Chapter 10 Willow
WILLOW
“Damien!” I squeal, twisting in his arms as he pins another sprig of mistletoe above the archway. My hair brushes his shoulder and I swat at his chest, laughing despite myself. “You can’t keep putting these everywhere!”
He only grins, all smug charm and dimpled mischief.
A strand of twinkling lights hangs across his shoulders like a royal sash, the bulbs flashing red and gold against his dark sweater.
“Sure I can,” he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
“Christmas rules, Willow—mistletoe in every doorway. Encourages family bonding.”
“Encourages chaos,” I shoot back, ducking out of his reach as he tries to hang another one above the kitchen entryway. “You nearly made Vincent walk into one earlier.”
“That was the point,” Damien says, unrepentant, his smile stretching wider. “Man hasn’t smiled properly in a week. Figured a little seasonal harassment might help.”
Across the room, Vincent looks up from the box of ornaments he’s unwrapping, one brow arched in warning. “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” Damien fires back, not even pretending to look sorry.
The twins dissolve into giggles from where they’re kneeling near the base of the tree, sorting ornaments into piles labeled breakable and probably breakable. Rose has glitter in her hair; Theo’s sweater is already smeared with fake snow and cookie frosting.
The house hums around us, every inch of it alive.
Fairy lights loop along the banister and across the mantle, throwing soft gold flecks over everyone’s faces.
The faint scent of cinnamon rolls drifts from the kitchen, where Nana is humming along to Bing Crosby.
There’s ribbon everywhere—draped over chairs, trailed across the floor, tangled around the dog’s tail.
It feels like the house is breathing again—warm and messy and whole.
Elise is curled up on the rug with Penny, their heads bent close together as they untangle a line of tinsel that looks determined to knot itself forever.
Theo keeps sneaking candy canes off the coffee table when he thinks no one’s watching, and Rose has abandoned ornament duty to dance in front of the fire, twirling with a string of popcorn like it’s a ribbon wand.
Cast sits cross-legged by the tree, his dark hair dusted with fake snow from one of Damien’s “decorative” mishaps. He’s threading popcorn with Rose between her twirls, his long fingers deft and sure. Every few minutes, she pops another kernel into her mouth instead of onto the string.
“Rose, baby, those are for the tree,” I call over my shoulder, trying not to laugh.
She looks up with wide, guilty eyes, cheeks puffed full. “The tree won’t mind,” she mumbles.
“She’s got a point,” Cast murmurs, not looking up.
I cross my arms. “You’re both impossible.”
“Impossible,” he repeats with a wink, “but charming.”
“Barely.”
The laughter that follows ripples through the room, light and easy, smoothing over the edges of the last few tense days. Even Vincent’s face softens a little as he crouches beside the twins, his fingers steady as he helps Theo hook a red glass ornament onto a lower branch.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “That one’s from when I was your age. If you break it, I’m blaming your mother.”
Theo gasps, scandalized. “That’s not fair!”
“Life rarely is,” Vincent says, his tone dry but his mouth tugging at the corner.
“Vincent,” I scold, trying to hide my grin. “You can’t threaten the kids with ornaments. It’s Christmas.”
He glances up, and for a moment something lighter flickers behind his eyes—a real smile, faint but there. “I’m kidding,” he whispers.. “Mostly.”
The tree glows before us, nearly finished—tall and full, branches heavy with strands of golden lights and ornaments that glitter like tiny memories.
There’s the cracked snowflake Penny made in kindergarten, the paper stars from the twins’ first art class, one of Cast’s old hockey medals that Elise insisted was shiny enough to “belong.” Every piece of it tells a story, uneven and chaotic but utterly ours.
I brush my hands against my jeans, taking a step back. “Alright,” I announce, surveying our masterpiece. “We’re missing one thing.”
Everyone turns toward me, eyes bright under the glow of the lights.
I hold up the tree topper—an old wooden star Vincent carved years ago, polished smooth by time and the oil of a hundred hands. “Who gets the honors this year?”
“Me!” Theo shouts immediately, his hand shooting into the air.
“No fair!” Rose cries, crossing her arms. “You got to do it last time!”
Cast glances at Vincent, and there’s a small, silent exchange between them—one of those looks that carries a dozen unspoken words. Vincent’s lips twitch into something between a smirk and a nod.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Cast says, crouching to scoop Rose up. “You’re up.”
She squeals, clutching the wooden star like it’s made of gold as he lifts her high. The lights shimmer against her curls, and when she stretches forward to set it at the very top, the whole tree seems to come alive.
“There,” she whispers, breathless and proud. “Perfect.”
The room fills with applause, laughter, and the rustle of wrapping paper. Even Nana claps from the couch, her eyes misting behind her glasses.
But in the middle of it all, a small, uncertain voice tugs at my attention.
“Mom?”
I turn to see Penny standing by the couch, pale beneath the warm light. She’s still holding a bit of tinsel in one hand, her other pressed flat to her stomach.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask, crossing to her quickly.
She shakes her head, eyelids heavy.. “I don’t know. My tummy feels weird.”
My smile falters. I touch her forehead gently, brushing her hair back. Her skin is warm—too warm. Not burning, but the kind of heat that hums just under the surface.
“You feel a little warm, sweetheart.” I keep my voice soft so the others don’t stop their chatter. “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit? Maybe the hot cocoa and cookies didn’t mix well.”
Her lip wobbles slightly, that tired, brave little look she gets when she doesn’t want to make a fuss. “I don’t want to miss decorating.”
