Chapter 3
The city was still cloaked in shadow when Elizabeth opened her eyes.
No alarm had gone off, none ever did. She hadn’t needed one in twenty years.
Three minutes ahead of schedule.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the warm hardwood with a muted tap.
The penthouse was quiet, except for the soft hum of the underfloor heating system and the faint buzz of city traffic far below.
She padded to the ensuite bathroom, flipped on the mirror lights, and began her morning routine, efficient, familiar, controlled.
Cleanser. Cold water rinse. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream.
No room for hesitation. No space for weakness.
By 5:30, she was on her treadmill in the glass-walled gym.
Sixty minutes at an incline. Thirty reps with hand weights.
Ten minutes of precision stretching. All while skimming emails on her tablet, dictating three responses, and flagging a contract revision she’d have her legal team fix before takeoff.
Her body moved on muscle memory. Her mind was not so cooperative.
It kept circling back, like a plane in a holding pattern, to Sophia’s final words.
“Cold to the end.”
“I won’t freeze to death at your mother’s snow palace while making small talk with people who think I’m your accessory.”
Elizabeth increased the treadmill speed.
She should cancel the trip. It was the logical thing to do. One fewer headache. No need for polite conversations or passive-aggressive Christmas cocktails or the inevitable disappointment in her mother’s eyes.
But the idea of canceling lodged in her throat like a stone.
No. That would be seen as weakness.
By 7:15, showered and dressed in a charcoal cashmere turtleneck and tailored trousers, Elizabeth stood in her kitchen, watching the city wake while her espresso machine hissed and poured out a stream of strong, black coffee.
She took her first sip and stared out at the skyline unfolding like a promise. Everything below her was small. Manageable. Ordered.
But her stomach was tight. Not with nerves, she told herself. Anticipation, maybe. Or annoyance.
The private elevator chimed.
A moment later, Ana, her concierge, stepped inside, followed by two assistants from her favorite boutique, both wheeling in racks of clothing.
“Good morning, Ms. Hale,” Ana said. “Camille sent over Miss Jensen’s wardrobe for the trip. She’s had everything steamed and packaged per your specifications.”
“Put it in the second bedroom,” Elizabeth replied coolly, not turning from the window.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sipped her coffee, back still straight, eyes still forward, but her ears tracked the movement behind her. Fabric swishing. The soft jingle of branded hangers. The zip of garment bags being opened and checked.
She didn’t look. There was no reason to.
And yet.
A glimpse of something cream-colored in the reflection. Cashmere? Or silk? No. Lace.
Lingerie.
She sipped her coffee harder.
Camille was thorough. That’s all. There was no need for any of it to be used. No one expected her to actually see Riley in expensive lingerie.
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened.
This was a business transaction. A short-term arrangement. Appearances needed to be maintained, nothing more.
Riley Jensen was her assistant. Smart. Reliable. A walking disaster, stylistically speaking, but resourceful. Quick on her feet. No one would ever believe they were dating, but that wasn’t the point. They just needed to appear close. Familiar. In sync.
Pretend.
Elizabeth turned from the window and set her mug down a little too hard.
One of the assistants flinched.
She ignored it. Walked briskly down the hall and peeked into the guest room where the racks now stood lined in neat rows: evening wear, winter coats, ski gear, casual knits, intimate wear. A custom holiday wardrobe, each piece hand-selected, color-matched, wrinkle-free.
Elizabeth’s gaze swept over it all, dispassionately.
Then, foolishly, it snagged on a red wool sweater folded at the edge of the bed. Whimsical reindeer stitched across the front, and for their noses, God help her, tiny pom-poms.
Elizabeth felt something flutter in her chest.
Memory. Riley laughing in the office last month, holding up a mug someone had gifted her with JINGLE MY BELLS in bold letters. Hair a frizzy mess from the rain, cheeks flushed pink, that unfiltered, ridiculous laugh bubbling out of her.
Elizabeth had pretended to be annoyed at the noise.
She hadn’t been annoyed.
She exhaled, long and controlled, and shut the door firmly.
None of this mattered. She wasn’t doing this because she liked Riley. She was doing it because the optics of being dumped before Christmas were unacceptable.
She had to show her family, and the board, and anyone else watching, that she was fine. Unshaken. Still the picture of elegance, control, and composure.
