Chapter 28
Alex
I woke up to the muffled, cheerful sound of Dad singing fucking Fairytale of New York in the hallway—the universal sign that he’d already had his first cup of tea and was ready to tackle the day.
I was cocooned in Carrie’s arms, wrapped in the silk nightgown she insisted I wear last night when she finally led me upstairs.
It was expensive, ridiculously soft, and smelled entirely like her.
I fucking loved wearing her clothes—it felt like being marked, even when we were just sleeping—so I hadn’t put up a single bit of protest.
I felt a shift behind me, and I realised Carrie was already awake, illuminated by the glow of her phone. She set it aside the moment she felt me stir, pulling me back against her chest and burying her face in my hair.
Fuck, her being here still felt like a fucking dream.
"Merry Christmas, darling," she whispered, her morning voice even lower and raspier than usual.
I smiled, turning in her arms to face her. "Merry Christmas. I still can’t quite believe we’re actually having Christmas together. Here."
Carrie’s expression softened, her thumb tracing my lower lip—a silent reminder of everything that happened on the sofa downstairs.
I lost my fucking breath as the memories spun across my mind.
"Believe it. I’m not going anywhere." She kissed my forehead before sitting up.
"I’m going to head down, secure some coffee from your father, and then I want to give you your present before we have to properly join your parents. "
A thrill of nervous excitement shot through me. "Now?"
"Now," she confirmed with a knowing smirk. She slipped out of bed, pulling on her silk robe and tying the belt with a sharp, elegant tug. "Stay put. I'll be back in five minutes."
As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, I fucking scrambled out of bed.
I headed straight for the back of my wardrobe, reaching behind a stack of old hoodies to pull out the gift I’d hidden weeks ago.
It looked small and humble compared to the literal fucking house-full of furniture she’d gifted my family, but it was personal.
I sat back on the edge of the bed, the wrapped box clutched in my lap, my heart fucking hammering against my ribs.
I’ve faced hoards of drunk teens and survived a week of family crises, but the thought of giving Dr. Carter a gift—of trying to offer her something she hasn't already bought for herself—made me feel like a fucking nervous wreck.
I checked my reflection in the mirror, my hair a mess and my skin still glowing, and waited for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.
The door pushed open with a soft thud as Carrie nudged it with her hip, expertly balancing two steaming mugs of coffee. She looked effortlessly poised, even in a dressing gown, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Fuck, she was stunning.
"Your father is in exceptionally high spirits," she said, her voice dryly amused as she handed me a mug.
"He informed me that the 'pancake station' is being prepped and that we have exactly fifteen minutes before he officially comes up to drag us out of bed.
We are apparently on a strict Christmas countdown. "
I chuckled, the heat of the mug warming my palms. "Yeah, Dad doesn't do Christmas half-heartedly. Once he’s got the music on, there’s no stopping him.”
It still felt fucking surreal that she was here with my family at Christmas.
Carrie’s eyes dropped to the small, neatly wrapped box sitting on my lap.
I felt fucking nervous now. She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her gaze flickering back to mine with a playful, teasing glint.
"And what's this? A peace offering for your little 'Mommy' slip-up, or did you actually find something you thought I didn't already have? "
I felt my cheeks heat up instantly. Fuck, she was cruel sometimes.
"Shut up. And no... it’s just something I wanted you to have.
" I nudged the box toward her, my heart doing a nervous little flutter. "I’d like you to open it first. Before you reach into that bag of yours and make me feel like a pauper with whatever madness you’ve bought me. "
Carrie let out a soft, melodic laugh. She set her coffee down on the bedside table and moved toward her designer leather tote, pulling out a small, heavy gift bag embossed with a logo I recognised as a high-end jeweller.
Shit. She set it on the duvet but didn't touch it yet.
Instead, she sat down beside me, her thigh pressing against mine, and reached for my gift.
"Very well, darling," she murmured, her tone shifting from teasing to something surprisingly tender. "Let’s see what you’ve been hiding."
She began to unwrap the paper with the same clinical precision she applied to everything, her movements slow and deliberate as if she wanted to savour the moment.
I found myself holding my fucking breath, my fingers twisting in the silk of my nightgown, desperately hoping I got it right. Fuck, I felt sick.
