Chapter eight
Holly
I’d listened as Blake left for work and I knew I’d screwed up. I didn’t just make cookies this time, I made a huge chocolate cake, then left it cooling and grabbed everything for dinner and put an Italian chicken meal together in the slow-cooker, using a recipe I knew by heart as it had been my Nana’s favorite.
Restless, even with Biscuit following me I found myself staring at the boxes labeled “Christmas.” I knew I should have gone back to the kitchen—I’d left the flour out, and the cake was cooling ready to be decorated—but my hands wouldn’t move. The smell of cardboard and old tinsel filled the closet, sharp and sweet, and for a second, I wanted to just crawl inside and not come out.
That was ridiculous, though. I was twenty, not five. Old enough to know better than to make a mess. Old enough to know that if you made a fuss, someone would always regret letting you in.
Still, I opened the first box, careful not to tear the tape. Inside, a tangle of colored lights blinked up at me, half the bulbs shaped like tiny bells. There were old ornaments wrapped in tissue, the kind that looked like they’d break if you breathed on them too hard. A wreath, a plastic one with a faded red bow, and a tangle of gold garland that looked like it belonged in a movie. There were plastic snowflakes, too, and a whole box of ornaments shaped like tools. Tiny hammers, paintbrushes, and even a little hard hat with “Weston 1999” painted on the brim.
Weston? Where had I heard that before?
I didn’t take anything out, not at first. I just sat there, staring at the jumble and feeling like I’d broken a rule. I was still holding my hands together so I wouldn’t touch anything, but the longer I stared, the more the idea took root. Maybe if I made the place look nice for Christmas, Blake would be happy. Or at least not so quiet. Maybe he wouldn’t regret bringing me here.
Biscuit nosed at the box, tail thumping. I tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “You think he’d like it?” I whispered. Biscuit wagged his tail harder, like he was giving me permission. The little plastic snowflakes clinked in the box as I reached in, hands shaking a little, heart beating out of time. I picked up the strand of lights, careful not to tangle them, then lifted the wreath. The bow was faded, but the red looked cheerful against the green.
I could do this. I could make it look good. I just had to be careful. If I broke something, if I made a mess, then I’d deserve whatever came next. But if I did it right—
Maybe Blake would come home and smile.
Even if he didn’t want me, so long as he smiled it would be okay.
That thought made my chest hurt. I didn’t know why I wanted it so badly. I just did.
I started with the wreath. Biscuit followed me down the hall, watching like he was waiting for me to mess up, but not in a mean way. Just…curious. I hung the wreath on the front door, using the little hook already there. The bow drooped. I smoothed it with my fingers until it looked a less sad. It still wasn’t perfect, but it looked like Christmas.
The garland was next. I tried to remember how Nana had done it, looping it over the banister, letting it drape just right. I stood back, squinting, then tried again, because the first time it was crooked. Biscuit huffed at me and I giggled, nervous, but it felt good to do something that wasn’t hiding.
The lights were harder. I had to stand on tiptoe to get them around the living room window. There was a small step stool in the pantry so I used that, careful not to fall or scuff the paint. Each bulb glowed a different color, like candy. My fingers trembled when I plugged them in, afraid they wouldn’t work. But they did. The whole window lit up, and for a minute, I just stared.
It was beautiful.
Tiny hammers and paintbrushes and a hard hat ornament went on the tree that was shoved in the bottom of the second box, still in its stand. Not a real tree, just plastic, but it felt real enough to me. I put it in the corner of the living room, next to the fireplace, and hung the ornaments so they wouldn’t tip over. There was even a star for the top. I had to stand on the stool again, but I got it balanced.
The room looked different. Not just decorated, but… alive. Like someone lived here who cared about holidays. Like maybe family might show up, even if it was just me and Biscuit and Blake.
I sat on the couch for a second, heart pounding, and tried to see it the way he would. It wasn’t perfect. Some of the garland sagged, and the lights blinked out of order, but it was homey. Warm. I hoped he’d like it.
I didn’t want to cry, but the feeling in my chest was too big. I hugged the bunny tighter and pressed my face into his ear. It was scratchy, but safe.
