Chapter 47
SYLVIE
I hated that my first instinct was to rush to my bedroom window.
But I did it anyway. I pressed my face to the glass and peered down at the guest parking below. The rental was nowhere to be seen.
He was gone.
Relief and disappointment warred in my chest. Relief that he’d kept his word and left when he said he would. Disappointment that felt entirely too much like loss for someone I’d only known a couple weeks. Someone who had lied to me. Someone who’d made me look like a fool in front of my father.
But just to be absolutely certain, I went out into the living room.
My heart skipped a beat. The couch was empty.
The sheets were folded and stacked neatly on the coffee table.
The quilt I’d given him was draped over the back exactly as it had been before.
Even the throw pillows were arranged exactly as they’d been, as if no one had slept there at all.
As if Kent Bancroft had been nothing more than a dream—or a nightmare.
The only sign he’d been there was a faint lingering scent of his cologne, woodsy and so expensive that it didn’t belong in my cozy, lived-in space.
I sank onto the couch, running my hands over the cushions that still held the slightest indent from where he’d slept. Had he slept? Or had he lain awake all night like I had, staring at the ceiling and replaying every word of our conversation in the hallway?
It didn’t matter. He was gone, and that was exactly what I’d wanted. What I’d demanded.
So why did my apartment feel so empty?
I forced myself through my morning routine. Shower and coffee. Everything felt mechanical, like I was going through the motions without actually being present. The woman who believed in Christmas magic with the fervor of a true believer was not around today.
By the time I made it to the tree farm, the morning rush was already in full swing.
Families wandered between the rows of Fraser firs and Douglas firs.
Kids raced ahead of their parents with the single-minded determination that only came with the promise of finding the perfect Christmas tree.
Christmas music played from the speakers just like always.
The crowd should have lifted my spirits. If every day had been like this, we wouldn’t be shutting down. But it all felt muted. I couldn’t bring myself to hum along to Jingle Bells. My bells were in no mood for jingling.
“You look like someone stole your Christmas cookies,” Emmy said when I approached the hot chocolate stand. She was bundled up in a red wool coat and matching hat, her cheeks pink from the cold and her eyes bright with concern.
“Just tired. Long night.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Not really. Kent came by last night.”
Her lip curled. “Asshole. Did you kick dirt on his fancy shoes?”
“No, but he left this morning,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “So that’s that.”
“Good,” Emmy said fiercely.
“Let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“Okay. But if you change your mind and want to vent about what a jerk he was, I’m here.”
I nodded gratefully and threw myself into work with the kind of desperate energy that came from needing to keep my mind occupied. It helped the farm had a decent amount of people for a change. It gave me plenty to do.
I walked families through rows of trees.
This was what mattered. These moments of joy and connection and tradition.
Not some corporate acquisition deal. Not the smooth promises of a man in an expensive coat who saw dollar signs where I saw home.
I found myself trying to savor every moment.
I would never do this again after Christmas Eve.
Around noon, Emmy’s father showed up in full Santa regalia. He wandered through the trees and surprised the kids. He put little toys in various hiding places for the kids to find. The kids shrieked with excitement while their parents smiled and snapped photos.
I watched from a distance, feeling my chest crack opent. This was why we did what we did. Not for the money—God knew there wasn’t much of that—but for these moments. For the chance to give the kids memories they would cherish forever.
Kent would never understand that. To him, this place was just real estate, just numbers on a spreadsheet. The thought made my stomach turn.
“Don’t let him win,” I whispered to myself. “Don’t let him take this away from you.”
He was not going to ruin the last weeks.
I spent the rest of the afternoon throwing myself into the Christmas spirit. I forced myself to sing along to the carols playing over the speakers.
During a lull around three o’clock, when most of the families had headed home, I wandered over to Emmy’s hot cocoa booth again.
“Finally, things have slowed down,” I said, settling onto the wooden stool behind the counter.
“Perfect time for a break.” She poured two cups of cocoa without asking, handing me one with extra marshmallows the way she’d been doing since we were kids. “So tell me about last night. You said Kent came by?”
I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, letting the heat seep into my fingers. “He was drunk. Wanted to apologize.”
“And you let him? You little slut.” She smiled to show she was joking.
