Chapter 7
Elizabeth woke with a sharp inhale, as if surfacing from a dream she couldn’t remember but didn’t want to leave.
The room was quiet, still, but her mind wasn’t. It never was.
It took her a moment to orient herself, blinking against the soft winter light that filtered through the frosted windowpanes. Snow still hurled itself against the glass in steady gusts, the storm showing no signs of letting up. Outside, the world was frozen in place, white, muffled, suspended.
Inside, it was worse.
Riley was still asleep, curled against her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
One leg draped lazily across Elizabeth’s thigh.
Her head nestled close to Elizabeth’s shoulder, breath warm and even against the curve of her neck.
Her hand rested on Elizabeth’s ribs, fingers twitching slightly in sleep.
And Elizabeth, Elizabeth couldn’t move.
She couldn’t breathe.
Not because of the weight of Riley’s body, or the warmth of her presence, or the softness of the morning light, but because of the ache.
It was a sharp, sudden tenderness in her chest. A feeling she hadn’t prepared for. Couldn’t prepare for.
She turned her head slightly, careful not to wake Riley. Watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way a lock of hair had fallen over her eyes. There was a small crease at the corner of her mouth, softened by sleep, and Elizabeth felt something twist deep inside her.
No.
This was not the plan.
She was supposed to be in control of this. Of herself. Of everything.
It had started as strategy. As protection. As a calculated narrative. Riley had agreed to play a role, and Elizabeth had been good at roles all her life. The perfect daughter. The poised heiress. The unflappable executive.
But this, this quiet, tangled intimacy, was not part of the script.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened.
I never meant for this to happen.
She shifted slightly, her body tense. Riley murmured something incoherent in her sleep and pressed closer. Elizabeth froze.
I can’t afford this.
This wasn’t just complicated, it was dangerous.
Riley worked for her. This was a temporary arrangement, an illusion carefully constructed for the sake of family, image, and distance from the wreckage of her last relationship.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like comfort. Like belonging. Like home.
Elizabeth’s pulse ticked faster. She felt the familiar tug of her coping mechanisms, the ones that had carried her through every performance in her life.
Compartmentalize.
Shut down.
Control the narrative.
Overthink until the feeling dissolves.
With practiced movements, she began to untangle herself. Slowly, carefully. She slid Riley’s leg from hers, inch by inch, wincing at the small shift in warmth.
Riley stirred but didn’t wake. She simply sighed and rolled onto her back, one arm flung across the pillow, hair fanned out like a halo.
Elizabeth sat up, every motion silent. Her robe hung neatly on the hook beside the wardrobe, and she reached for it like a lifeline. Pulled it around her shoulders. Tightened the belt.
She didn’t look back.
Instead, she crossed to the window and pressed her fingers to the cold pane.
The world outside was beautiful. Utterly still. Snow blanketed everything, the hedges, the long stone drive, the distant trees. It was the kind of scene people fantasized about: picturesque and peaceful.
But all Elizabeth could feel was the trap.
They were snowed in. Isolated. Suspended in time.
And she was cornered by her own feelings.
She hadn’t slept with someone like that in years. Not even with Sophia. Certainly not with anyone since. The ease of it, the closeness, it chipped away at the armor she’d built so carefully.
And Riley…
Riley was messy and stubborn and too honest for her own good. She was chaos wrapped in warmth, someone who made the staff laugh and made Elizabeth feel.
She didn’t know how to handle someone like that.
Didn’t know how to want it.
Didn’t know how not to.
A sound behind her, Riley shifting again, pulling the duvet higher, murmuring something in her sleep, and Elizabeth’s fingers curled into fists against the window frame.
She couldn’t let this continue.
She wouldn’t survive it.
Emotions had never served her well. They made people weak. Reckless. Vulnerable. And Elizabeth had built her entire life, her entire identity, on being untouchable.
But this morning? She didn’t feel untouchable.
She felt seen.
And that was far more dangerous.
She let her forehead rest against the cold glass, closing her eyes. For a few stolen seconds, she allowed herself to feel it. The ache. The tenderness. The terrifying swell of affection.
And then, like always, she buried it.
Tightened her grip on control.
Put the mask back on.
When she finally turned back toward the bed, Riley was still sleeping, peaceful, unaware, beautiful in a way that made Elizabeth’s chest hurt all over again.
But her expression was calm now. Smoothed into neutrality. She was composed. Distant. Ready.