Biscuit jumped up beside me, nose pressed to my cheek, and I laughed, the sound leaking out before I could stop it. Biscuit gave me a look of pure dog confusion, like he didn’t understand why I needed to press my face into the bunny’s neck and not just play with him instead.
Maybe I was being silly.
But the room really did look like Christmas. Warm. Glowing. Like something out of a movie, or maybe the memory of one. I sat there on the couch, legs tucked under me, yellow blanket up to my ears, and for the first time in forever, I let myself imagine a Christmas that didn’t hurt.
I wished I could remember what it felt like to get a gift just for me. Not a “useful” thing, or something grown-up and cold, but something soft, something simple, something that meant someone had seen you and wanted you to have it. Just because.I looked down at the bunny in my arms. Maybe this was what it felt like.
Pressing his ear to my cheek I closed my eyes, breathing in the faint scent of old fabric and dust. Biscuit flopped next to me, head heavy on my knee. I stroked his fur and tried to pretend I wasn’t waiting for the sound of Blake’s truck in the driveway.But I was. Every muscle in my body was tight, like if I just sat still enough, maybe I could make everything perfect before he came home. Maybe he’d see what I’d done and… what? Smile? Tell me I was a good girl? Just look at the lights and not be disappointed.I wanted that more than anything.
I almost fell asleep right there on the couch, but Biscuit barked when the headlights swept up the drive. My heart jumped straight into my throat. I scrambled to my feet, bunny and blanket and all, and nearly tripped over the end of the rug. That would have been a disaster. I remembered to smooth the blanket and fix the star on top of the tree, just in case. I wiped my eyes. It wouldn’t do to be caught crying.
The knock on the door surprised me, and my heart thudded convinced they’d found me, but I dismissed it. I’d deliberately left anything with any sort of an ID to identify me. Not that I had any online presence. No friends.
The only person Mom and Dad ever let me be with was Vincent.
He said all the right things—that I didn’t have to be afraid of my father anymore, that he’d take care of me, that we’d leave and start somewhere new. He wore suits that smelled expensive and spoke in low, calm tones, and when he said you’re safe with me, I wanted so badly to believe him that I almost did.
For a while, I stopped counting bruises. For a while, I started to imagine what it might feel like to belong to someone who didn’t want to break me.
Then he started bringing me papers.
“Just signatures,” he said. “Routine stuff for the business. I want you to get familiar with how things work. You’ll be on the board one day, after all.”
I didn’t understand half of it—words like claim adjustment, reassessment clause, disbursement schedule. I signed where he told me to, like a good girl.
He always smiled afterward. Kissed my temple. I so wanted to make him happy.“Perfect,” he’d murmur. “You’re such a help, sweetheart.”
I didn’t know that perfection could ruin people.
A few weeks later, I was in his office—the one with the glass walls and the smell of cold coffee and printer ink. He’d left in a hurry to take a call, and I was stupid enough to open the folder on his desk. I wasn’t trying to snoop. I just wanted to see what a future away from mom and dad looked like.
The file was thick, but the top sheet was enough.A letter.
Claim denied
I didn’t recognize the name, but I recognized the words underneath it. The same phrases my father always used when he talked about “trimming the fat” and “keeping payouts low.”
And there—at the bottom—was my name.My signature.
It was shaky, uncertain, but mine.
I couldn’t breathe.
I didn’t remember signing that one, but it didn’t matter. There were more pages behind it, each one stamped and dated, my signature neatly lined up at the bottom like proof of complicity.
I’d helped ruin someone. Maybe more than one.
When Vincent came back, I asked him what it was. Tried to sound calm.He smiled. “You’re learning, Holly. That’s all.”
When I said I didn’t want to be part of it, his smile changed.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “You’re already part of it.”
But for the first time I stuck up for myself, and for the first time Vincent hit me. That was the moment I knew I wasn’t getting free. He didn’t need to lock me in a cellar. He’d already built the walls around me on paper.
I went cold all over, the kind of cold that starts in your bones and doesn’t leave.
That night, I started planning. Pretended I was okay, but then I heard them talking. Vincent was taking me away so I panicked and ran. Ashamed it had taken me too many years.
