Chapter 3 #2
Riley sat across from her, trying to act like she belonged. Her knees bumped the table leg as she reached for the champagne flute, and Elizabeth noted the way her fingers trembled slightly. Not from cold.
“Nervous?” Elizabeth asked, not looking up from her tablet.
Riley froze mid-sip. “Uh… you mean about pretending to be your girlfriend in front of your probably terrifying, old-money family over the most emotionally loaded holiday of the year? Nah. Totally chill.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “You’re surprisingly articulate for someone who just used the phrase totally chill.”
“Thank you. It’s the champagne,” Riley quipped, then promptly knocked the edge of the flute against the table as she set it down. A few drops sloshed over the rim onto the pristine table.
“Sorry! Damn it.” She reached for a napkin.
Elizabeth beat her to it, plucking one from the tray. She leaned forward with clinical efficiency, dabbing at the spill, and just as she wiped near the base of the glass, her fingers brushed Riley’s wrist.
Warm. Soft. Trembling slightly.
The touch lingered.
Riley stilled, eyes darting to hers.
Elizabeth pulled back as if it hadn’t meant anything. “Try to contain your drink,” she said lightly, but her tone came out lower than intended.
“Right,” Riley murmured, cheeks pinking. She curled her fingers around the stem of the glass more carefully this time and stared down into the bubbly liquid like it held answers.
Elizabeth returned to her tablet. The digital itinerary glowed coldly on the screen. She flipped to the notes she’d made: bullet points, timelines, backstories. The script, as she’d started to call it in her head.
“Pay attention,” she said, setting the tablet on the table so Riley could see. “We’ll need to be aligned on a few key details.”
Riley perked up, dutiful again. “Fake girlfriend briefing. Got it.”
Elizabeth tapped the screen. “They already know you’re my assistant. The story is that somewhere along the way, we became more. Four months together. We took a trip to Santa Barbara in October, rained the whole time, we got food poisoning, but laughed through it.”
Riley blinked. “That sounds grimly romantic.”
“It’s believable,” Elizabeth said. “The chaos adds authenticity.”
“Guess I’m method acting now.” Riley leaned closer, reading through the list. “Your mother’s name is Annette. Your father is Marcus. Your brother is Julian, and your sister is Margot—she’s the one who has three kids and judges everyone, right?”
“Two kids. But yes.”
Riley smirked. “I’m great with judgy siblings. I dated a guy once whose brother was a Fox News anchor.”
Elizabeth gave a dry blink. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
They moved through the rest of the details, inside jokes, pet peeves—Elizabeth had prepped it all: gifts they would have exchanged, songs they danced to, memories fabricated for emotional resonance. She had control. She always did.
Until she didn’t.
It hit her somewhere mid-sentence.
She was halfway through explaining her mother’s obsession with old-fashioned carolers when she realized,
She didn’t know Riley’s mother’s name.
She didn’t know if Riley had siblings. Or where she’d gone to school. If she liked Christmas, or if this whole charade was pushing her into something that felt like a lie.
Over a year of working together. Dozens of late nights, early mornings, airport terminals and coffee orders and briefings and…
She didn’t know Riley at all.
The thought landed like a stone in her chest.
“Elizabeth?”
She looked up.
Riley was watching her carefully. “You kind of spaced out.”
“I was just… reviewing,” Elizabeth lied, and turned the tablet off. “We’ve covered enough.”
Riley nodded slowly and leaned back, letting her head rest against the leather seat. She looked smaller suddenly, as if the weight of pretending, of performing, was catching up.
“Sorry if I’m bad at this,” she mumbled, half-asleep already. “I’ve never had to… fake a relationship before.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lingered on her.
Riley’s lashes fluttered closed, her breath evening out. Champagne haze, nerves, early morning. The green coat was folded over her lap like a blanket now. Her boots were tucked beneath her seat. She curled just slightly, shoulder tilted toward Elizabeth.
And then, so gently it might have gone unnoticed, her head listed sideways. Not touching, but close. Just hovering near Elizabeth’s shoulder, her curls brushing the edge of Elizabeth’s sleeve.
Elizabeth sat perfectly still.
Every instinct told her to move. To create distance. To pull away from the warmth blooming between them. It wasn’t real. This wasn’t part of the plan. Riley was an employee. An expense. A convenience.
And yet.
She stayed still.
Watched the steady rise and fall of Riley’s chest.
Felt the not-quite-contact burn through her jacket sleeve.
She wanted it.
Not the act. Not the story.
Just the warmth.
The plane droned on, endless sky outside the windows. The clouds rolled below them like snowdrifts.
Elizabeth closed her eyes for one long moment.
