29
The car rolled through the iron gates of her family’s estate just outside of London.
Dusk was settling over the countryside, the last of December light bleeding into frost-edged hedges and bare trees strung with quiet and calm.
Tasteful Christmas lights glowed softly along the winding drive.
It was exactly how her mother liked them.
This trip was not about rugby and not about work and definitely, definitely, not about boys. This was family. This was rest. No work allowed.
Inside the house, everything felt unchanged. The familiar creak of the floor near the entryway. The faint scent of pine and citrus polish. A fire crackling low in the sitting room. Her mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen, already issuing instructions to someone about dinner plate placement.
Claire set her bags down, slipped off her boots, and stood there for a moment, breathing it in.
Safe. Quiet. Predictable.
“Mum!? Dad!?” Claire yelled from the entryway, “I’m home!”
A man rounded the corner at speed, arms stacked dangerously high with a box labeled POLISHED – DO NOT DROP and slammed straight into her.
“Oh– oh no– no no no–”
Silverware erupted.
Claire lunged forward on instinct, catching the box from underneath as forks, spoons, and one overly dramatic ladle made a bid for freedom.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
“I’ve got it,” the man said at the same time.
They froze.
A single spoon slid off the top, hit the floor, and rang out like a church bell.
Clink.
Claire looked up.
“Kelsey?”
He blinked. Then broke into a grin so wide it could have powered the house for a week.
“Doc!” he said brightly. “We weren’t expecting you yet.”
She stared at him. “We?”
Kelsey. Kesley, from the Crusaders. Kelsey from work. Kelsey.
“You were supposed to be in New Zealand,” she said slowly.
He nodded. “Was.”
“You told me you were going home for Christmas.”
“I did.”
“And yet,” she gestured at the manor hallway, the garlands, the ancestral portraits judging them both, “here you are. In my parents’ house. Holding the family silver.”
He glanced down at the box. “Polishing it.”
“…Why?”
“For Christmas,” he said, like that explained everything.
Claire closed her eyes.
She had flown across the world and promised herself that for two blessed weeks, she would not think about rugby.
And now rugby was in her hallway wearing a festive jumper dusted with flour and sequins.
“You didn’t go home,” she said.
Kelsey winced. “I did… for three days.”
“That’s not Christmas.”
“My mum redecorated the lounge in beige,” he said gravely, “Beige! And I panicked.”
She opened her eyes. “So, you came to my house?”
“Your mum invited me,” he said quickly.
“Of course.” Claire muttered, confused.
From the dining room, her mother’s voice called out, “Kelsey, darling, did you find the silver–”
She appeared, took one look at them frozen mid-hallway, and beamed.
“There you are!” she said. “Claire Bear, love, you’re home. And you’ve already found Kelsey.”
“Yes,” Claire said flatly. “Apparently I work with him and live with him now.”
Her mother waved a hand. “He’s delightful. And helpful. And he has strong opinions about napkin rings.”
“The gold ones were aggressive, Suzy,” Kelsey said.
Claire dropped her bag.
“And dad?” Claire asked.
“Study.” Both Kelsey and Suzanne answered at the same time. They were alight with glee after and giggled as if they were the best of friends, and that was an inside joke.
“I came here,” she said, “for a quiet, rugby-free Christmas.”
Kelsey leaned in, whispering loudly. “I promise not to pull a hamstring in the living room.”
She scoffed despite herself.
Christmas, it seemed, was going to be anything but quiet.
She went upstairs to her old room – still painted the same soft pink, still holding the faint echo of a girl who had once believed she could save the world.
Posters of the Spice Girls and Paul Nicholls glazed the walls.
Nothing had changed a bit. She opened the top drawer of her dresser to unpack only to see it was already filled with unrecognizable clothes.
She opened the second drawer. Clothes. Third drawer. Same thing.
Kelsey trots up behind her. “Your mum gave me this room, but I can move to a different one… if you want.” He was nervously touching a framed picture of a young Claire atop of a brown horse, adorned with accouterments for dressage.
Claire rolled her eyes, “you can stay…”
“Thank you!” he said with a hug and a squeeze.
Claire moved her bags now to the guest room, down the hall.
Only then did she take her phone out.
She sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the dark screen, and exhaled.
Just in case, she told herself.
The moment airplane mode clicked off, the phone vibrated sharply in her hand.
Once.Twice.Again.
Claire frowned.
She hadn’t given this number to many people. Her parents had it, of course. A few close friends. Work contacts in New Zealand. That was it. She hadn’t even bothered changing her voicemail greeting yet.
A call came through.
Unknown number.
Her chest tightened.
She let it ring.
It stopped.
Almost immediately, it rang again.
With a sigh that tasted like irritation more than fear, Claire answered.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Ashford.” The voice on the other end was smooth, practiced, unmistakably American. Male. Confident. “Good evening. My name is Mark Sherblosky. I represent Jason Markey. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Claire’s fingers tightened around the phone. “You have the wrong number.”
“I don’t think I do,” he said easily. “You’re in London, correct? Just landed today.”
Silence stretched between them.
“How did you get this number?” she asked, her voice flat now. Controlled.
A brief pause, the kind that meant the answer wouldn’t be one she liked.
“We manage a lot of moving parts,” Mark said. “Publicists, schedules, personal contacts. When someone’s relevant, we tend to stay informed.”
Relevant.
Claire closed her eyes and hung up.
The call came through again.
It rang, and rang, and rang.
She answered.
“What do you want?” she barked at him.