The second knock made my legs move. The woman standing there looked like she’d stepped out of one of those glossy lifestyle magazines my mother used to read.
Tall. Polished. A coat the color of champagne, not a speck of snow on her heels. Hair glossy and perfect, makeup subtle in the kind of way that took hours to look effortless.
“Hi,” she said, smiling wide enough to show perfect white teeth. Her smile didn’t waver, but her eyes—cool, sharp blue—moved past me, scanning the hallway like she already owned it. “Is Blake here?”
“No, he’s at work,” I said, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
She laughed, low and knowing. “Of course he is. Always working.” Then she sighed, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I should have known I’d miss him. I was supposed to be home last night, but my flight got in late.”
“Your… flight?”
“From New York,” she said smoothly. “Business trip. I tried calling, but I must’ve mixed up the number.” Her hand brushed her hair back, flashing a diamond so bright it caught the winter light and sent it splintering across the porch.
I couldn’t look away from it.
“I’m Amanda,” she added. “Blake’s fiancée.” The words hit like ice water.
I swallowed hard. “Oh.” My voice came out small, strange. “I— I didn’t know.”
“Well, it’s not exactly public yet,” she said, laughing again. “We were waiting to make it official after the holidays.” She looked down, feigning a bashful smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wanted to surprise him this morning, but I forgot my key. Typical me.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My fingers curled against the edge of the door just to keep from shaking.
She looked me up and down then—my messy braid, my kitten sweater, the flour still dusted on my sleeves from baking earlier—and her expression softened, but not kindly. “You must be the new help he mentioned getting,” she said, voice sweet as honey and twice as fake.
“I—yes,” I stammered. “Just…house stuff. Baking.”
“Of course.” Her smile sharpened, just enough to draw blood. “Blake wouldn’t let me get my hands dirty.”
The words stung before I even understood why.
“I’ll just wait for him inside,” she said breezily, starting forward, and I automatically stepped backward. I could see my reflection in her sunglasses as she slipped them off, still small, still pale, ridiculous. A Little girl playing dress-up in a world that didn’t have room for her.
“I’d love a coffee please,” Amanda added lightly, walking into the kitchen.
“Of course,” I whispered. She smiled like she’d won something and walked right past me into the house, heels clicking against the hardwood.
Biscuit gave a confused bark, tail wagging uncertainly. She barely glanced at him.
I moved to make the coffee on autopilot watching her move around like she belonged — setting her purse on the counter, glancing toward the hallway, the living room, the window where Blake’s truck usually sat.
So that was it. That was why he hadn’t kissed me last night. Not because I’d done something wrong. Because he already belonged to someone else.
And not just anyone, but someone beautiful, someone real. Someone who fit in this world of polished wood and steady confidence, who didn’t tremble when people raised their voices, who didn’t hide her bruises with long sleeves.
Amanda took her coat off and flung it over a chair. Her eyes skimmed the fresh cookies, the chocolate cake cooling on the rack, the faint flour streak on my sleeve. I felt twice as awkward, suddenly wishing I’d changed out of the kitten sweater or at least brushed my hair.
She smiled at me over the rim of the coffee mug when I passed it over. It was a perfect smile. Not a single tooth out of place. “You’re clearly competent in the kitchen,” she said, “but don’t feel like you have to impress him. Blake’s very…simple. He likes things comfortable.”
I nodded. What else could I do? My lips felt numb.
She sipped her coffee, then set it down like she was posing for a magazine. “He mentioned he’d found someone to help out. I thought it would be a woman with a little more…experience.” Her eyes flicked over me, head to toe. “But I suppose if you’re happy to do the work, that’s what matters.”
My brain scrambled. Was I supposed to say yes? Or should I apologize? I had no idea. I wished I had the bunny but he was on my pillow. “I like baking. It’s not a bother.”
Amanda smiled wider, but it was cold. “Well, that’s good. Blake’s so busy with the business I doubt he’d even notice if this place burned down.” She laughed, like it was a joke, but I couldn’t find the funny in it. “Of course it will be different when we get married. He’s already got a lot marked out for a new home for us.”
