Monster-in-Law Christmas (OTT Shorts #2)

Chapter 1

The car wheels crunch through fresh snow as Cillian navigates the winding driveway. I press my forehead against the glass, grinning like a child on Christmas morning.

Outside, the world has been dipped in sugar. The dark pines are frosted white, sparkling under the twilight like they’ve been dressed just for us.

“It’s magical,” I breathe, turning to look at Cillian. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be like Narnia.”

Cillian smiles, though his eyes remain fixed on the narrow path ahead. “It has its moments. Especially when the snow covers everything up.”

I reach over and cover his hand on the gear shift, smoothing my thumb over his knuckles. I can feel the tension radiating off him, a hum of nervous energy that he’s trying to suppress.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Relax. We’re here. No more work emails, no more city noise. Just three days of warm fires and eggnog.”

He lets out a breath, turning his hand over to lace his fingers through mine. He gives my hand a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Listen, Star,” he says, his voice serious but warm.

“I need you to remember what I said about my mother. She can be... particular. She has a very specific idea of how things should be done.” Particular.

He once described her as “tactfully ruthless” when he was drunk.

I’ve seen the way his shoulders tense when her name appears on his phone, how his voice shifts to something formal and distant during their calls. But still, all family has drama, right?

“Particular. I know.” I wave the warning away with my free hand. “But I can handle particular. I dealt with that gallery owner in Chelsea who screamed if the macaroons weren’t color-coordinated with the abstract expressionism. I am fully prepared.”

“It’s not just the macaroons,” Cillian says, glancing at me. “She can be chilly to outsiders. I just don’t want you to take it personally if she’s not warm right away.”

“She won’t have a choice,” I promise him, beaming. “I have a secret weapon.”

I’m thinking of the artisan truffles I spent an hour selecting—dark chocolate with sea salt, her favorite—and the fact that I memorized the stuffing recipe he told me about. I am not entering this house as an intruder; I am entering as a daughter-in-law ready to be embraced.

Cillian looks at me, and his expression softens into something fiercely affectionate. He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles.

“You’re right,” he says, and he sounds like he truly believes it. “Once they get to know you—once they actually see you the way I do—they’re going to love you. They won’t be able to help themselves.”

“Exactly,” I say. “I’m lovable.”

“You are,” he agrees. “And I love you. Remember that? No matter what she says about the traffic or the timing, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest as the house comes into view. I picture myself standing by their tree, holding a glass of wine, finally part of the big, messy, beautiful family Christmas I’ve always wanted.

“Your parents actually live here? Just the two of them?” I ask, counting windows, calculating rooms.

“And a small staff,” Cillian says as if it’s nothing. To him, it probably is. “Housekeeper during the week, groundskeeper for the estate, and my mother’s assistant who’s basically on call twenty-four seven.”

What a life.

I think about our apartment back in the city—the one we chose together six months ago.

The paint-splattered living room where I placed my easel by the window.

The kitchen where Cillian makes Sunday pancakes, splattering batter on cabinet doors I keep meaning to refinish.

The bedroom where we’ve created our own world, tangled in mismatched sheets that feel like home.

That world feels very distant now. For the first time, my stomach twists.

“You grew up here?” I ask, though I know the answer. It’s just hard to imagine Cillian—my Cillian, who sleeps in ratty T-shirts and sings off-key in the shower—as a child in this place.

“Until boarding school at thirteen,” he says, his eyes fixed ahead. “Then holidays and summers. Less and less as I got older.”

I lean over and kiss his cheek, saddened to hear about his lonely childhood.

The car rounds another curve in the driveway, and suddenly the estate unfolds before us. What was imposing from afar becomes overwhelming up close. Stone walls rise from manicured grounds now covered in pristine snow.

“Home sweet home,” Cillian murmurs.

He puts the car in park and turns to me, his gold-flecked eyes clear and steady. “Ready to charm the Brown dynasty?”

“Born ready,” I say.

I think about the invitation that started this—the handwritten note on thick cream stationery.

Not a request but a summons, artfully disguised as family concern.

“We simply must meet the woman who has captured our Cillian’s heart after all this time.

” The “all this time” doing heavy lifting—reminding everyone that I’m not the first, not the expected one.

Not Bea.

I’ve never met her—Cillian’s ex-wife—but her ghost rides with us now, another passenger squeezing into the space between our seats.

“We can still turn around,” he says, half-joking. “Head to a hotel. Tell them we got snowed in.”

