Chapter 11
Riley had never been in a living room like this before this trip. Even after a week of being here, she still couldn’t wrap her head around it.
The tree towered over her, twelve feet of perfect symmetry dripping in glass ornaments that probably had their own insurance policy.
A fire roared in the marble hearth, framed by a garland so lush and glossy it looked plucked from a magazine spread.
Around her, Elizabeth’s family lounged with practiced ease, velvet dresses, tailored suits, diamonds flashing in the low light as though this was all completely normal.
For them, it was.
For Riley, it was like waking up in someone else’s Christmas movie. She perched on the edge of a carved chair, trying to look casual, as if she belonged. Her hands twisted in her lap, betraying her.
The first gift exchange had begun. One by one, beautifully wrapped boxes were handed around. Silver ribbon, gilded tags, monograms pressed into thick paper. Riley had brought her small contribution, but it felt like showing up to a Michelin-star dinner with a gas-station burrito.
Julian presented Margot with a necklace so delicate Riley worried she’d snap it by breathing too hard. Aunt Caroline gave Annette an antique brooch, which was received with a gracious nod and a comment about “taste.” Laughter swelled, glasses clinked.
Then Elizabeth’s name was called.
She shifted, leaning forward as a slim, perfectly wrapped box was placed in her lap. She accepted it with the same composure she carried everywhere: chin high, shoulders loose, every move calibrated. Riley knew it was performance, she’d seen the cracks when no one else was looking.
Elizabeth opened it with a swift tug, peeling away paper with surgeon-like precision. Inside was some kind of sleek pen Riley was sure cost more than her first car. Elizabeth smiled, murmured her thanks, and passed the gift along to be admired.
And then all eyes turned to Riley.
“Your turn,” someone said, Annette’s sister, maybe. Riley wasn’t sure; she’d stopped tracking names after the third glass of champagne.
A small box wrapped in silver was handed to her. Riley blinked, her mouth already curving into the polite “thank you for including me, I’ll be gracious no matter what’s inside” smile she’d been practicing all week.
But the handwriting on the tag froze her.
Elizabeth’s.
Riley swallowed. Carefully, she pulled the ribbon loose, peeled the paper back. Inside was a box the color of storm clouds. She lifted the lid.
Her breath caught.
A pair of gloves rested inside, supple black leather lined with soft cashmere, cut in exactly her size. Not just close. Exact.
Her throat went tight.
“How did you—?” Her voice cracked before she could stop it. She looked up at Elizabeth, wide-eyed. “These are… Elizabeth, they’re perfect. How did you know?”
Elizabeth’s expression didn’t flicker. She lifted one shoulder, her version of a shrug. “You mentioned once your hands get cold walking to the train.”
Riley remembered saying that, offhand, months ago, after a meeting ran late and Elizabeth had insisted they finish the agenda while striding toward the subway entrance.
Riley had stuffed her fingers into her sleeves, muttering about freezing to death.
She hadn’t thought Elizabeth had even heard her.
But she had.
And she’d remembered.
Riley slid her hands into the gloves. They molded to her fingers like they’d been waiting for her all along. She flexed once, twice. Perfect.
Her chest squeezed. This wasn’t part of the act. This wasn’t some fake-girlfriend gesture designed to impress the family. This was real. Elizabeth had seen her, really seen her, long before either of them had stepped foot in this estate.
And Riley didn’t know how to survive that.
She forced a smile, light and breezy, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “Guess I’ll be the most stylish commuter in Brooklyn now.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but her gaze lingered too long on Riley’s gloved hands before she turned back toward the room.
The moment broke. Laughter resumed, chatter swirled, more gifts were passed around. Riley sat stiffly, clutching her hands in her lap as if they’d betray her.
Then it was her turn.
She’d planned for this, in her own way. She wasn’t stupid, she’d known showing up to this family’s holiday circus without a gift for Elizabeth would be suicidal.
But she’d also known she couldn’t compete.
Not with sapphires and bespoke luggage and monogrammed Montblanc pens. So, she hadn’t even tried.
Instead, she’d bought a mug.
A white ceramic mug with blue lettering: Ice Queens Run Hot Under Pressure.
She’d found it in a boutique near her apartment two weeks ago, tucked between ironic tote bags and overpriced candles.
