Chapter 21 #2
I spot Alina, one of my lead attorneys already inside the café we picked. She’s by the window, sharp in her cream coat and gold hoops, already halfway through her oat milk cocoa and poking at her tablet like it owes her money. The bells over the door jingle when I step in, and she looks up.
“There she is,” she says, standing to kiss my cheek. “You look... less haunted.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, cracking a smile. “I’ll take it.”
The café smells like baked sugar and peppermint.
They’re playing old-school Christmas tunes—Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases while couples share desserts the size of their heads.
I order the peppermint cocoa and a grilled cheese with tomato soup, because my body is still learning how to feel safe enough to be hungry.
Once we sit, Alina flips her tablet closed and goes straight for the throat.
“They want an answer this week, Jade. About the settlement. We’ve got three different firms circling, ready to pitch exclusive profiles if you walk away from the NDA. But once you sign—”
“I’m not signing,” I say, cutting her off.
She pauses. Blinks. “You’re... sure?”
“I don’t want their hush money,” I say, steady now. “I don’t want to trade justice for silence. I want my story out there. I want my name back.”
Alina leans back in her chair, eyes scanning my face like she’s making sure I’m not bluffing.
“Okay then,” she says, voice a little lower. “Then let’s give them hell.”
My grilled cheese is barely half-eaten, the soup long gone cold. Alina’s watching me like a hawk, her glossy lips pursed while my phone buzzes with another message from Martin and Lee, the firm still representing me on the defamation side.
“They’re not thrilled,” she says, sipping her cocoa. “You walking away from a six-figure deal makes them look... underwhelming.”
“Not my problem,” I murmur, fingers curling around my mug. It’s too warm. Too tight.
“It could be your parents’ problem, though.” Alina leans in, tone careful. “That’s life-changing money, Jade. For them. For you. College. Housing. Medical bills. Everything.”
I flinch.
She’s not wrong.
But she’s not right either.
I scrape my chair back, needing air. “I need time to think.”
Alina nods, lips tight. “Don’t wait too long. The longer you stay silent, the easier it is for them to bury you.”
Outside, Newport is all charm—holly in windows, cobblestone sidewalks, a brass quartet playing under twinkle lights. And I’m just trying to breathe.
I wander aimlessly, trying to ignore the way my skin feels too tight, like I'm wearing the wrong body. Then I hear a familiar clipped accent, low and composed.
“Johnathan, not that one. The navy cashmere.”
I freeze.
Leo’s mother is standing in front of a boutique window, gloved hand holding up a shopping bag, her gray peacoat perfectly belted, her posture a dagger. Her chauffeur trails behind, arms full of gift boxes and silent judgment.
She turns—and sees me.
Recognition flickers in her eyes. Then cold civility.
“Miss Bryan or is Bryan?”
My throat tightens. “Mrs. Holt.”
She takes a step closer, eyes scanning me like I’m inventory. “Out for a stroll?”
I want to say something snarky. I want to throw her words back in her face. But I’m tired.
So I just nod. “Something like that.”
A beat passes.
Then she says, voice smooth as glass, “You’ve caused quite the... stir.”
“And you protect the ones behind most of it,” I reply, chin lifting.
She exhales slowly. “Be careful, Miss Bryan. Not every storm leaves the ship stronger.”
I turn away before I say something unforgivable.
But not before I see the look in her eyes.
She’s not afraid of me.
But she should be.
“Miss Bryan!”
I stop dead in my tracks.
My spine straightens like I’ve been summoned by the headmistress of some Victorian boarding school. I turn, slowly, one brow lifted. “Yes?”
Mrs. Holt doesn’t move, but there’s something sharp in her posture. Intentional. Calculating. “Won’t you accompany me? I still need to find Leo a gift.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes sweep over me like I’m a particularly interesting artifact at an auction. “You have taste. And insight into what my son might actually like. Humor me.”
And for one heartbeat—one irrational, gut-driven heartbeat—I think, this woman is about to buy me. Not with money, but with access. With answers.
So I follow.
I walk beside the Ice Queen of Newport down Bellevue Avenue, her heels clicking in rhythm with my boots. People notice. A woman holding two bags and a latte stops mid-sip. A couple of teenage girls pretend to take selfies but aim their cameras at us instead. I see the texts already forming.
Queen and King reconciling in time for Christmas?
