Chapter 7 #2
She could feel herself slipping into the old familiar armor, Ice Queen Hale, the one who could command boardrooms and dodge emotion with the same practiced chill.
It felt safe. It felt like control.
But it also felt like losing something she didn’t know she wanted until last night.
She could feel the walls locking into place around her again, brick by brick, the same ones she’d spent years building. The same ones Riley had started to climb over. Last night, those walls had cracked.
But cracks could be sealed.
Even if it hurt.
Even if the person on the other side was looking at her like they didn’t understand what they’d done wrong.
Even if Elizabeth didn’t quite know how to stop hurting her.
So she stayed quiet. Polished. Perfect.
The breakfast continued. The carols played. And Elizabeth sat there with her back straight and her mask in place, pretending she couldn’t feel the silence between them growing louder by the minute.
Elizabeth sat alone in the library, curled into the high-backed velvet chair no one else ever used.
A fire crackled in the hearth, more for atmosphere than warmth, casting golden light against the walnut-paneled walls.
Outside, snow still poured from the sky in lazy, suffocating sheets, blurring the horizon and burying the world in silence.
Inside, she could hear the muffled laughter of her family somewhere down the hall, distant and removed, like a life she wasn’t fully participating in anymore.
She had brought a book, some ancient collection of essays she wasn’t actually reading. It lay open in her lap, forgotten.
Her fingers had turned the same page three times now.
Because all she could think about was last night.
It looped in her brain with no mercy—the soft hush of breath between them, flashes of Riley in the dark, the curves of her body, her taste, the way she looked as she came apart.
Elizabeth could still feel it—God, why had she let it go that far?
She hadn’t meant to. She never meant to. The plan was simple: bring Riley home, fake the relationship, survive the week. In, out, done. Her mother’s suspicion soothed, her reputation intact, and Riley compensated fairly for the performance.
No emotion. No entanglements. No risk.
And now?
Elizabeth exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.
She told herself it was a mistake.
She’d had too much bourbon. Riley had been tipsy. The snowstorm, the firelight, the damn holiday music, it had all conspired to soften her edges, to lull her into this false sense of safety. To lose control.
That’s all it was.
Just a mistake.
But even as she repeated it like a mantra, a betrayal bloomed low in her chest: she didn’t regret it.
And that was the worst part.
Because Riley had been so real in that moment.
Open and messy and human in a way Elizabeth had spent her whole life avoiding.
She’d never dated people who made her feel uncertain.
Never slept beside anyone who looked at her like she was worth knowing beyond the veneer.
Riley was chaos, mismatched socks and oversharing and nervous jokes about performance pressure in reindeer, and somehow, she’d made Elizabeth feel… seen.
And Elizabeth didn’t know what to do with that.
The fire popped, startling her. She blinked down at the book in her lap and turned another page she wouldn’t read. Her pulse still throbbed in her neck like she was in some kind of quiet, slow-moving free fall.
She could feel herself unraveling.
And no one even knew.
To the world—her family, the staff, Riley—she was still ice-cold Elizabeth Hale. Unflappable. Controlled. Performing the part of the perfect daughter, the charming girlfriend, the gracious host.
But inside, everything felt shaky and uncertain.
She thought of Riley again, of her voice, low and hesitant in the dark. The way she’d opened up by the fire, talking about money, about fear, about not being enough. That was the moment everything shifted, really. That was the moment Elizabeth’s carefully constructed defenses had started to crack.
Because no one ever confided in her like that. People admired her, respected her, feared her, but they didn’t talk to her. Not like Riley had.
And she’d listened. She’d wanted to listen. She remembered her own voice, surprising even herself: You’re not replaceable, Riley. Not to me.
She meant it. That terrified her most of all.
Because this wasn’t just a fake relationship anymore. It wasn’t a scheme, or a script, or a transaction. Somewhere along the way, Riley had become something else, something Elizabeth didn’t have a name for.
A threat. A possibility.
Maybe both.
And that wasn’t even addressing the sex.
Elizabeth rubbed at her temples, trying to will the thoughts away.
They weren’t helping. They wouldn’t change anything.
This had always had an expiration date. Christmas would end, the snow would clear, and they’d go back to their respective lives.
Riley would move on. And Elizabeth would pretend none of this mattered.
But the ache in her chest said otherwise.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Elizabeth sat up straight instinctively, smoothing her expression into something neutral. The door creaked, and she half-expected Riley to appear, hair still damp from the shower, eyes soft and searching.
But it was just a housekeeper passing by.
She let herself sag back in the chair, alone again.
Last night had been a mistake.
She would keep telling herself that until it became true. Until she believed it.
Until Riley was gone and the ache faded.
But even now, the memory of those gasps and whispers, the intimacy, the feelings of completeness, clung to her like static.
And no amount of control could make it disappear.