Page 28 of Her Holiday Arrangement
But lying here, shoulder to shoulder with Elizabeth Hale in a bed that wasn’t theirs, in a house full of people who didn’t believe this was possible… It didn’t feel fake anymore.
It felt like falling.
5
December 17th - Elizabeth
Elizabeth woke before the house.
Again.
It was still dark outside the tall windows of the east wing, but the faintest trace of light pushed at the edges of the horizon, enough to reveal the steady snowfall. The snow had continued through the night, blanketing the estate in flawless white. It was beautiful in the way winter in Vermont was always beautiful: crisp, still,perfect.
Too perfect.
She slipped on her robe, the same navy one she brought every year, and padded silently down the wide hall toward the kitchen. Her bare feet knew the cold marble floors well. The Hale estate hadn’t changed much since she was a child. Not the floors, not the windows, not the creak in the third step of the back staircase. Not the pressure.
By the time she reached the kitchen, it was already warm with motion. The staff moved like clockwork, quietly efficient; cooks and assistants in coordinated aprons, the air full ofcinnamon and clove, warm bread, roasted chestnuts. Someone was zesting oranges with robotic speed. Someone else was brushing egg wash over rows of pastries that looked like they belonged in a Parisian window display.
Elizabeth offered a polite nod as she passed through them, familiar enough not to be a stranger, but distant enough not to be a participant. The same invisible line she’d always walked in this house.
In the great room, the twelve-foot Christmas tree dominated the space like a monarch. Its branches were so laden with ornaments and lights that it looked more sculpture than evergreen. Ribbons looped with mathematical precision. Garlands framed the stone fireplace like something from a luxury catalog. Stockings hung on the carved mantel, each with a name in elegant embroidery:Annette. Marcus. Julian. Margot. Charlotte. Clementine. Elizabeth.
She stared at hers for a moment. The thread was silver, not gold like the rest.
She hadn’t noticed that before.
Outside the tall windows, the snow kept falling. Light now, soft as breath. Everything glittered, the lawn, the hedges, the tips of the pine trees beyond the fence. It was beautiful. And still, all Elizabeth felt was tension thrumming just beneath her skin.
She used to love this.
As a child, Christmas here had been magic. The colors, the music, the way the whole estate transformed into something shimmering and strange. Her mother would direct it all like a conductor, trees, lights, place settings, gifts, menus. Elizabeth had loved being part of the performance then, a small soprano in a family symphony. But she’d grown older, and now the beauty had become brittle. Precise. The wrong note cracked the illusion.
And it was all an illusion.
Annette entered the room like a general inspecting the troops. Hair pinned, lips painted, wearing heels despite the early hour. She greeted the head chef with a quick comment about the pâté, then began making her way through the kitchen like a queen through her court. Adjusting the holly centerpiece. Questioning the size of the dinner rolls. Reassigning seating for the carolers scheduled to perform that evening.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, barely glancing at Elizabeth. “I’ve asked them to serve the cinnamon loaves with clotted cream this year. Margot insists it’s more traditional.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “Clotted cream isn’t traditionalhere.”
“It is in England.”
“We’re not in England.”
Annette looked at her then, smiled, thin and glossy. “Tradition adapts.”
Elizabeth said nothing. It wasn’t worth the argument.
Her mother swept onward, issuing instructions about table linens and napkin folds. The staff trailed behind her like a silent parade.
Elizabeth moved to the window and pressed one hand to the cold glass. Outside, a cardinal landed on a snow-dusted branch, its red feathers stark against the pale world. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed behind her ribs.
She didn’t belong here. Not really.
She never had.
They called her the perfect daughter. The polished one. The one who made it to thirty-three with a pristine public image, a billion-dollar company, and no visible cracks. That was the role she played now every time she came home. Every time she showed up to the great room with gifts wrapped precisely and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