The silence in the room stretched out, becoming thick and fucking suffocating.
Carrie stared down at the book, her fingers tracing the worn edges of the spine.
It was a second-hand copy—faded, loved, and fucking worlds away from the pristine, leather-bound editions that usually lined her office shelves.
I felt the sudden, violent urge to snatch it back, run out of the fucking room, and pretend the whole thing was a joke. What was I thinking? Giving a woman who owned the fucking city a charity-shop book filled with my own scribbles felt like handing a pebble to a fucking queen.
"It’s... it's one of my favourites," I stammered, my face burning. "I found that copy and I—I annotated it. Every page. I underlined the bits that reminded me of you, or things I thought you’d enjoy. It’s stupid, I know. I’ll get you something real, something actually nice when the shops open—"
"Alex," Carrie interrupted, her voice barely a whisper.
She finally looked up, and the expression on her face stopped the fucking breath in my throat.
The "Dr. Carter" mask hadn't just slipped; it was completely gone. Her eyes were glassy, shimmering with a vulnerability that made my heart fucking ache. She opened the book to a random page, her thumb hovering over a messy note I’d made in the margin about a specific character’s strength reminding me of her.
"You thought of me on every page?" She asked, her voice uncharacteristically thick.
"Every single one," I admitted, my voice small.
Carrie closed the book, clutching it to her chest as if it were made of solid gold.
She leaned in, pressing her forehead against mine, and I could feel her shaking slightly.
For all the TVs, the furniture, and the gourmet food she’d bought, this—this fucking messy, five-pound book—was the thing that finally broke her.
"Nobody has ever given me anything like this," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. "It’s the most precious thing I own. Thank you, darling."
She stayed there for a moment, just breathing me in, before she pulled back and reached for the heavy jewellers bag on the bed.
This was more than I could’ve hoped for, fuck my chest felt all fluttery.
She looked at me with a soft, watery smile, her poise slowly returning, though her hand still rested protectively on my book.
"Now," she said, her voice regaining its low, commanding hum. "Open yours. I think you'll find our themes for the year are quite... aligned."
I pulled the slim velvet box from the bag, my fingers fucking trembling slightly.
When the lid clicked open, I found myself staring at a necklace of dark, oxidised silver.
It was fucking breathtaking—a delicate, intricate pendant that caught the morning light in a way that felt moody and sophisticated, exactly like the woman who bought it.
I chewed on my lip, my heart skipping beats as I stroked the cool metal. The only proper jewellery I owned was tucked away in a dusty box—heirlooms from my grandmother that I’ve never been able to wear because they felt like they belonged to a different life, a different version of me.
Fuck. But this? This was chosen for me. By her.
"It’s beautiful, Carrie," I whispered, my voice thick.
"Flip it over, Alex," she murmured, her gaze fixed on my face, watching for my reaction with that familiar, intense focus.
I lifted the pendant, my thumb rubbing the smooth metal on the back. As I tilted it toward the light, I saw the engraving in a sharp, elegant script: My darling.
Fuck, I couldn’t cry.
A rush of heat and emotion flooded my chest. It was a simple phrase, but after last night and the way she held me, it felt like a fucking brand. It was a silent, shimmering claim that I could wear against my skin every single day.
"I wanted you to have something that reminded you of who you belong to," Carrie said, her voice dropping into that low, possessive register that made my stomach fucking flip. "Even when I'm not in the room to remind you myself."
I looked up at her, my eyes stinging. "Put it on me?"
Carrie smiled, a soft, triumphant expression. She took the necklace from the box and moved behind me. I lifted my hair, fucking shivering as her cool fingers brushed against the back of my neck. As she fastened the clasp, she leaned down, her lips grazing the spot where my shoulder met my neck.
"There," she whispered, her hands resting on my shoulders as she looked at our reflection in the mirror leant against my wall. The dark silver sat perfectly against my skin, a permanent tether to her. "Perfect."
Just as the moment threatened to pull us back under the fucking covers, a thunderous bang echoed from the hallway, followed by the smell of sizzling butter and the high-pitched trill of a Christmas carol.
"Pancakes are up!" Dad bellowed from downstairs. "Ten minutes, you two! Or I’m eating the bacon myself!"