup essays, and complete the group presentation for Psych 324 with Ms Everson. Your partners have been holding it down for you.”
I nod. “Thank you. I’ll get it all done.”
He studies me carefully. His brown eyes seeing wholly too much of my fractured soul. “Are you all right?”
I smile. Bright. Too bright to be anything other than fake. “Absolutely. Never better.”
He catches me up on other parts of the lectures that I’ve missed, then dismisses me with a ‘maybe you should sign up for counselling.’ Charming. Clearly the fake smile wasn’t convincing him either.
By the time I get home that evening, I’ve forced myself to believe the lie that I am perfectly alright.
That I’m fine. That none of it touched me, and that he doesn’t haunt me in every shadow.
I sit on the couch, flipping through my notes, acting like I didn’t almost die and get dragged to Hell, almost believing a demon prince with eyes like ruin actually cared about me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
It’s December.
Christmas is creeping in through the fairy lights strung up in shop windows, through the sound of carols on repeat.
On the outside, I do what I always do. I smile.
I laugh. I help Ezra and Talia hunt down the perfect presents, pretending it doesn’t sting every time I walk past a cute couple sharing hot chocolate, or taking cute Christmas photos.
I perfect the role of playing pretend. I make Christmas-themed drinks at the cafe with precision—peppermint mochas, gingerbread lattes, cinnamon-dusted cappuccinos.
My fingers seem to constantly smell of vanilla syrup, nutmeg, and burnt espresso.
But despite everything, I secretly love it.
The songs play on repeat—All I Want For Christmas Is You, Last Christmas, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.
They’re on a loop at work—and damn them—I hum along constantly, even when they’re not playing.
Because Christmas is still my favourite time of year, even now, when nothing feels the same.
This was supposed to be my first Christmas with a boyfriend.
With him. Before it all went sour, before he got too touchy, too demanding, I imagined snow falling outside while we curled up together in my too-small apartment.
I imagined his fingers tangling in the lights as we put them up, going on about football and other stupid stuff I didn’t care about, and then pretending not to enjoy it when he inevitably got the star perfectly centred on the top of the tree.
And now? Now I drink cheap wine in candy cane pyjamas and sit by myself in the dark, pretending it doesn’t hurt that I’m alone.
Worse, his parents will be spending Christmas without their son, and that guilt settles into my chest like frost. I know I shouldn’t feel responsible, Ethan made his choices.
But I do. I feel it like a bruise to the heart every time someone says “Merry Christmas.”
The winter ball comes and goes. Ezra begged me to go with them, promising a magical night of fake snow and photos by a glittering tree.
I made excuses, making Talia look at me like she didn’t believe half of the crap I was saying, but she didn’t push.
Instead, I worked, volunteering to do the late.
I scrubbed countertops and refilled napkin dispensers while the other staff all went home early.
At night, I sit in my dimly lit apartment with the glow of the tree Ezra helped me decorate.
It’s a chaotic disaster—tacky, bright, but absolutely perfect.
Glittery bows, mismatched baubles, multicoloured lights.
There’s an ornament that’s shaped like a flamingo, a taco, a tiny demon with a Santa hat that Ezra insisted looked like he who holds my soul.
There are presents under the tree, wrapped in obnoxiously glittery paper and aggressively large bows.
One from Talia, one from Ezra, one from my boss.
The kindness of it all makes my heart ache.
Christmas Eve quickly comes around, college and work making the festive period fly by in a bright, hazy blur.
I’m curled on my sofa in the same candy-cane pyjamas I’ve worn all month, blonde hair in two braided pigtails, the lights on the tree blinking quietly in the corner.
The bottle is halfway empty, no longer giving me the same buzz it used to when I first started turning to wine to numb the darkness that often creeped into my mind as day turned to dusk.
The Christmas movie ends, and I find myself starting to cry.
Not loud sobs, just soft tears sliding down my face as I stare at the tree softly glowing in the corner of my tiny apartment.
I find myself missing Aran. His soft words and his calm presence.
The way he let me be human without pitying me for it.
I even miss the halls of Zeriavoss—the stone beneath my feet, the smell of fire and intoxicating fruits.
I dream about it constantly, because for some strange reason, I’m homesick for a realm that told me I didn’t belong.
And worse—I miss him. Korithax. Even after everything, even after his words broke me open. I wake up some nights after dreams of him, his realm, gripping my shoulder, where the birthmark hums faintly like it’s remembering something I’ve already forgotten.
Ezra had offered for me to go to his family’s house for Christmas, telling me about all the wonderful things he and his parents get up to over the festive period.
Talia joined in and told me her family’s traditions also.
I had smiled at them, my heart genuinely warming up knowing my friends had such amazing homes to return to.
I declined Ezra’s invitation, making a lie that I had agreed to go spend Christmas with my dad.
He was suspicious, constantly questioning me on the run-up to his leaving for the festive break.
He knows that my relationship with my dad had been strained since my mom died, so he was shocked to hear I’d agreed to go spend my Christmas with him in his home.
Of course, I wasn’t actually doing that.
Despite Christmas being my favourite time of year, this year, I wasn’t feeling very festive at all.
Ezra and his parents didn’t deserve to have my bad energy bringing down their Christmas spirit.
They deserved peace and happiness, not a depressed twenty-year-old ruining their holiday.
I glance at the time on my phone and drag myself up, opting to leave the rest of the bottle on the coffee table. It was time for me to crawl into bed, the thought of tomorrow filling me with dread. Maybe I’ll just sleep through it and pretend this year that Christmas doesn’t exist.
I push open the door to my bedroom, sleepily rubbing my eyes, when a presence makes me freeze entirely. I don’t even have to look up to know who’s in my room, but I do anyway.
There he is, sitting on the edge of my bed like he didn’t leave me over a month ago, departing with pure hatred pouring from his mouth.
He’s sitting so nonchalantly like he didn’t shatter my entire being after having me put back together by his healers.
A small box rests in his hands, wrapped in a deep black paper, tied with a red silk ribbon.
My breath stutters. “Korithax?”
He looks up, lips curling into something too sharp to be called a smile. “Merry Christmas, little flower,” he murmurs, lifting the gift with a sadistic look in his eyes.
And my world stops all over again.