Because she would not let herself fall.
Not for someone who wasn’t supposed to be permanent.
Not for someone who could leave.
By the time the sun had fully risen, Elizabeth Hale was already dressed. Hair smoothed to perfection, black turtleneck tucked into tailored cream slacks, diamond studs in her ears, simple, polished, untouchable.
She moved through the upstairs hallway with quiet efficiency, her heels silent on the polished hardwood floors. Downstairs, the smell of gingerbread pancakes and cloves wafted up from the kitchen, warm and homey. She ignored it.
She had reassembled herself with surgical precision. The version of Elizabeth that entered the kitchen ten minutes later was pristine. Controlled. The consummate hostess and daughter. A sharp, elegant contrast to the mess of emotions still burning beneath her skin.
The great kitchen buzzed with festive cheer. Staff moved gracefully between the island and stove, carrying platters of candied bacon and cinnamon rolls. Her mother stood near the espresso machine in a red cashmere sweater, directing everything like a general at war.
“Elizabeth, darling,” she said, barely glancing up, “do make sure the cranberry compote is set out before it congeals.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth replied coolly, already halfway to the counter.
She could play this part with her eyes closed.
She had played this part with her eyes closed, for decades.
Inside, though, her nerves felt like piano wires strung too tight. One shift, one pluck, and they’d snap.
She busied herself unnecessarily, folding a napkin, rearranging the silverware, anything to keep from thinking about the image burned into her mind: Riley’s hand brushing hers under the duvet, Riley’s breath warm in the dark, that whispered, slurred confession: This is the part where I ruin everything, right?
Elizabeth had said nothing.
She had looked at Riley in the dark and said nothing.
Now she had to live with that choice.
The swinging kitchen door creaked open behind her. Her posture stiffened before she even turned.
Riley.
She stood in the doorway wearing borrowed wool socks, plaid pajama pants, and a slightly-too-big Fair Isle sweater that Elizabeth recognized as one of her own from college. Her curls were pulled up in a halfhearted bun, cheeks flushed from the cold or maybe from nerves.
Her eyes locked on Elizabeth immediately, uncertain.
Elizabeth didn’t let herself react. She simply gave a crisp nod. “Morning.”
Riley hesitated for a beat, then stepped inside. “Hey,” she said, casual, like they hadn’t just spent the most emotionally confusing night of their lives tangled in each other’s bodies.
“Sleep well?” Elizabeth asked, tone even. Detached.
Riley blinked, caught off guard by the neutral delivery. “Uh, yeah. Eventually.”
Elizabeth offered a polite smile, ignoring what Riley’s answer implied, and turned back to the table, brushing imaginary crumbs from the linen runner.
Behind her, she could feel Riley trying to read her. The pause in her movements. The subtle tightening in her shoulders. It made something twist in Elizabeth’s stomach, a stab of guilt so sharp it was almost physical.
She hadn’t meant to punish Riley. This wasn’t about her.
It was self-preservation. Pure and simple.
Riley joined the rest of the family at the kitchen table, sliding into a seat between Elizabeth’s cousin and her younger brother. Someone passed her a platter of pancakes.
Conversation bloomed easily around them: holiday plans, last-minute shopping, someone’s dog who got into a box of chocolate truffles.
Christmas carols played faintly from the speaker tucked into the corner, Ella Fitzgerald singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Laughter rang out every few minutes, syrup was poured generously, and the scent of nutmeg floated through the air like a spell.
Elizabeth sipped her black coffee and smiled when expected, but everything felt distant. Muted.
Like she was watching the morning unfold from behind a pane of glass.
Riley was trying, though. That much was clear. She laughed at her uncle’s terrible jokes. Complimented the pancakes. Chatted with the cook about the difference between molasses and treacle. She was bright, engaged, funny.
But Elizabeth could see the flickers of confusion behind her eyes. The way her gaze kept flicking to Elizabeth, searching for something. A signal. A smile. Anything.
Elizabeth gave her nothing.
Because if she gave Riley anything, she might fall apart.
And she couldn’t afford that.
She was already dangerously close.
Riley’s foot brushed hers under the table. A mistake, surely, but Elizabeth didn’t move away. She didn’t react at all, though her heart slammed against her ribs like a warning bell.
A moment later, Riley coughed and shifted her chair subtly. Created space.
Elizabeth stared down into her coffee, her reflection fractured by the surface.