Page 3 of Snowbound with the Santas

Past fancy paintings, ornate vases, and high marble pillars, I stroll with my head held high and my mind running. It’s a challenge, stuffing the real me deep down into my gut and reigniting the fake me who survived private school, obscenely decadent parties, and hours of mind-numbing, boring talk about how tough life is for the wealthy.

As I descend the pristine white staircase, keeping my hands close to my body and my purse clutched in my hands, I fantasize about telling the truth.

Telling my mother that I hate this dress, that I feel imprisoned inside it. I want to spend Christmas with my friends in a small pub somewhere, exchanging paper-wrapped giftsand drinking until sunrise. That I see no value in entertaining government officials or listening to how the latest dip in the stock market is so terrible for trading.

I want to eat pizza and potato waffles, drown cheap pancakes in syrup, and pore over my second-grade class's intensely terrible yet lively drawings. It’s not much, and indeed, if I had control over my inheritance, I would do a lot more. But teaching is how I give back and how I try to make up for my terrible teen years spent seeking self-destruction at the bottom of a bottle.

And the tragedy I caused because of it.

Instead, I’m here, Annette McCullough’s estranged daughter who spends too much of her time away from family.

Finally showing her face after three years.

By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, sweat pools against my skin and makes the bodice infinitely more smothering. I flash a smile at the attendee who holds out a glass of champagne to me. I decline it with a smile while the familiar, faint pull of addiction yanks in my mind.

Immediately, I turn and head away from the crowd filling the ballroom and make a beeline for the door leading to the kitchen.

Water. I need some water.

Suddenly, an iron grip clamps down on my bare arm and hauls me to the side, sending me tripping over my own heels. A squeal of shock escapes me and my other arm flails as I try to regain my balance. It’s impossible as I’m dragged swiftly behind a giant planter housing a colossal fern and thrust into the darkness of a smaller room.

I stumble over myself, and my ankle catches on something cold and sharp. The clatter of a metallic pail meets my ears, followed by the solid thunk of a closing door.

“What the hell?” I snap, spinning around the second I regain my footing, and I drag my arm out of my assailant’s grip. “What the hell do you think you’re playing?—”

Oh, no.I know that face.

“Hello, Rayne. What adelectablesurprise.”

2

RAYNE

“What thehellare you doing here?”

Standing in front of me with his trademarkbutter-wouldn’t-meltpleasant smile, is my ex-fiancé, Ashton.

I haven’t seen him in five years, which is quite a feat since he hounded me day and night when we were together. Five years of freedom, of trying to rebuild my life from the scraps he left of it, of trying to find peace in my heart after what he put me through.

My mother hated Ashton and saw my love for him as an act of rebellion. Looking back with a healthier mindset, I know now that my love for him was simply desperation and fear.

He destroyed me and my life. He crushed my soul and left me with so many trust issues and so much trauma that I nearly hit Nina with a vase the first night she stayed at my apartment.

He’s a dark stain on my past that I’ve put many hours into therapy to leave behind. Now, he stands before me wearing a silver-blue suit and a crisp white shirt, looking like the cat that got the cream.

“Not a very nice way to say hi,” Ashton says in his deceptively pleasant voice.

“And dragging me into a—” I glance around quickly now that my eyes have adjusted to the lower light. “A supply closet? How is that any better?”

“Consider it a gut reaction to seeing you again,” Ashton says softly. “My, you look a vision…” His dark eyes slowly drift down my body, and disgust coils hot in my gut—one eye is creamy and drifts slower than the other. It’s the one stark scar Ashton carries from our past.

The only scar.

The rest are in my soul.

I need to get out of here.

Being trapped in here with him is digging up old memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. Within two minutes, the familiar prickling under my skin has risen and the urge to scream bubbles at the base of my throat.

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