Season Of Sparkles (12 Days of Christmas)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

ODETTE

Ten Years Ago

Aspen, Colorado

Christmas Day

The shrill ring of my phone pierces through my dreams, pulling me from a deep sleep. I fumble for it on the nightstand until my fingers close around it. Groaning, I swipe to answer without checking the caller ID.

That was my first mistake.

“Hello?” My voice is groggy, thick with sleep.

“Where the hell are you?” The voice on the other end hits me like a bucket of ice water.

I pull the phone away and squint at the name on the too-bright screen.

Raymond McClure.

My ex-fiancé.

Why is he calling me?

“What’s it to you? Last I checked, you dumped me.”

“So you hung up on me?” His tone is bitter, laced with accusation. “That’s real fucking mature.”

The hostility in his tone makes me wince, momentarily pulling me into wakefulness faster than I’d like. I blink, trying to process, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and angry.

“I can’t believe you. Running off like some spoiled brat, acting like none of this matters. Like I don’t matter. Do you even care how this makes me look?”

I don’t say anything; I just hold the phone to my ear as his angry tirade continues. My brain is still catching up, still half-asleep. As the fog of sleep slowly lifts, so too does the irritation rising in my chest as memories of the past week come flooding back.

The ring thrown across his hotel room. Cruel words that can’t be unsaid. The sudden, gaping hole in my future where our shared dreams used to be.

Or rather, his dreams. It was always about him. He didn’t ask; he demanded that I alter my dreams to bolster his. Having an intelligent, educated woman would’ve done wonders for his image. What I actually wanted didn’t matter. My hopes and dreams were inconsequential in his eyes. But he knew that this engagement was the one thing that would finally get Mom to recognize me as her daughter — and not just her dirty little unwanted secret — and like any smart, conniving, self-respecting gold-digging bastard would, he played that card to his advantage.

Until she died a month ago, and her parents — my grandparents — cut me out of their lives for good since there was no sense in keeping up with the charade. Then Raymond followed suit and dumped me once he realized he didn’t want to be stuck with a poor, penniless, illegitimate bastard daughter with nothing to her name. Not even her prestigious mother’s last name.

So why is he calling me now?

I sigh, letting his words fade into the background as I stare blankly at the ceiling. For a moment, I’m tempted to respond, to explain, but something inside me stops. I close my eyes, forcing myself to exhale, an eerie calm settling over me. In my mind, the narrative I’ve been fed my whole life shifts, along with my perspective on things.

He’s not my problem anymore.

I don’t love him. I don’t even like him.

With Mom gone, I don’t have to pretend anymore.

“Have a nice life, Raymond,” I say firmly and hang up, cutting off his response mid-sentence. The familiar mix of anger and regret threatens to surface. Still, as I drop the phone onto the plush comforter, another feeling pushes to the forefront — confusion .

This isn’t my bed.

This isn’t even my dorm room.

Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, I push myself up on my elbows, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room I’m in is a spacious suite with vaulted ceilings, rich wood accents, and a breathtaking view of snow-capped mountains through floor-to-ceiling windows. Plush white bedding envelops me, and I sink deeper into the ridiculously soft mattress, savoring its comfort.

It’s a far cry from my cramped dorm room in Chicago.

I sit up slowly, pulling the duvet around me like armor as the realization that I’m sore slowly creeps in.

Like, really sore, down there.

Logic dictates that I should be panicked about this, but I’m not. That’s because it’s not the uncomfortable type of sore, though. It’s the good kind of sore.

Still, something feels… off.

My gaze sweeps over the rest of the space. Velvet armchair by the window, a fur throw draped casually across the armrest, with another spread out on the floor. A crackling fire still burns in the stone fireplace across the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The warmth it radiates feels at odds with the chill settling in my chest. A half-empty bottle of champagne sits on the nightstand, two glasses beside it.

It’s the kind of place that’s supposed to make you feel cocooned, wrapped in luxury. I could never afford a place like this, so it’s a good thing this trip isn’t on my dime. From the state of the rest of the room — as in, it looks like a level three hurricane blew through it — it’s clear that I wasn’t alone last night.

But the other side of the bed is empty.

Cold.

The events of last night come rushing back in a dizzying flood.

My impromptu all expenses paid trip to Aspen, all because I lost a stupid bet. The chance meeting at the hotel bar downstairs. The handsome stranger with the charming, crooked smile. Laughter echoing off polished wood and crystal glasses. The spark of spontaneity that led us here. His hand on the small of my back as we stumbled to the elevator.

Sure, I was tipsy, but I wasn’t drunk. I knew what I was doing.

One night of unbridled passion, that was the deal. No strings attached, no names or phone numbers exchanged. It looks like he held up his end of the bargain, so why do I feel so empty?

The room suddenly feels too quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire. I glance around once more, my heart sinking a little as reality settles in. The air smells faintly of cedar and something faintly sweet, like spiced peppermint candles.

Of course it does.

After all, it’s Christmas morning.

Worst holiday ever.

Outside the window, snow-capped mountains loom against a pre-dawn sky, a picturesque view that only amplifies the ache in my chest. I wait a beat, listening, hoping to hear the bathroom door open. But there’s nothing. Just the sound of my own breathing and the muffled quiet of the hotel. I slide out of bed, the ache in my chest spreading as my feet sink into the thick, expensive rug. Even though I know it’s futile, I check the bathroom anyway, confirming what I already know.

The ache settles, morphing into a deeper, more familiar hurt as I move to the window. Aspen’s snow-covered peaks gleam in the rising morning sun, oblivious to the hollow feeling in my chest. The grandeur of the suite seems to close in, mocking my solitude.

So much for a spontaneous, impulsive getaway. All I’ve managed to accomplish is waking up alone in yet another beautiful, cozy prison of my own making, with nothing but an all-too-familiar sense of abandonment for company. The fire crackles, filling the silence, but it only makes the emptiness sting more.

Merry fucking Christmas to me.

It truly is the worst holiday ever.