The elevator chimed again.
Riley.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched for half a second. Then she smoothed it out and went to greet her assistant, her faux-girlfriend for the holidays.
Let the performance begin.
The driver opened the lobby doors just as Elizabeth stepped out into the icy morning air.
The black SUV idled at the curb, gleaming and warm, flanked by two staff members already moving to load her luggage.
Her coat, a long, sharply tailored navy wool, brushed against her calves as she descended the penthouse steps with practiced grace.
Riley was waiting beside the vehicle.
And, to Elizabeth’s mild surprise, she looked… almost elegant.
The coat, a deep forest green cashmere wrap, cinched neatly at the waist. The boots were suede, heeled, tasteful.
A matching knit scarf hung loose around her neck, not quite arranged, not quite messy.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, brown hair curling just slightly from humidity, and she was worrying the edge of one of her sleeves like it might unravel.
The transformation was jarring. And oddly captivating.
Elizabeth let her eyes linger for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Riley turned and smiled at her, nervous, earnest, bright-eyed.
“I feel like a Christmas cupcake,” she said, immediately, before Elizabeth could speak. “A very expensive cupcake. Is that a thing?”
Elizabeth arched one brow. “If it is, you look appropriately frosted.”
Riley blinked, startled, then laughed. “Okay. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She was busy cataloging.
Noticing the lack of gloves. The way Riley’s hands had vanished into her pockets.
The slight tremble in her posture, despite the warmth of the coat.
She was clearly uncomfortable, performing a part she hadn’t rehearsed.
The usual sparkle of Riley’s office bravado was muted here, replaced by something rawer. Tentative.
She approached the car, dragging a small suitcase behind her.
One of the staff moved to take it, but Riley waved him off. “Oh, I’ve got it, thanks.”
Elizabeth stepped forward sharply. “Riley.”
She stopped mid-pull, blinking.
Elizabeth’s voice was cool. Steady. The same one she used in boardrooms. “You’re not the assistant this weekend. You’re my girlfriend. Let the staff handle it.”
A pause. Riley’s lips parted, just slightly. Her ears went pink. Then her hands dropped from the suitcase handle, and she stepped back.
“Right,” she said softly. “Got it.”
Elizabeth didn’t let herself react, but she felt it anyway. The faintest pull in her stomach. A flutter she dismissed instantly.
They climbed into the backseat of the SUV, the leather seats soft and warm from the preheat. Elizabeth smoothed her skirt, legs crossed precisely. Riley sat gingerly, then immediately fiddled with the seatbelt. Her fingers fumbled. The buckle clicked too loudly.
“So,” Riley said, clearly trying for casual. “Private jet, Vermont, fake relationship. Just your average Wednesday.”
Elizabeth turned her head, expression unreadable. “It’s Thursday.”
“Even better.”
Silence stretched. The city slipped by outside, buildings glittering with early morning frost, holiday lights still blinking in apartment windows. A banner reading Holiday Market Now Open fluttered over a side street.
Riley let out a soft sigh and stared out the window. Then, after a beat: “Your family… they know me? Or do I need to make up a fake backstory like we met at a salsa class or something?”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve been my assistant for more than a year. They’ve heard your name. You’re a promotion. No salsa required.”
Riley groaned softly. “God, I was hoping I’d at least get a meet-cute.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze forward again. But she could feel it, the invisible shift already beginning. The boundaries that usually defined them, boss and assistant, authority and chaos, were blurring.
In this car, in this world, Riley wasn’t just another employee.
She was hers.
At least for the next two weeks.
The thought settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Outside, the airport signs appeared, PRIVATE TERMINAL, followed by the sleek silhouette of her jet, gleaming like a promise against the winter sky.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, back straight, face calm.
This would work.
It had to.
Even if Riley’s soft laugh was still echoing in her ears. Even if Elizabeth found herself watching her, not for efficiency or performance, but for the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
Even if this entire thing was already far more dangerous than she wanted to admit.
The soft hum of the engines was the only sound for a while.
Up here, above the clouds, everything felt too quiet, like the world had paused just to let Elizabeth sit with the weight of her decisions.
The jet’s interior was sleek and sterile: cream leather, brushed steel, a long table between facing seats.
Luxury, yes. But also isolation dressed in polish.