Chapter 2
Iexpect a drafty old mansion, but instead, the grand foyer is breathless warmth and golden light. Marble floors gleam beneath a chandelier that looks like it’s dripping diamonds, casting rainbows across the high ceiling. It’s not just impressive; it’s breathtaking.
“Wow,” I whisper, looking around. “Cillian, this is incredible.”
I take a step, and warmth seeps through the soles of my boots. I look down, surprised.
“Heated floors,” Cillian murmurs, stamping the snow off his shoes. “Mother detests cold feet.”
“She thinks of everything,” I say, genuinely impressed. I imagine Mary Brown as a thoughtful matriarch who ensures her guests are comfortable the moment they walk in. I feel a rush of gratitude. I can work with thoughtful.
We walk further in, our footsteps echoing lightly against the polished stone.
I catch my reflection in a gilded mirror on the wall—my cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, my eyes bright, and the red dress peeking out from my coat looks vibrant and cheerful.
I straighten my shoulders, smiling at myself. You belong here, I think. You’re ready.
A staff member dressed in black slacks and a white blouse is the first person we meet. She promptly takes my tray of chocolates out of my hands and begins walking away.
“B-but, I wanted to—“ The woman doesn’t stop, unconcerned that I preferred to hand deliver the treats myself.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cillian reassures. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you made them.”
“Speaking of which….Mother?” Cillian calls.
The house is quiet, but it feels peaceful rather than empty. I’m just about to suggest we check the living room when movement at the top of the sweeping staircase catches my eye.
A woman appears. She’s tall and elegant, with silver hair swept into an immaculate chignon. She’s striking. Even from this distance, I can see the piercing blue eyes Cillian inherited.
I take a breath, readying my warmest smile. But then I pause.
She’s wearing emerald green.
It’s a beautiful silk blouse, rich and dark, paired with tailored black slacks. It looks lovely on her, but my mind stutters for a fraction of a second. The Christmas card was red. They were all in red.
Then, another woman appears beside her.
She is younger, softer, with honey-blonde hair cascading in meticulous waves. She holds a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres like she’s posing for a painting. And she, too, is wearing emerald green. A sweater this time, in the exact shade of Mary’s blouse.
They stand together on the landing, a coordinated set.
I glance down at my red dress, then back at them. A small seed of confusion plants itself in my chest. Maybe I remembered the card wrong? Or maybe they just changed their minds?
I push the thought away. It’s just a color. It’s festive. It’s fine.
“Cillian, darling,” Mary calls, her voice musical as she descends the stairs.
She doesn’t look at me yet, but I tell myself that’s normal. After all, she hasn’t seen her son in a while. I stand politely by Cillian’s side, hands clasped, waiting for the family reunion moment.
Mary reaches the bottom of the stairs and glides toward us. The blonde woman follows a half-step behind, looking at the floor.
Mary embraces Cillian, pressing her lips against his cheek. “You made good time despite the weather.”
“We managed fine,” Cillian says.
I step forward slightly, smile in place, ready to be introduced. I prepare to extend my hand, maybe even offer the hug I’d planned.
But Mary doesn’t turn to me. She keeps her hands on Cillian’s arms, her body angled slightly so her shoulder forms a wall between us.
“The drive from the city can be treacherous,” she continues, smoothing Cillian’s coat. “I told Arthur we should have sent a driver.”
I lower my hand, feeling a prick of heat on my neck. She just hasn’t noticed me yet, I tell myself. She’s focused on Cillian.
“Never mind that,” he says. “What is Bea doing here?”
His ex-wife? A sad, sort of strangling noise escapes my throat.
“What a happy accident we’ve had,” Mary says, finally stepping back but turning toward the blonde woman, not me. “Her apartment suffered an unfortunate boiler breakdown just yesterday. Flooding everywhere, isn’t that right, dear?”
She nods, looking up with a shy, apologetic smile. “The entire building, actually. They’re saying it might be weeks.”
“I couldn’t bear the thought of her spending Christmas in a hotel,” Mary says, her voice dripping with maternal warmth. “So naturally, I insisted she stay with us. Arthur and I have more than enough room.”