The car slows as we approach the circular portion of the driveway directly before the house. Cillian puts it in park but doesn’t kill the engine. For one wild moment, I think he’s considering turning around if I don’t answer fast enough.

“Cillian!” I say.

He sighs. “Ah, you’re right. They already know we’re here.” He nods toward a curtain moving in one of the windows. “Security cameras at the gate.”

Oh. Well, good on them. Never a bad thing to stay safe.

The engine idles, suspension creaking as Cillian shifts in his seat to face me. “You don’t have to charm them. You don’t have to be anyone but yourself.”

I send him a charmed smile.

I love him, and while I think—hope—he’s being overprotective, love means walking straight into the fire, anyway.

Cillian turns off the engine, and we’re enveloped in sudden silence. The absence of sound feels tangible, pressing against my eardrums as if I’ve been submerged underwater. Only the soft tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and our synchronized breathing punctuate the stillness.

Beneath my wool coat, I smooth the red dress I chose deliberately for this weekend. I found it three weeks ago and bought it specifically for tonight. It’s vibrant and festive—a festive crimson splash to celebrate the holiday.

I wanted to look the part. To show Mary that I take her traditions seriously.

The Brown family Christmas card, which arrived at our apartment last week, featured them all in coordinated Candy Apple Red sweaters, all arranged on a white sofa like catalog models.

I studied that photo for hours, memorizing the shade.

I chose this deep crimson to match them. The classic holiday palette.

I am not here to stain their pristine page. I am here to be the finishing touch. I want to stand next to them by the fire, wine glass in hand, and finally feel like I belong in the picture.

Cillian watches me, his gaze soft and searching. He reaches across the console, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The tenderness in the gesture makes my throat tighten.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

Not appropriate. Not suitable. Beautiful.

That’s why I love him. Why I’m here.

“Ready?” he asks, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.

I nod, not trusting my voice with anything more complicated than, “As I’ll ever be.”

The car doors open simultaneously, and winter air rushes in, stealing the warmth we’ve cultivated.

I step out onto the snow-covered driveway, my boots crunching through the fresh powder.

Our breath forms visible clouds that dissipate in the frigid evening air.

The cold slices through my coat, making me shiver—though perhaps not entirely due to the temperature.

Cillian pops the trunk, and we gather our luggage. I watch his movements become more precise, more controlled with each passing second. The casual slouch in his shoulders disappears. His jaw tightens. He’s transforming before my eyes—my Cillian becoming their Cillian.

I hate it.

He catches me watching him and forces a smile. “Three days,” he reminds me. “We just need to survive three days.”

I squeeze his hand.

We reach the massive oak door with its ornate brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. The craftsmanship is undeniable, the message unmistakable: power lives here. Old power. Unyielding power.

Cillian sets down his suitcase and places his hand at the small of my back.

The gesture is protective, possessive even.

His jaw is set with determination—a muscle ticking along its edge.

I’ve seen this expression before, in the moments before he confronts difficult clients or stands up to his overbearing boss. Battle armor.

“Remember what I told you about the first night?” he says.

I nod. “Your mother will have arranged a ‘casual’ dinner that’s actually a carefully orchestrated evaluation.”

“And?”

“And your mother’s views do not dictate yours.”

His lips quirk at one corner. “Perfect.”

The light catches the gold flecks in his eyes—the feature that first drew my attention at that gallery opening where we met.

I’d been explaining my painting technique to a potential buyer when Cillian approached, his gold-flecked eyes fixed solely on my canvas.

Not on me, not on the crowd, but on what I’d created.

He grasped what I was trying to convey before I’d spoken a single word.

That man is the one I’ll always fight for.

I reach up to straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger at the base of his neck. “I love you,” I whisper.

It’s not the first time I’ve said these words, but it feels significant here.

Cillian’s eyes soften. He leans down, pressing his lips gently to my temple. It’s a final moment of intimacy before we step through the threshold. I close my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the cold winter air. For just a second, we’re alone in the universe.

“I love you, too. No matter what happens in there,” he murmurs against my skin, “remember that’s not my home anymore. My home is with you.”

The words wrap around me.

He pulls back, his hand finding mine and squeezing once before reaching for the doorknob. The brass feels ice-cold against my fingers as I touch his hand. The door is heavier than it looks, requiring Cillian’s shoulder against the wood to push it open.

Warm air rushes out, carrying the scents of pine mixed with cinnamon. The doorway glows golden from chandelier light within, casting our elongated shadows across the threshold.

We cross into the Brown estate together, the door closing behind us with a sound like finality.