I smile and kiss her temple. “You won’t. We’re almost done. Go rest on the couch, okay? You can watch us finish the lights.”
She nods, trusting me, and shuffles toward the sofa with her blanket dragging behind her.
Cast catches my eye across the room—silent question.
I give a small shake of my head. “Just a stomach thing,” I mouth.
He nods once, but his gaze lingers on her for a moment longer before turning back to Rose and the star.
When Penny curls up, the lights from the tree spill across her face, painting her in soft gold. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes trembling.
And even though the laughter swells again around us—Theo shouting that he should get to put the candy canes on next, Damien pretending to trip over a box of ornaments—the warmth in my chest dims just a little.
I brush a hand against my own stomach without thinking, the faintest echo of worry stirring in my gut before I force myself to smile again.
“There,” I say softly, stepping back to take it all in—the glow of the lights threading through the branches, the glitter scattered across the floor, the hum of laughter spilling through the room. “Perfect.”
I reach for my mug of cocoa, still warm on the counter, when the doorbell rings.
“Who’s that?” Elise asks from under the tree, her hands tangled in tinsel.
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly, already stepping toward the foyer. “Probably a package.”
The hallway is dimmer, quieter. The sound of the family fades into a muffled hum behind me as I open the front door. A gust of winter air rushes in, biting my cheeks, sharp and clean.
A courier stands on the porch, wrapped in a thick coat and scarf. His nose is red from the cold, his breath fogging the air. A large, flat parcel rests against his leg, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
“Delivery for Willow Beaumont,” he says, handing me a clipboard.
I blink. “That’s me. Who’s it from?”
He shakes his head. “No sender listed. Just said it was urgent—express delivery from the city.”
The words urgent and from the city hit something in my stomach, a cold little knot tightening under my ribs. I nod anyway, sign the slip, and take the parcel from him. It’s heavier than it looks.
“Merry Christmas,” he says before heading back down the walkway.
I close the door and stand there for a second, the warmth of the house brushing against my back while the cold package presses into my hands.
The shape of it is wrong—or rather, too right. I know this size, this weight, the slight give of stretched canvas under paper.
My heart starts to beat faster.
I kneel down, my fingers trembling as I pull at the tape. The brown wrapping falls away in strips, the sound of tearing paper far too loud.
The breath rushes out of me.
It’s my painting. The woman in the shadowed light. Torn apart. Ripped straight through the middle, canvas fibers frayed and curling outward like a wound.
The pieces have been stuffed back together haphazardly, the paint cracked, the brushwork mutilated. Gold flecks cling to the shredded edges.
Something small slips free, fluttering to the floor. A folded note.
The handwriting is jagged and obsessive, carved into the paper with so much pressure it almost bleeds through.
You don’t deserve beauty when you’ve defiled yourself.
Beneath it—taped crudely to the bottom of the note—is a photograph.
For a moment, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing.
Then it hits.
Me. Kneeling. My hair tangled, my mouth open, Cast’s hand tangled in my hair. The image is blurred around the edges, taken from a distance. But it’s unmistakable.
Every drop of blood in my body feels like it freezes, then starts to boil all at once. My breath stutters out of me, shallow and uneven.
The lights from the living room spill faintly down the hall, golden and warm, and I can hear laughter again—Vincent’s low baritone, the children’s bright voices. The normalcy of it feels cruel.
My shaking hands fold the photo back into the torn wrapping. I can’t think. I can only move.
Not here. Not in front of them.
I shove the painting and the note back into the paper, fold it once, twice, three times until my knuckles ache, and push the whole thing into the hall closet behind the coats. The scent of cedar and dust fills my nose as I bury it beneath old boxes of wrapping paper.
My chest hurts from how hard I’m trying to breathe quietly. My hands won’t stop shaking.
When I close the closet door, I press my forehead against it for a moment, eyes squeezed shut. The warmth from the living room feels like it’s miles away.
Then I straighten, smooth my hair, and school my face into something close to normal. I can’t ruin this for them. Not tonight.
I walk back toward the light and laughter. The smell of cinnamon and pine grows stronger with each step until it almost feels like it could smother what I just saw.
Damien looks up as I step into the room. “Who was it?” he asks, still half laughing, a tangle of lights draped around his shoulders.
“Carolers,” I say quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than I expected. “I told them to come back tomorrow and we’d give them cocoa.”
“Perfect,” he says, dropping the lights onto the couch. He crosses the room, presses a quick kiss to my temple, his voice warm and easy. “You’re too nice to everyone, you know that?”
I force a small smile. “It’s Christmas,” I murmur. “It’s kind of my thing.”
He laughs and turns back toward the kids, already shouting something about who gets the last candy cane. The noise swells again—safe, happy, normal.
But when I glance up, Cast is watching me from across the room. He’s leaning against the mantel, a mug of cocoa in his hand, his expression unreadable.
Our eyes meet, and something flickers there—suspicion, concern, instinct. He studies me for a beat too long.
I drop my gaze, move to the counter, and busy myself with pouring another cup of cocoa. The liquid trembles in the mug as I lift it, my hand unsteady.
The warmth of the fire brushes my skin. The room hums with soft music, laughter, the soft clinking of ornaments.
And I stand there in the middle of it all—smiling, nodding, pretending—while the shredded image of my painting and that photograph burn behind my eyelids.
And I just stand there, holding my mug, pretending the world hasn’t just cracked wide open at my feet.