Chapter 16
Marigold
The afternoon flew by in a flurry of flour, frosting, and gingerbread limbs, but somehow—with Emery’s help and a whole lot of caffeine—we managed to finish boxing Uncle Uzzi’s tremendous holiday order.
Right on cue, Richard showed up in a sleek black delivery van that looked like it belonged to a luxury catering service, not a cookie run.
The man himself—silver-haired, pressed slacks, and an air of long-suffering but deeply loyal competence—greeted us with a curt nod, loaded everything into the van with military precision, and vanished like some kind of magical butler ninja.
Now it’s just me and Emery, sitting in the back of the stretch limousine Uncle Uzzi sent to take us to the gala.
Yes. A limousine.
The windows are tinted, the seats are buttery-soft white leather, and there’s an actual champagne bucket chilling in the console between us like we’re in a Hallmark movie directed by Sofia Coppola.
Emery’s practically vibrating in her seat.
“I still can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me!” she says for the fiftieth time, narrowing her eyes and poking me in the side.
In her defense, it was a lot to drop on her at once.
That magic exists.
That I have visions of the future.
That Uncle Uzzi is a real, certified Witch. And oh yeah—his wildly successful dating app, Date to Mate, is actually enchanted to pair up shifters, witches, and normals—humans—with their fated soulmates.
“I needed time,” I say, shrugging. “Plus, it’s not like you ever would’ve believed me until you saw it with your own eyes.”
“Girl, the moment my phone lit up with that glowing heart emoji and that cauldron-boil sound, I knew.”
I laugh despite myself.
“I still can’t believe you downloaded it.”
“I’m already talking to a guy named Cormac,” she says proudly. “He’s a Wolf Shifter and a firefighter who bakes bread in his spare time and raises money for orphaned familiars.”
“Emery.”
She grins. “Okay, I made up the last part. But he is a firefighter. I think.”
I roll my eyes and glance out the window.
My stomach’s been twisted in knots all day, but it’s getting worse now, like the limo’s motion is stirring up every single anxious thought I’ve tried to bury under gingerbread and denial.
“What’s up, boss lady?” Emery asks, leaning forward to fix her cherry red lipstick in her compact mirror.
She’s all dolled up tonight in a glittery emerald green cocktail dress with a vintage faux fur stole that makes her look like a 1950s holiday pin-up.
“You’ve been quiet since the last stoplight.”
“I guess I’m nervous,” I admit. “What if he doesn’t show? What if his explanation is just—less than stellar?”
Emery snaps her compact closed and looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Marigold. Honey. If you wanted answers, you could’ve just answered his calls.”
“I didn’t want a half-assed excuse over the phone,” I say quietly, my fingers smoothing the velvet of my burgundy dress.
“I need to see him. Look into his eyes and hear the truth straight from his mouth. When he says it’s over, I want him to have the balls to say it to my face.”
She studies me for a moment, serious now.
“How do you know he’s going to say it’s over?”
A lump rises in my throat.
“Because if he wanted to stay, he would have,” I whisper. “And he didn’t.”
The limo turns off the main road, and onto a long, winding drive flanked by snowy evergreens.
My breath catches as we approach the gates of Uncle Uzzi’s estate.
It looks like something out of a fantasy novel.
Tall wrought iron gates shimmer with enchantments, pulsing softly with golden light.
As we pull up, they swing open without a sound, revealing a long brick drive lined with glowing lanterns that float several feet above the snow-dusted ground.
Beyond that?
Pure magic.
Uzzi’s mansion rises like a confection of Old World elegance and holiday charm—an enormous Victorian-style estate with steep gables, balconies wrapped in garlands, and warm amber light glowing from every window.
Twinkling fairy lights dance across the rooftops, forming intricate snowflake patterns that shift in rhythm with the music drifting from within.
Yes, music.
A live string quartet is playing Carol of the Bells somewhere near the front entrance.
There’s a massive ice sculpture of a reindeer prancing in the circular driveway fountain, surrounded by glittering snowflakes suspended mid-air, held up by nothing but invisible magic.
Snow falls gently around us—slow, soft, shimmering flakes that don’t melt when they hit the ground.
“Holy shit,” Emery breathes, practically flattening herself against the window. “We’re in the freaking North Pole.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, swallowing down the mix of awe and anxiety tangling in my chest. “With better snacks.”
“Hell yeah,” she says with a wink.
The limo pulls to a smooth stop.
A footman—yes, a footman—opens the door for us and offers a gloved hand.
We step out together.
The snow glows beneath our feet. The scent of mulled wine and sugared almonds lingers in the crisp air.
And as we walk up the carpeted path to the grand, arched doors, I try not to wonder if he’s already here.
If he’s waiting inside.
If I’m about to get my answers—or my heart broken.
Either way, I square my shoulders and lift my chin.
Let the holiday chaos begin.