She’d snorted when she saw it, thinking of Elizabeth in a boardroom, flawless and terrifying, while Riley scrambled to keep up.
And she’d bought it.
Now, her palms itched as she handed it over, wrapped in plain brown paper. No satin bow. No embossed tag. Just her shaky scrawl: Elizabeth.
Elizabeth took it, brows arching slightly at the wrapping, then peeled it away. The mug gleamed in the firelight.
Silence stretched for a beat too long.
Then Elizabeth laughed.
Not her polite society laugh. Not her restrained chuckle meant to charm investors. A real laugh. Bright and startled, slipping out before she could cage it.
She cradled the mug in her hands, still smiling, her eyes soft in a way Riley had never seen.
And Riley forgot to breathe.
She could feel it happening, her chest tightening, her pulse tripping over itself, her heart leaning recklessly toward something she had no business wanting.
Oh no, she thought, panic seizing her. Oh no no no. I can’t survive this.
Because this wasn’t supposed to matter. Riley wasn’t supposed to care if Elizabeth smiled or didn’t.
She wasn’t supposed to want to memorize the curve of Elizabeth’s mouth, or the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed for real.
She wasn’t supposed to crave that softness, not when everything about this was pretend.
But she did.
And sitting there, with Elizabeth’s family watching and the firelight turning Elizabeth’s hair to gold, Riley knew she was in trouble.
Big, catastrophic trouble.
Elizabeth glanced at her then, still holding the mug. Their eyes caught. And for a split second, barely a heartbeat, Riley thought she saw something there. Something answering.
But then Elizabeth looked away, raising her glass to toast another gift, the mask slipping back into place.
Riley did the same, plastering her smile, joining the chorus of polite laughter.
But her gloves were still warm on her hands. And her chest still ached from holding back the truth.
She’d never felt less like pretending.
The dining room was almost too perfect, like one of those glossy magazine spreads Riley used to flip through in waiting rooms. A long mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandeliers, every glass catching the candlelight and scattering it in tiny constellations across the white linen.
The silver was polished so bright it almost hurt to look at.
Even the holly sprigs tucked along the centerpiece seemed choreographed, as though someone had dictated the exact number of berries per branch.
Riley smoothed her palms over her dress, the silk whispering against her skin, and tried to convince herself she belonged here.
She’d survived the gift exchange, survived the laughter and champagne-fueled games.
She’d even smiled when Elizabeth had slipped her those gloves, her exact size, buttery leather that fit like they’d been waiting for her all along.
That gift had felt like a crack in the facade, a glimpse that maybe Elizabeth really did see her.
But now, in this room, surrounded by glittering crystal and sharp eyes, Riley wasn’t sure of anything.
Elizabeth sat to her right, composed and immaculate, posture straight as a ruler.
Her hair, pinned back earlier, had loosened just enough for a single strand to brush her cheek, but otherwise she looked untouched by the long night.
Riley glanced at her, hoping for some flicker of warmth, some acknowledgment of the passion they share when no one is looking.
But Elizabeth was angled toward her mother at the far end of the table, nodding politely, her expression unreadable.
Riley picked at the edge of her napkin. Maybe she’d imagined it, that passion. Maybe it had only ever been one-sided.
They were halfway through the first course when the trouble began.
“So, Riley,” said a woman midway down the table, voice dipped in sugar, each syllable cut with precision. Aunt Marianne, Riley thought, Elizabeth’s mother’s sister who only arrived yesterday. “How did you and Elizabeth meet again? I don’t believe we heard the full story.”
The pause before full story was deliberate, like a needle slipped under the skin. Riley gave her best practiced smile. “We met at a gala,” she said. “I was working the event.”
Marianne’s brows lifted as though Riley had announced she spent her weekends taming lions. “Working it? Not attending?”
“Yes,” Riley said evenly. “Event logistics. I do a lot of work in that space. And shortly after that, I began working for Elizabeth. Over time, we realized we had something more between us.”
“Oh, how interesting.” Marianne’s tone made it clear she didn’t mean interesting at all. “And your family? What are they like?”
The question might have sounded harmless to someone else, but Riley heard the undertone: What kind of people produced you?
“They’re good people,” she said, keeping her voice light. “My folks still live in Maine. My mom runs a small café, and my dad’s a contractor.”
“Ah.” Marianne’s nod was sharp, clipped. “Salt of the earth, then.”