I watch them, trying to follow the dynamic. It’s kind of her, I suppose, to take in a stranded friend. But as I look at his former wife in her emerald sweater, standing next to his mother in her emerald blouse, the visual is striking. They look like mother and daughter.
And I, in my “deliberate” crimson red, look like a flare went off in a forest.
Cillian’s jaw tightens. I feel him stiffen beside me. “What a coincidence,” he says, his voice flat.
“Isn’t it just?” Mary smiles.
The silence stretches. Mary is still looking at Cillian. Bea is looking at her shoes. And I am standing there, my smile starting to feel brittle at the corners, waiting to be acknowledged.
My optimism wavers. This is awkward.
“Mother,” Cillian says finally, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. He slides his arm around my waist, pulling me physically into the circle. “This is Star. My girlfriend.”
He emphasizes the word girlfriend, leaving no room for ambiguity.
I draw a breath, forcing my spine straight. I will not be the one to make this weird.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Brown,” I say, projecting warmth I’m rapidly losing. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I’m Star.”
Mary’s eyes finally slide to me.
They are blue ice chips, set in a face that is beautiful and completely unreadable. Her gaze travels down to my red dress, lingers for a heartbeat too long, and then flicks back up to my face. There is no warmth. No welcome. Just a swift, clinical calculation.
“Star,” she says, tasting the word like it’s a wine she suspects has turned to vinegar. “How... unique.”
The word lands softly, but the impact is heavy. She smiles, but it’s more like a grimace.
Before I can respond—before I can defend my name or compliment her home or tell her I brought chocolates—she turns her back on me.
“Your father is in his study, darling,” she says to Cillian, erasing me from the conversation as efficiently as if she’d used white-out. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you.”
My hand tightens on my suitcase handle. The heat from the floor no longer feels cozy; it feels stifling. And as I look at the wall of emerald green backs turned against me, the hope I walked in with begins to curdle into something cold and hard.
The conversation shifts around me as if I’ve suddenly become transparent. I stand in my bright red dress in this pristine foyer and feel myself disappearing.
“Bea has made these lovely canapés,” Mary continues, gesturing toward the tray. “You always did love her smoked salmon pinwheels.”
His ex steps forward and lifts the tray from a side table before offering it with a tight smile. “Hello, Cillian,” she says. There’s genuine warmth in her voice, but it’s fragile, trembling under the weight of the awkwardness.
Cillian doesn’t reach for the food. He doesn’t even look at the tray. His arm tightens around my waist, his fingers digging into my hip as if anchoring me to him.
“Bea,” he acknowledges, his voice flat. Not cruel, but distant. A door closed and bolted.
She turns to me, her eyes meeting mine directly. “And Star. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry about the... circumstances.”
There’s an honesty in her apology that catches me off guard. She looks exhausted, her shoulders tight beneath that emerald sweater. She’s as trapped in this performance as I am, just playing a different role.
“Not your fault,” I say, meaning it.
I reach out and take a canapé, purely to bridge the painful silence. Cillian, however, remains motionless. He refuses to eat from her hand, refuses to participate in this little domestic reenactment Mary has staged.
“These are lovely,” I say, the pastry flaking between my fingers. I’m trying to build an alliance in enemy territory, but the air is so thick with tension I can barely swallow.
Mary’s gaze sharpens with thinly veiled disappointment. This isn’t going according to her script. She wants a catfight, or at least a cold shoulder.
“Bea has always had a gift for entertaining,” Mary says, inserting herself smoothly between us. “She trained at Le Cordon Bleu for a summer, didn’t you, dear?”
“Just a few weeks,” Bea corrects gently, retreating a step. “It was hardly training.”
“So modest,” Mary says with a practiced laugh. “Cillian, remember that dinner party she threw for your thirtieth? The governor himself commented on the soufflé.”
Cillian stiffens against my side. This is the danger zone—the shared history. The memories I can’t compete with because I wasn’t there.