What was wrong with this one? I nodded again, feeling smaller by the second. Biscuit came and sat at my feet, probably sensing I needed backup. Amanda didn’t even look at him.
She wandered over to the Christmas tree, one finger tracing the garland. “You did this?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s cute. I always tell Blake he should just hire a decorator, but he’s stubborn.” She turned, and her eyes went sharp. “His parents died over the holidays so he doesn’t like the reminder of the decorations.”
I couldn’t hold back the gasp. What had I done? I’d wanted to cheer him up, not remind him of what might be the worst time in his life.
She picked up a snowflake ornament, turned it over, then set it back like it was toxic. “This is our first real Christmas together,” she said. “We’ve both been so busy, it’s a miracle we even get to see each other. I told him this year would be special. Just us. Family. A proper celebration. He deserves it.”
I stared at the floor. I had no idea what to say.
She moved closer, dropping her voice. “I know he can be gruff. Distant. But he’s very protective of what’s his. Sometimes people get confused about their place here, but that’s not your fault. I just don’t want you to get ideas. You understand, don’t you?”
My chest clenched so tight I thought I might choke. “Yes.”
“Perfect.” She gave a clap, like I’d pleased her. “In fact, I need to take a bath and get on something I bought in New York just so he can take it off again.” She laughed suggestively, then waved a hand. “You can finish early today. I’m sure you have Christmas things to do with your family, and you understand as we’ve been apart for a few days we need the privacy.”
That’s all there was to it. I stood in the kitchen like some frightened rabbit, not sure what to do, while Amanda wandered down the hall humming to herself. I heard her on the phone a minute later, voice high and sharp, slicing through the house like it belonged to her. Maybe it did.
The living room was still glowing with the lights I’d put up. The tree twinkled, and the garland sagged in the exact same spot as before. For a second, I saw it all with Amanda’s eyes and hated myself. It looked cheap. Silly. Like something a child would do. All I could think was that I’d ruined everything. I’d thought Blake might be happy, coming home to a house that looked like Christmas, but I’d got everything so wrong.
She was beautiful, perfect, exactly the kind of woman who knew how to exist in the world. I was just the help. Not even that—I was a mess, a burden, someone who didn’t know her place. I should have known. Mom and Dad had never wanted me, so why on earth would someone as gorgeous as Blake be interested?
But then I knew he wasn’t. He’d been crystal clear last night. He was a good man and had felt sorry for me, and I’d overstayed my welcome. It hurt so much but it shouldn’t. I pressed my face into the bunny’s ear and tried not to cry, but it kept coming anyway. Silent, hot, useless. I hated that she’d seen me in my kitten sweater, flour on my face, hair wild. I hated that I’d wanted to make him happy so badly I’d made a fool of myself.
Was this how it was always going to be? Trying so hard, and still getting shoved out of the way by someone shinier, louder, stronger? I tried to remember what Nana would’ve said, but I couldn’t hear her voice under my mother’s, “You’re in the way. You’re too much. Grown girls don’t play with toys.”
But the bunny was soft in my arms, and Biscuit’s fur was warm under my cheek, and I wished for just a second that I could disappear into them and never come out.
I knew I had to leave. I should pack up the blanket and the bunny and the clothes Blake had given me and just go before he came home and saw what a disaster I’d made of everything. He’d be angry. Not like yelling, but disappointed. That was worse. The thought made me shake all over. I didn’t want to go. Not even a little. I wanted to stay curled up right here, with the lights blinking and the fire popping in the stove and the dog pressed against my leg. I wanted to belong, even if it was only for a little while.
I heard the sound of the bath running. She was really going to be here when Blake came home. I wondered if she’d tell him about the decorations, or about me. I wondered if he’d even care.
I waited. Every minute felt like an hour. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
When I heard the water turn off and the bathroom door close I almost bolted for the bedroom to get my clothes. I took an old plastic bag from the pantry and stuffed it with both sweaters, and the jacket Blake had bought me but preferred I wear his. I stared at the bunny and my fingers itched to take it, but it wasn’t mine. Not really.
It belonged to another girl Blake had loved, and that wasn’t me.