And tried to remember the last time someone had fallen asleep near her, not out of obligation or performance, but trust.
She couldn’t.
So she sat in silence, afraid to move, and let the woman beside her drift into dreams that were, just maybe, more honest than anything either of them had said aloud.
The Hale estate came into view as the black SUV curved up the final snow-packed drive.
White-capped trees arched like cathedral vaults over the road, and beyond them, the mansion rose in all its postcard-perfect tyranny, three stories of colonial gravitas, complete with columns, mullioned windows, and wreaths that probably cost more than Riley’s car.
Elizabeth’s jaw tensed automatically.
She hadn’t been here since last Christmas. Not since her grandfather’s memorial. Even in mourning, her mother had insisted on real fir garlands, an imported French caterer, and a harpist in the drawing room. There’d been no tears. Only brandy.
Now, the house stood glittering beneath strings of golden lights. Smoke curled from two chimneys. Flawless. Imposing. Cold.
Riley leaned forward in her seat, peering up through the window. “Oh my God. It’s like The Holiday threw up on Downton Abbey.”
Elizabeth glanced sideways. “It’s… tasteful.”
Riley shot her a look. “That’s not the word I’d use for a twenty-foot inflatable nutcracker next to a topiary swan.”
Fair.
The car rolled to a stop under the portico. Staff in heavy coats and scarves emerged like chess pieces taking their places. A man with a clipboard opened Elizabeth’s door. Another reached for Riley’s bags.
“Miss Hale,” the driver said, nodding.
Elizabeth stepped out into a gust of pine-scented air and brisk wind, her boots crunching over gravel and thin ice. As soon as Riley emerged, bundled in the designer coat and scarf she’d received barely twenty-four hours earlier, Elizabeth reached for her.
A hand at the small of Riley’s back. Warm. Steady. Stage cues.
“Ready?” she murmured.
Riley swallowed hard and nodded. “Lead the way, boss.”
Elizabeth didn’t correct her.
The front door swung open before they could reach it.
“Elizabeth!” Annette Hale stood just inside the vestibule, all silver-blonde hair, pearl earrings, and a perfectly preserved frown that barely softened for guests.
Elizabeth plastered on her practiced smile. “Mother.”
“And this must be—” A pause. A scan. An assessment. “Riley.”
Riley stepped forward, smile tight but warm. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Hale.”
Annette tilted her head. “I’m sure it is.”
Elizabeth gave her mother a glance sharp enough to draw blood, then curled her fingers more deliberately around Riley’s waist.
“She’s been looking forward to this all month,” Elizabeth added coolly.
A small lie. Necessary.
Inside the grand foyer, the world smelled of evergreen, beeswax polish, and wealth. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. The walls gleamed with ancestral portraits, fresh holly, and tasteful garlands.
Voices floated in from the sitting room.
Margot. Of course.
Elizabeth braced herself.
“Well, look who it is!” Her sister’s voice carried the gleeful cruelty of someone who’d never known insecurity. Margot swept into the entryway in a cashmere wrap, her twin sons trailing behind her with iPads. “Elizabeth and her mystery girlfriend. I told Mother she wasn’t imaginary.”
Elizabeth’s smile didn’t budge. “You’re hilarious.”
Margot turned to Riley, gaze quick and calculated. “I’m Margot. The fun sister.”
“You’re the only sister,” Elizabeth muttered.
“I prefer to keep it exclusive.” Margot leaned in and kissed Riley’s cheek like a socialite marking territory. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Riley replied, clearly trying not to flinch.
More greetings followed. The oldest brother, Julian, gave Riley a curt nod and turned back to his wine. His wife, Clement, offered a brittle smile. The twins ignored everyone.
Elizabeth guided Riley through the crowd, hand still at her back, pressure firm but not forceful. She felt every twitch in Riley’s shoulders, every catch in her breath when someone looked a second too long.
“You’re doing fine,” Elizabeth murmured as they paused near the fireplace.
Riley glanced at her. “I feel like I just walked into a Tom Ford catalog run by jackals.”
Elizabeth bit back a smirk. “That’s not inaccurate.”
A member of the household staff approached. “Miss Hale, your rooms are ready.”
Elizabeth gave a small nod. “Thank you.”
As they followed the housekeeper up the stairs, Riley leaned close, voice hushed. “Did she say rooms, plural?”
Elizabeth exhaled softly. “It’s a suite, one bedroom and a sitting room. Technically two.”
She caught the flicker in Riley’s expression, the brief flash of hope chased almost instantly by disappointment. Riley covered it with a neutral “Oh,” but Elizabeth felt the weight of it anyway.