Chapter 5
Elizabeth woke before the house.
Again.
It was still dark outside the tall windows of the east wing, but the faintest trace of light pushed at the edges of the horizon, enough to reveal the steady snowfall.
The snow had continued through the night, blanketing the estate in flawless white.
It was beautiful in the way winter in Vermont was always beautiful: crisp, still, perfect.
Too perfect.
She slipped on her robe, the same navy one she brought every year, and padded silently down the wide hall toward the kitchen.
Her bare feet knew the cold marble floors well.
The Hale estate hadn’t changed much since she was a child.
Not the floors, not the windows, not the creak in the third step of the back staircase. Not the pressure.
By the time she reached the kitchen, it was already warm with motion.
The staff moved like clockwork, quietly efficient; cooks and assistants in coordinated aprons, the air full of cinnamon and clove, warm bread, roasted chestnuts.
Someone was zesting oranges with robotic speed.
Someone else was brushing egg wash over rows of pastries that looked like they belonged in a Parisian window display.
Elizabeth offered a polite nod as she passed through them, familiar enough not to be a stranger, but distant enough not to be a participant. The same invisible line she’d always walked in this house.
In the great room, the twelve-foot Christmas tree dominated the space like a monarch.
Its branches were so laden with ornaments and lights that it looked more sculpture than evergreen.
Ribbons looped with mathematical precision.
Garlands framed the stone fireplace like something from a luxury catalog.
Stockings hung on the carved mantel, each with a name in elegant embroidery: Annette.
Marcus. Julian. Margot. Charlotte. Clementine. Elizabeth.
She stared at hers for a moment. The thread was silver, not gold like the rest.
She hadn’t noticed that before.
Outside the tall windows, the snow kept falling. Light now, soft as breath. Everything glittered, the lawn, the hedges, the tips of the pine trees beyond the fence. It was beautiful. And still, all Elizabeth felt was tension thrumming just beneath her skin.
She used to love this.
As a child, Christmas here had been magic.
The colors, the music, the way the whole estate transformed into something shimmering and strange.
Her mother would direct it all like a conductor, trees, lights, place settings, gifts, menus.
Elizabeth had loved being part of the performance then, a small soprano in a family symphony.
But she’d grown older, and now the beauty had become brittle.
Precise. The wrong note cracked the illusion.
And it was all an illusion.
Annette entered the room like a general inspecting the troops.
Hair pinned, lips painted, wearing heels despite the early hour.
She greeted the head chef with a quick comment about the paté, then began making her way through the kitchen like a queen through her court.
Adjusting the holly centerpiece. Questioning the size of the dinner rolls.
Reassigning seating for the carolers scheduled to perform that evening.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, barely glancing at Elizabeth. “I’ve asked them to serve the cinnamon loaves with clotted cream this year. Margot insists it’s more traditional.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “Clotted cream isn’t traditional here.”
“It is in England.”
“We’re not in England.”
Annette looked at her then, smiled, thin and glossy. “Tradition adapts.”
Elizabeth said nothing. It wasn’t worth the argument.
Her mother swept onward, issuing instructions about table linens and napkin folds. The staff trailed behind her like a silent parade.
Elizabeth moved to the window and pressed one hand to the cold glass. Outside, a cardinal landed on a snow-dusted branch, its red feathers stark against the pale world. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed behind her ribs.
She didn’t belong here. Not really.
She never had.
They called her the perfect daughter. The polished one.
The one who made it to thirty-three with a pristine public image, a billion-dollar company, and no visible cracks.
That was the role she played now every time she came home.
Every time she showed up to the great room with gifts wrapped precisely and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She was expected to be serene. Accomplished. Untouchable. That was what made her valuable.
Elizabeth was halfway through her second espresso when she heard it, the soft shuffle of footsteps, the almost-silent yawn. Then the sound that made something in her chest twist in ways she wasn’t prepared for:
Riley’s voice.
“Okay. I know I’m late to the party, but does anyone else smell actual heaven, or is that just me being dramatic again?”
Elizabeth turned toward the sound instinctively. And there she was.
