Page 1 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

Chapter One

BAILEY

The plan was foolproof.

A cozy Christmas at home, a bottle of spiced wine, my comfiest socks, and a marathon of holiday rom-coms. I’d even splurged on the wine, the kind with notes of cinnamon and nutmeg that made you feel like you were drinking pure holiday cheer. After the year I’d had—late nights at the office, working weekends, and countless personal sacrifices, including my last relationship—this break was supposed to be my one gift to myself.

Figaro, my ginger cat, had his tiny plaid Christmas bowtie ready to wear. I’d gone as far as buying a miniature Christmas tree for him to swat at while I buried myself in the ultimate marathon of cliché romance plots. My schedule was set, cookies baking in the oven, holiday candles burning, and no one, not even the Wicked Witch—aka my boss, Marjorie Sterling—could ruin it.

Or so I thought.

When I stepped into Marjorie’s office that morning, the first thing I noticed was the tension in her expression. Her sharp blue eyes darted up from the papers on her sleek white desk, andwithout so much as a “Good morning,” she said the words that always made my stomach drop.

“Bailey. Close the door.”

I froze for half a second, my grip tightening on the coffee cup in my hand. Nothing good ever came after that tone of voice. Slowly, I clicked the door shut and turned to face her, mentally bracing for the bad news.

Her office, as always, looked more like an exhibit at a modern art museum than a workspace. The sleek white desk, the abstract painting on the wall, even the faint scent of pine from the candle on her shelf—it all screamed minimalistic perfection. It made me acutely aware of the smudge of ink on my cuff and the fact that my coffee was lukewarm.

“Sit,” she ordered, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

I perched on the edge of the chair, the nerves in my stomach twisting tighter with every second of silence. She pushed a manila folder across the desk toward me, the weight of it oddly ominous.

“This just came in,” she began, folding her hands neatly. “A property dispute. Complicated, messy, and high-profile. If handled well, it could make you stand out when partnership decisions are finalized next quarter.”

Partnership.

The word lingered in the air like the promise of salvation. I’d been working toward that goal for so long, it almost felt like a mirage—a destination on the horizon I was never quite close enough to reach.

“What’s the case?” I asked cautiously, reaching for the folder.

Marjorie leaned back slightly, her expression giving nothing away. “The property is an old Victorian mansion in Wintervale, Montana. It was owned by a man named Cyrus Barrington, who passed away without a will. Now it’s in foreclosure, and the town is in an uproar about what should be done with it.”

I opened the folder, the photos inside making me pause. The mansion was the kind of place you’d expect to see on the cover of a Gothic novel. Its wraparound porch sagged like it was carrying the weight of a century’s worth of ghosts, and the turret rising above the snow looked like it had seen better days.

Marjorie continued. “Your client, Miss Edna Twinkleberry, claims to be a distant relative of Barrington. She wants to preserve the mansion and turn it into a… cat sanctuary.”

I blinked, certain I’d misheard her. “A what?”

“A year-round, holiday-themed cat sanctuary,” she clarified, her crimson-lined lips twitching slightly as though daring me to laugh.

I stared at her, then at the mansion in the photos. The two images—one of a crumbling historic property and the other of festive cats in Santa hats—did not compute.

“And the opposing party?”

Marjorie’s smirk widened, and I knew what was coming before she said the words.

“Theodore Snowcroft, a member of Wintervale’s governing board. He wants to sell the property to a commercial developer, claiming it’s the best way to boost the town’s economy. He’s of course retained the developer’s preferred law firm,” she added, her tone almost amused.

“We’ve been up against big names before, so I trust you’ll know how to handle them. This case is messy, but if you resolve it favorably, the other partners here at Smart, Sterling, Weston, and Endicott will take notice.”

I closed the folder, my fingers tightening around its edges. The mansion, the cat sanctuary, some remote small town in the middle of nowhere—it all felt like a twisted Christmas joke. But the promise of partnership glimmered like a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps Santa would finally make my Christmas wish come true this year.

“When do I leave?” I asked, my voice sounding a whole lot steadier than I felt.

Leaving Seattle felt like peeling away a layer of my own identity. The city’s constant noise and chaos had become so ingrained in my daily life that I didn’t realize how oppressive it was until I crossed the state line.

The familiar soundscape of honking horns and hurried footsteps gave way to the soft hum of my car tires against asphalt. Buildings disappeared and were replaced by snow-covered fields stretching endlessly toward the horizon. There was something both freeing and unsettling about it—like I was untethered, drifting toward a way of life I didn’t recognize.

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