“I remember that it was a long time ago,” Cillian says, his voice dropping an octave. He turns his body slightly, shielding me from his mother’s gaze. “Star is an artist. She had a gallery showing in Chelsea last month. Sold out completely.”
It’s not just a subject change; it’s a shield. Look at her, he’s saying. Not the past.
Pride warms his voice, and gratitude floods my chest. He’s fighting back in his way—parrying Mary’s reminiscence with my present accomplishments.
Mary’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes harden into blue glass. “How lovely,” she says, dismissing my entire career with two words. She reaches up to adjust Cillian’s collar—a touch that’s both maternal and possessive. “You look tired, darling. The city works you too hard.”
Her fingers smooth his shirt. The gesture is deliberate, reminding everyone present of her right to touch, to adjust, to improve. To cross boundaries that I, despite sharing his bed, wouldn’t dare cross in her presence.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Cillian says, stepping back slightly. The movement is subtle but definitive—breaking contact, reclaiming space.
“Well,” Mary says brightly, her hand falling back to her side, “you must be exhausted from the drive. Bea, why don’t you show Star to the blue guest room while I catch up with Cillian? Dinner will be at seven sharp.”
The dismissal is surgical. Separate the couple. Isolate the intruder. Put the ex-wife in a position of authority over the girlfriend.
“Star isn’t going to the guest room,” Cillian says.
The silence that follows is absolute.
“Star stays where I stay,” he continues, his tone dark and final. “In my room.”
The temperature in the foyer plunges. Mary’s smile remains fixed, but her eyes narrow, darting to where Cillian’s hand is possessively splayed across my lower back.
“Of course,” she says after a pause that stretches too long. “How... progressive. I’ll have Margot make up the bed with fresh linens.”
Progressive. She makes it sound like a dirty word.
Cillian pulls me closer, his body heat a furnace against my side. It’s a clear message to his mother, to his ex-wife, and to the house itself: Mine.
“I’ll take Star upstairs myself,” Cillian says. “We’d like to freshen up before dinner.”
“As you wish,” Mary concedes, though her words lack any real surrender.
She steps back, creating physical distance while her presence continues to dominate the foyer.
“Bea, dear, let’s check on the wine selection for dinner.
I’m considering the Bordeaux, but you always had such a good sense for these things. ”
Bea nods, throwing me an apologetic glance before following Mary toward what I assume is the kitchen. The message is clear: Bea belongs in family decisions. I don’t.
As they disappear around a corner, a shaky breath escapes me. The marble foyer suddenly feels larger, emptier without Mary’s overwhelming presence.
“Well,” I whisper, “that went about as well as a root canal.”
Cillian’s laugh is short and tight. “Actually, that was better than I expected. She usually doesn’t bother with pleasantries.”
“That was pleasantries?”
“For my mother? Absolutely.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing its styling. It’s the first genuine gesture since we entered the house. “Star, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—“
“It’s not your fault,” I interrupt, meaning it. “Though the boiler breakdown story is about as believable as me suddenly developing a passion for emerald sweaters.”
His mouth quirks into a half-smile—the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “She’s been planning this for weeks. Probably invited my ex the moment she heard I was bringing you home.”
“Your mother doesn’t waste time.”
“Not when she’s trying to rewrite history. We were not in love, you know. It was a marriage of convenience that sputtered out.”
The thought is reassuring, and truthfully, I did not sense any chemistry between the two of them.
Cillian sighs, picking up our suitcases. “Come on. Let’s get upstairs before she parades my kindergarten teacher through the foyer.”
As we move toward the staircase, I glance back at our reflections in the wall of mirrors.
Two figures in a house built for appearances, where even the floors hide their mechanisms beneath polished surfaces.
Mary Brown has orchestrated this opening scene with expert precision—the surprise appearance, the perfect ex-wife, the dismissive greeting.
But the scene isn’t over. And I didn’t come here to play a part in her production.
Cillian’s hand finds mine as we climb the stairs, our fingers intertwining. The gesture says what words can’t in this moment: We’re in this together. A united front against whatever Mary has planned next.
The battle has only just begun.