Riley stood in the arched doorway of the kitchen, bleary-eyed and barefoot, wearing a robe, one of Elizabeth’s spares, charcoal gray with deep cuffs and a belt knotted crookedly.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Why are you wearing my robe?” she asked, voice careful, controlled, though curiosity and something sharper tugged at the edges.
Riley glanced down at herself, a faint pink rising in her cheeks. “Uh… your stylist didn’t pack one for me,” she admitted quickly, tugging the belt tighter. “This one was lying on top of your bag, I guessed it was a spare, I swear I didn’t go rummaging around.”
Elizabeth studied her for a long moment, noting the way the oversized sleeves swallowed Riley’s wrists and the soft rumpled way it hung around her shoulders. She said nothing, simply gave a measured nod. “Just… try not to spill anything on it.”
Riley blinked, relieved, and stepped aside to let her pass, still muttering a small, embarrassed apology.
Elizabeth walked past her, noting the slight tilt of Riley’s head as she watched Elizabeth’s reaction.
For a fleeting second, Elizabeth caught herself thinking how vulnerable Riley looked in something that wasn’t hers and quickly shoved the thought aside.
Her hair was a soft disaster, frizzy from sleep, and she had mismatched socks tucked into a pair of absurdly expensive guest slippers that looked like they belonged in a five-star spa, not on someone who hadn’t finished a full REM cycle.
Elizabeth’s stomach did something unprofessional.
She watched as Riley scanned the room, smiling as she took it all in, the bustle of the staff, the smell of fresh bread, the garland-strung windows gleaming with snow-dappled light.
She looked impossibly out of place and somehow like she belonged.
The robe hung off her like borrowed armor.
It was too intimate. Too domestic. Like they were actually waking up together. Like they’d been doing it for years.
She caught Elizabeth’s gaze and grinned. “You look way too awake for someone not possessed by caffeine demons.”
Elizabeth lifted her espresso in silent answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Riley yawned again and made her way into the room. “Okay, what do I do? How do I not get in the way but still seem incredibly helpful and charming?”
“No need,” Elizabeth murmured, voice low. “They have it handled.”
But Riley was already moving, chatting with one of the sous-chefs about cinnamon ratios, asking someone if she could carry the silverware, waving off instructions with a cheerful, “I’ve got it, promise, I was a waitress for three summers in college, this is my battlefield.”
Elizabeth watched her fold napkins like origami turtles and arrange them in the wrong order.
She made the staff laugh, drawing smiles from people who rarely looked up.
She asked questions, complimented the decorations, charmed a passing footman into handing over a mini croissant.
She did it all while trailing crumbs, her robe slipping off one shoulder, her socks showing one pine tree and one questionable avocado.
It should’ve been a disaster.
But somehow, it wasn’t.
Riley glowed. Not in a forced, camera-ready way. In a warm, real way that pulled people in. She didn’t smooth herself to fit. She just existed, unabashed and unapologetic, and the world made space for her.
Elizabeth stood still at the edge of it all, espresso cup cooling in her hand, watching Riley fold herself into the rhythm of the house like she’d been born here.
She’s good at this, Elizabeth thought. Too good.
This wasn’t supposed to feel easy.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like watching your partner move through your home with practiced ease, making it hers, making you want to come down early just to see her.
She had hired Riley for one reason: damage control. A Band-Aid over a holiday wound. But now the Band-Aid was cracking jokes with the pastry chef and laughing with the woman who polished the silver.
Elizabeth had never made anyone laugh in this house. Not like that.
“Should I put out juice or coffee first?” Riley asked, holding up a glass carafe in one hand and a silver coffee pot in the other. “Wait, don’t answer, I’m just going to bring both and let the chaos sort itself out.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked down at her, noting how Riley’s robe brushed against her arm as she bustled past. It was a faint touch, accidental, or at least that’s what Riley thought, but it made Elizabeth’s pulse stutter. Too close. Too real.
Part of Elizabeth wanted to step in, remind her that the staff were perfectly capable of setting the table, of pouring coffee and juice with exacting efficiency.
It was a small thing, a minor protocol breach, but every minor thing mattered when family and appearances were involved.
And yet… she let Riley move forward, allowed the gesture.