We browse a high-end leather shop, then a cologne boutique. She asks no questions. I offer no comments. When the awkward silence starts to ache, she lifts her gloved hand, and her chauffeur steps forward to collect her growing pile of bags.
Then she makes a sharp left into a swanky little sushi lounge and wine bar without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
“Sit,” she says, not unkindly, gesturing to a velvet-lined booth as she shrugs out of her coat.
I sit.
She waves down the server, rattles off an order like she owns the place, and finally looks at me as though she’s ready to talk.
“He likes you. A lot,” she says plainly, smoothing a napkin across her lap. “I owe you an apology, I suppose.”
I arch a brow. “You suppose?”
Her lips twitch, and for the briefest second, I swear she nearly smiles. “I wasn’t kind. I don’t take kindly to mess, Miss Bryan. And you walked into our lives like a hurricane.”
“I didn’t walk in. I was dragged,” I snap before I can stop myself. “By a past I didn’t ask for and a boy who wouldn't let me go.”
She considers that, then nods. “And yet here you are. Still standing.”
I want to ask what this is—some weird peace offering? Some twisted version of thank you for not ruining my son?
Instead, I press my palms to the table and say quietly, “I’m not a project. I’m not a scandal. I’m not someone you get to judge because I don’t fit into your curated image.”
She lifts her glass. “And yet, Jade Bryan, you may be the most real thing that’s ever walked into our world.”
My mouth goes dry.
For once, I don’t have a comeback.
Only more questions.
Mrs. Holt sips her wine with that same cool elegance, but there’s something softer in her eyes now. A hint of curiosity, maybe even… respect?
I toy with my chopsticks, not really hungry but needing to keep my hands busy. “I was supposed to play D1 soccer.”
Her eyes shift to me, interested. “Were you?”
“Yeah.” I exhale slowly. “I worked my ass off for it. Two-a-days, club leagues, state championships. I had offers lined up before everything went sideways.”
“Because of the… circumstances,” she says, air-quoting like it tastes bitter.
I nod. “Exactly. Apparently, the words false accusations and scandal don’t mix well with athletic departments. My top schools put me on ice. PR nightmare, they said.”
She hums in that disapproving way only powerful women can manage. “And your first choice?”
“Boston College.” I smile, wistful. “I fell in love with it when I visited over break with my parents. The campus, the city... it just felt like me. Strong academics. Great soccer program. Everything I wanted. But after the Homecoming mess? The whispers, the articles, the rumors... I’m too radioactive. ”
I laugh dryly. “So once again, I’m the one getting punished for something I didn’t do.”
“That’s life,” she murmurs, “if you let it be.”
We lapse into easy small talk. She asks about Aunt Susan. I ask about Leo. She says Harvard’s a good bet for him—early action looks promising, and he’ll be working on his essays over break.
Then she pauses. Straightens her wine glass.
“Won’t you come for Christmas Eve?”
I blink. “What?”
“You and that aunt of yours. Aunt Susan, is it?”
I squint at her, suspicious. “You want me at your Christmas Eve party? Why?”
She lifts her napkin and dabs her mouth like it’s just another Tuesday.
“To be Leo’s Christmas present, of course.”
I choke on my hot cocoa. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says smoothly, gaze steady. “You don’t just give a girl as a gift, no. But I could give my son something far more valuable—a second chance at happiness. And you know a thing or two about second chances, don’t you, Jade?”
My stomach flips. Because under all her control, her class, her terrifying elegance... there's something real in her eyes. Hope. Guilt. Maybe even love.
“Wouldn’t that be the perfect Christmas gift?”
I blink at her again, speechless.
“But I’m going to Winter Ball with Kannon,” I say slowly, as if she forgot.
“And Leo is attending with a date,” Mrs. Holt replies, already standing, draping her designer coat over her shoulders. “So?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I close it again. She shrugs—actually shrugs—as if it’s all perfectly reasonable. No scandal. No tension. Just… logistics.
“Four p.m. appetizers,” she continues, all business now. “Six o’clock dinner. Eight o’clock Christmas Eve mass. Cordials and cocktails after. I’ll send a car for you and Aunt Susan.”
She doesn’t wait for my reaction. She just breezes out of the sushi lounge like a royal procession, perfume trailing in her wake—something expensive, icy, floral.
I sit there, stunned, her words still echoing in my ears.
A gift. A second chance. The queen’s invitation.
Christmas Eve at the Holts.
With Leo.
What in fresh prep school hell is this woman planning?