Chapter 2
Light blazes in my face, too white and too bright. I surface from sleep in stages. I’m in a California king bed, lying with my head turned toward the window. The blinds are up, and the sun is blazing over the mountains, the rays bouncing off the snow, blinding.
I sit up, wiping drool from my mouth. I’m still wearing my sweater dress and Christmas kitten socks, but my boots are off.
I remember sneaking my bra off around ten last night and hoping the Dread Lord wouldn’t notice how loose my boobs were under my dress.
But I don’t remember leaving the workroom or climbing into a bed.
Someone must have carried me upstairs and tucked me in.
Piers must have. He’s the only one here. That was… kind. Not very “Dread Lord” of him at all.
Then I realize what I’m looking at. The lone Christmas tree outside is covered in mounds of fluffy white, but I don’t remember that much snow on it the night before.
“Oh no. No, no no no nono,” I chant under my breath as I run downstairs. My socks make me skid on the polished wood floors, so I crash into the front door.
I pull it open and stare in dismay at the snow piled outside the door. The driveway is covered with at least two feet of snow.
How did it snow this much? I thought Storm of the Century was a hyperbole.
My last memory from last night was tiptoing to the windows to peek behind the blinds. The sliver of glass showed thick snowflakes falling at a furious rate. I remember feeling despair, then hope because Piers told me he’d make sure I was home for Christmas.
Now I have the sinking feeling that he was wrong.
“Wellesley?”
Speak of the Dread Lord, and he shall appear. He’s still in his suit, although he’s taken off his suit jacket. His white button-down is no more rumpled than it was last night, and not one strand of his glossy black hair is out of place.
Whereas I’m sure I look like something a cat puked up. I don’t need to glance at a mirror to know I look a mess. I get horrible bedhead, like I’ve been electrocuted, and day-old mascara always gives me raccoon eyes.
To his credit, the Dread Lord doesn’t react with disgust at my appearance. He frowns at the open door. “What are you doing?”
I’m hyperventilating, too upset to speak. This isn’t like me. I don’t usually lose it like this. The high stakes of my job have taught me how to hide my feelings. Inside, I’m a bunch of ADHD-and-anxiety-ridden squirrel in a trench coat, but outside, I am zen.
But not today. Right now, I’m on the verge of a full-blown freakout. I’m supposed to be home for Christmas. Instead of answering my boss, I look out at the snowy drive and then back at him.
“There are easier ways to check the weather.” He pulls out his phone and glances at it. “Seems we got six inches per hour. Broke a few records. I checked with the plows. They’re stuck.”
“Stuck,” I repeat. “The snow plows.”
“It’s quite a bit of snow.”
The heat vent by the door is blasting hot air on my head, but it doesn’t stop the icy wind from blowing through me. I’m too cold to even shiver. My hand is about to freeze to the doorknob, but I can’t move. My brain is glitching. “We’re snowed in. You said I’d be able to go home today.”
“Come now, Wellesley. I know you think I am all-powerful, but even I don’t control the weather.”
“You were wrong, and you’re never wrong. I trusted you.” My lower lip trembles. “You said I would be able to go home for Christmas. You promised.” I sound like I’m five, but I can’t help it. I feel like I’m five and finding out Santa isn’t real.
It’s ridiculous. I should never have believed him. But I did. I put my faith in him.
And he betrayed me.
“Close the door, Wellesley, it’s freezing.”
I slam the door so hard it bounces open again. A little snow falls on the beautiful wood floors. Normally, I’d feel bad about that, but I’m too upset.
The Dread Lord mutters something to himself as he prowls forward. I move out of his way, and he closes and locks the door.
“You’re shivering,” he chides.
I don’t feel the cold. I’m filled with red-hot rage. The flames of hell are crackling behind my eyes.
The crazy has come.
I spent all yesterday holding it back because I didn’t get to go home, and now… I can’t hold back anymore. All my crazy is about to spew out of me. The mask is off.
I point at him. “You,” I snarl. I sound demonic.
He raises a brow.
“You did this on purpose.”
There it is—a flash of something cracking his world-renowned poker face. Regret, maybe? Guilt?
I don’t care.
I’m done reading him. His moods, his whims, his needs.
.. I’ve catalogued everything about him for four years, eleven months, and twenty-six days, and no more!
It doesn’t matter how hot he is. How much I live for his zingers and stern reprimands.
I’ve studied his microexpressions and read way, way too much into them… for the last time!