“Well,” he continued, as if they were discussing dinner reservations, “Jason’s in London for the USA versus England match. Big one. Last Union League game before Christmas break. Media interest is… significant.”
She said nothing.
“There’s been some renewed curiosity about his personal life,” Mark went on. “Your name’s come up. Former fiancée. Doctor. International move. It’s a compelling narrative.”
“I’m not a narrative,” Claire said quietly.
“Of course,” he replied, unfazed. “But optics matter. Jason’s been doing a lot of growing. There’s interest in seeing him grounded. Stable. If the two of you were seen together – even just publicly attempting to reconcile – it would play very well.”
The words landed like ice water.
“Seen together,” Claire repeated. “Trying to reconcile.”
“Yes. Lunch. A walk. Something organic. No statements, no pressure. Just… presence.”
Claire laughed then – a short, humorless sound.
“You called the wrong woman,” she said. “I don’t care about football. I don’t care about him playing rugby. I don’t care about Jason’s image. And I’m certainly not here to play happy ex for the cameras.”
Another pause.
“I understand this might be surprising,” Mark said carefully. “But I’d encourage you to think about it. You’re both in London. It’s Christmas. People love a redemption arc.”
“Do not call me again,” Claire said. “And do not contact me on this number. Ever.”
She ended the call before he could respond.
For a moment, she just sat there, phone still pressed to her ear, pulse thudding loudly enough to feel in her throat.
Her quiet.Her break.Her escape.
Cracked open in under thirty seconds.
She stood abruptly and crossed the room, setting the phone face-down on the desk as if it might burn her. Outside the window, the estate grounds lay calm and undisturbed, frost catching the moonlight. Somewhere downstairs, someone laughed. A kettle whistled. A cork popping from a champagne bottle.
Life, continuing.
Claire leaned her hands against the windowsill and stared out into the dark.
Jason was in London.Playing rugby.And somehow, impossibly, still trying to contact her.
She swallowed hard and straightened.
Not this time.
She had come home for family dinners and long walks and silence that healed instead of haunted. She would not let a game – or a man who only ever loved the version of her that benefited him – take that away.
Claire picked up her phone again, powered it off completely, and slipped it into the drawer.
Her father finally made an appearance at dinner.
Dr. Cornelius Ashford was a man in his early sixties, tall and spare, with silver-threaded hair kept neatly back from a face that had learned early how to give nothing away.
His features were precise rather than handsome, the kind of handsome that was shaped by generations of good breeding.
His eyes – a cool, assessing blue – had the habit of lingering just long enough to make people feel measured, not judged, though the distinction was often academic.
Before a love of archaeology, there had been business.
Decades of it. He had built and dismantled companies with the same patience he now applied to excavation sites, understanding that the most valuable things were rarely obvious at first glance.
He spoke of that former life rarely, and never with nostalgia.
It had been a phase, necessary and profitable, but incomplete.
Archaeology, by contrast, demanded humility.
Time, soil, and silence that could not be rushed or bullied.
Ashford respected that. He was known in academic circles for his restraint, for letting the work speak rather than attaching his name too loudly to discoveries that would outlast him regardless.
His money came from old places: estates held in trust, foundations endowed generations ago, investments managed by people who shared his surname and his caution.
It freed him from urgency. He chose projects carefully; funded research others could not and walked away when institutions tried to turn history into spectacle.
In person, he dressed simply and well with tailored coats, worn leather shoes, and a watch that had belonged to his father and kept impeccable time.
He disliked excess, distrusted charm, and valued competence above all else.
Those who earned his respect found him precise, dryly humorous, and unexpectedly generous.
While they had no other children, Claire seemed to be the perfect blend of her parents, like the specific puzzle piece needed to complete the whole picture.
“Hi, Daddy,” Claire said softly to her father, as he approached with quiet, deliberate strides into the kitchen. He came right over to where she was sitting as they placed a peck on each other’s cheek in a greeting.
“Hi Claire Bear, welcome home.” He took his seat at the head of the table. Claire spied a pride flag pin on his lapel, where normally a red poppy would be hung.
“Love the pin, Dad,” Claire gestured.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Cornelius answered, “Kelsey got it for me, I just absolutely love it.”
Kelsey was beaming with enthusiasm at his new found family.
“Oh this looks divine,” Cornelius said admiring the spread.
The long mahogany table gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier; its polished surface stretched like a stage for the festive ritual ahead.
Four place settings were arranged with meticulous care: fine China rimmed with gold, silver cutlery shimmering beside crisp linen napkins tucked into holly-shaped rings, and delicate water goblets, wine glasses, and champagne flutes catching the candlelight.
Low arrangements of holly, pine, and fir sprigs ran along the center, dotted with gold-painted pinecones and flickering taper candles.
At each seat, a metallic Christmas cracker waited beside the plate, promising paper crowns, corny jokes, and tiny trinkets, while sprigs of rosemary tucked into the napkin rings filled the room with a subtle, festive fragrance.
Silver serving platters and sauce boats reflected the light as the scent of roasted goose, spiced pudding, and fresh pine mingled with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth, creating a scene both elegant and intimately inviting – a Christmas carefully crafted for family, warmth, and tradition.
Claire knew that this was just the beginning.
Over the next week, the estate will be a revolving door of family and friends coming to visit.
She knew that she would have to go to the Kensington Estate for their boring and stuffy Christmas Eve party.
So, for now, she will soak in the slow dinner filled with warm smiles, and invigorating conversation.