“I let him sleep on my couch.” I knew I sounded a little defensive. “He couldn’t drive, and I was afraid if he stayed at the lodge, Dad would actually kill him.”
Emmy stared at me over her cocoa. “You should have let him.”
“Emmy.”
“I’m serious, Sylvie. Your dad should have beaten the crap out of that lying piece of garbage. Maybe if more people held guys like Kent accountable for their actions, they wouldn’t think they could just waltz into places like this and destroy people’s lives for profit.”
I flinched at the venom in her voice. Emmy was usually the peacekeeper, the one who tried to see the best in everyone. Hearing her talk like this felt wrong, even if part of me agreed with her.
“I couldn’t just let him freeze to death,” I said quietly.
“Why not? He was perfectly willing to let your family’s legacy die. He was ready to watch this entire town get destroyed for oil money. You’re too good, Sylvie. Too forgiving. Some people don’t deserve your kindness.”
I stared down into my cocoa, watching the marshmallows slowly dissolve. “It felt like the right thing to do at the time.”
“The right thing would have been slamming the door in his face.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I should have been harder, meaner. Maybe I should have let him figure out his own sleeping arrangements and transportation problems. But even now, even knowing what he’d done to us, I couldn’t bring myself to regret showing him basic human decency.
“He looked so broken, Emmy. Like he genuinely regretted what happened.”
“Good. He should regret it for the rest of his miserable life.”
When I made it back to the lodge for dinner, I could hear the sounds of celebration before I even reached the front door.
I paused on the threshold, taking in the scene. Brom was telling some story that had the whole table laughing. I had a feeling we were all just playing along. The guests didn’t need to know they were some of the last.
The vibes were perfect. At least, they would have been perfect if not for the last twenty-four hours.
Kent had single-handedly snuffed out my Christmas spirit. I was furious with myself for letting him have that kind of power over me. I could choose to let Kent’s betrayal define this Christmas, or I could choose to carry on and worry about the future later.
“Sorry I’m late,” I called out as I shed my coat.
I sat down at the table, immediately feeling the weight of unspoken tension settling over all of us like a heavy blanket. I could see the strain around everyone’s eyes as they tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy for the guests.
“How was the farm today?” Mom asked, passing me a plate of pot roast.
“Busy,” I said, grateful for the mundane question. “Lots of families looking for trees. Not a bad turnout so late in the season.”
Stacy cleared her throat, glancing around the table before speaking. “I should probably mention, when I was cleaning Kent’s room this morning, I found a hundred-dollar bill on the nightstand. I guess it was supposed to be a tip.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I watched Dad’s jaw tighten, his knuckles going white where he gripped his fork.
“A hundred dollars,” Brom said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Like that makes up for anything. Like he can just throw money at the mess he made and call it even.”
“I still have it,” Stacy continued quietly. “I don’t want his guilt money.”
Mom nodded approvingly. “Good. We don’t need his charity.”
“Speaking of Kent,” Brom said, turning to look at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “I saw him last night when he came to get his things. Had a few words with him by the fireplace.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of words?”
“The kind he deserved to hear,” Brom replied grimly. “Told him exactly what I thought about rich pricks who come here and mess with our family.”
I felt heat creeping up my neck. “He slept on my couch,” I blurted out, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
The entire table went silent. I could feel everyone staring at me.
Dad put down his fork. “He what?”
“He was drunk,” I said quickly, hating how defensive I sounded. “Too drunk to drive safely. I couldn’t just let him—”
“You absolutely could have,” Brom interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “You could have let him figure out his own damn problems instead of taking care of the man who just screwed our entire family over.”
“Brom, lower your voice,” Stacy warned, glancing toward the other tables.
I shot him a look. “Kent was a prick but he didn’t screw the entire family over. He’s not the reason we’re broke.”
“I can’t believe you,” he continued in a harsh whisper. “After everything he did to us, you still defend him.” He shook his head in disgust. “What is wrong with you, Sylvie?”
I bristled at the question. “Nothing is wrong with me. I was trying to be decent.”
“Decent?” Dad’s voice was quiet but dangerous. “Sylvie, that man is the farthest thing from decent.”
They were probably right, but I couldn’t forget about the moments when he’d been the guy I fell for. I tried to tell myself that it had been a ruse, but it felt real.
I didn’t waste time trying to make them understand.