“I give you everything. I only asked for one thing—one thing! But noooo. You’re so miserable, you can’t stand the holidays. And you’re such a Grinch, you can’t stand for anyone else to be happy. You want to drag me down with you. Well, not today, Satan. Not today and not any day hereafter!”
Now he’s raised both of his brows. I sound deranged, but dammit, I don’t care.
My fingers are cold and stiff, and it takes a few tries, but I pry open the clasp of the limited edition Rolex he bought for me on the first anniversary of our working together and hold it out to him.
“What is this?” His poker face is back.
“I’m done,” I say, shaking the watch at him. “No more late nights. No more working lunches. No more missed weekends because you just had to fly to Shanghai on Friday. Take it.”
“That was a gift.”
“And I’m returning it.”
He makes no move to take the watch, so I set it down on a side table. I could sell it for a few hundred thousand dollars, but pride dictates that I give it back.
Good riddance.
No, not good riddance. Bad riddance. The worst riddance.
A pox on him and his house!
I spin on my heel and march away.
“Where are you going?” the Dread Lord calls after me. Ideally, his voice would be tinged with worry, but no, his tone is still perfectly bland. He doesn’t care about me. He never has.
And I’m done pretending it doesn’t hurt.
“Anywhere away from you.” Now I sound like a teenager. I march into the closest room, a dining room with a mahogany table that could seat twenty, and slam the door so hard I hear a picture frame fall in the hall.
Then I change my mind and reopen the door to walk back into the foyer. It ruins my grand exit, but I don’t care. I ignore Piers and head to the closet to pull out my coat.
“I’m leaving.” I move to the front door. The cold metal burns my palm, but I tug and tug until I remember he locked it.
I need to get it together. I’m so incensed, I’m not thinking clearly, and I need all my wits to stand against the Dread Lord.
His hand slams against the door before I can undo the lock and try again. “Wellesley, be sensible. You can’t leave. I arranged for a helicopter to pick you up, but the pilot is still snowed in. The roads won’t open for at least a day.”
“Then I’ll walk to the village.” I’m making threats I can’t follow through on, but this is a matter of pride.
“In your Christmas kitten socks?” He glances down at my feet. He doesn’t smirk, but my skin prickles in embarrassment anyway.
“If I have to.” It’s not like my red boots will be any better. If anything, they’ll kill me faster.
There has to be a pair of snowshoes around here somewhere. I’d be lucky if I was able to walk a foot in them, much less miles and miles.
“You’ll risk loss of limb and life, and for what? To prove you can do it? To defy me?”
He’s right. He’s not worth getting hypothermia for. I hold onto the hot heat of my anger because I can’t show how hurt I am.
It’s not like I had big holiday plans. Just the usual: lounging around my apartment, cursing my finicky radiator, working on my email, then taking the subway to Rockefeller Center to buy an overpriced hot chocolate and people-watch—the way I used to do with my mom when she was alive.
It’s not fancy, but it was our tradition. And now it’s all I have.
I thought about changing it up this year, but I didn’t realize I wouldn’t have a choice.
And now here’s the Dread Lord, looking smug, like he’s glad I’m stuck here.
“You can’t quit,” he says.
My resolve hardens to titanium.
“I require several months’ notice.” He looks down his nose at me. “Perhaps longer. A few years.”
“I got your notice, right here.” I show him the middle finger of my right hand. I add my left hand, for good measure. That’s right! Double bird, baby!
The Dread Lord’s face is still blank, but his eyes burn like coals. He’s not happy.
“You got it?” I ask sweetly, then stomp away.
I can’t believe he did this to me. Actually, I can. He has no regard for anyone’s feelings but his own.
There was a time after Marty’s funeral that I thought he had a heart. He was kinder for a few months. Almost human. After a particularly grueling weekend where we found a workaround to the new U.S. tariffs, he even thanked and complimented me.
Well, not vocally. But his expression did soften, and he gave me a nod that I took to mean, Well done, Welelsley.
But it didn’t last. This Tuesday, I didn’t read his mind in time to reschedule his personal trainer, and he nearly took my head off.
It doesn’t matter that he’s hot. It doesn’t matter that his insults are better crafted than most people’s compliments.
It doesn’t matter that the perks of the job are awesome.
I can give up the private chef and unlimited credit at the fashion houses in the Lord Ltd.
portfolio. It was nice watching Thrusters games from the owner’s box.
My mother was always a Thrusters fan, so when Piers bought the team, it was like a dream come true.
I’m done.