Transcription
Everyone's always going on and on about the fear of rejection. Well, I'm telling you all right now, I much prefer being rejected than accepted. Rejection comes with people leaving you alone, but with acceptance comes expectations. And that's where the real problem starts.
For the longest time, I thought this to be a universal truth. I was completely unlovable. And the upside to having such criminally low self-esteem was that it took the sting out of most insults. For example, for 3 years, the man I worked for at a dingy bar would greet me every shift with, "You're a piece of crap, Emma." To which I'd reply, "I know, right?" Not even batting an eye at the jab because why would I? He was right.
And look, it's not that I thought I was the worst of the worst or anything. It's more that I was used to people not liking me. Why would they? My own parents didn't like me. Kicked me out when I was 15. You can't exactly expect the world to love you when your own folks won't even put up with the customary 18 years and out.
And then bam, along came a guy who actually loved me. Now that brought its load of trouble and heartaches way more than rejection ever did because now I wasn't just afraid of losing him. I was afraid of disappointing everyone who came with him. And he came with a lot of people and a lot of expectations.
See, problem is boyfriend is a not fully human, can turn into a wolf, which cool except also terrifying, b an alpha, meaning leader, looked up to, revered by his pack, and c perfection incarnate. So well, deal with that. Overnight, I went from being the girl no one expected anything from to the woman everyone was quietly watching, measuring, comparing, because everyone had assumed he'd end up with Vivien, his best friend, his sister-in-law, the perfect mate in all but title. Beautiful, poised, smart, elegant, composed under pressure, the kind of woman who made being a Luna look effortless. There is no universe in which I could even begin to compare to her. And everyone thought it. I could feel it in the looks, the polite smiles that didn't quite hide the doubt. They were waiting for me to fail. And the worst part was I didn't know yet whether I could prove them wrong. Either way, I was about to find out.
Chapter 1, Emma.
The family cottage turns out to be approximately three times the size of my entire freshman dorm building. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, craning my neck to take in the sprawling mountain mansion looming before us. It's got actual turrets. "Who puts turrets on a cottage? Chloe, you said cottage. This is not a cottage."
Chloe, my best friend, currently standing next to me as I stare at what I can only describe as a ski resort for werewolves, has the decency to look sheepish. "Well, it's what everyone calls it," she says, adjusting her scarf. "The Harrove Family Cottage."
"The Harrow family has a very generous definition of cottage," I say flatly. "This is a small hotel. Do we need key cards? Is there a concierge?"
"It's very charming," Damen offers from behind us. "Very quaint."
I turned to stare at him. Chloe's vampire boyfriend is standing there in what I'm pretty sure is a cashmere coat, looking at the massive stone and timber structure like it's a garden shed. Chloe size. "Babe, when you call a property this size quaint, you're just reminding everyone you were raised in an enormous amount of wealth."
Damen's pale cheeks actually color slightly. "Right. Sorry." He shoots me a nervous glance. "It's very large." He attempts again.
I ignore him, which is my default setting with Damian. Look, he's better than Chloe's ex-boyfriend on account of him actually loving her and not, you know, being an abusive piece of [ __ ]. So, that's a point in his favor. But he's still a vampire who once used his mind control powers on Harry. And I'm not in the business of forgiving people who mess with my mate.
Speaking of said mate, I pull out my phone, hope fluttering stupidly in my chest, but there are no new messages from the man. The flutter dies. I scowl at the screen like it's personally offended me. Here's the thing about faded mates that nobody tells you. Sure, the universe decides you're perfect for each other, but it doesn't actually guarantee you'll get to see each other.
Let me paint you a picture. Girl meets boy. Boy is girl's infuriatingly hot archaeology professor who's totally in denial about being super into girl. Girl gets hit by a car, falls into a coma, and lo and behold, turns out only boy can see girl's ghost. Oh, and boy's a werewolf. Well, wolf shifter if we're being technical. Which as it turns out is precisely why he's the only one who can see girl because they're faded mates. Lucky, right? Otherwise, Mr. Stubborn would never have dated girl for dramatic reasons like "too dangerous" and "you're my student" and "I killed my mother by being born so I don't deserve happiness." But the stars aligned. Girl successfully gets turned into a shifter too and can happily mate with boy. In case that wasn't clear, boy is Harry. Girl is me. And now after all of that, after dying, coming back, fighting psychotic werewolves, and literally defying the laws of nature, we're finally together. Happily ever after, right? Except the part where "ever after" apparently means boy is 300 miles away hunting a psychotic vampire shifter hybrid. Fate can be such a [ __ ] sometimes.
"I died for this relationship," I say out loud. "I literally died."
"But is that enough?"
"Reception's bad up here," Chloe says gently, reading my expression.
"Still," I say, shoving my phone back in my pocket. "He was supposed to be here yesterday. We were supposed to be reunited yesterday. I haven't seen him in nearly 2 months. The least he could do is keep me updated on when he plans to make an appearance. Maybe."
Damen jumps in. "He did text, but you didn't receive it because of the reception."
"Ow." Chloe has elbowed Damen in the ribs. "Emma, I'm sorry," she says, giving her boyfriend a look that clearly means shut up. "I know it's been hard, but you'll be together with Harry soon. I promise."
I want to believe her. God, I want to believe her. But "soon" has meant a lot of different things over the past 6 weeks. Soon meant next week. Soon meant in a few days. Soon meant yesterday.
"Come on," I say, heading toward the massive front doors. "Let's get this over with."
The interior of the cottage that's actually a mansion is exactly what you'd expect. Exposed wooden beams, a stone fireplace big enough to roast an actual bear, and approximately 17,000 throw pillows. Oh, and there are already people here. Lots of people running around with boxes and garland and what appears to be a very detailed floor plan. I stop in the doorway taking it all in.
"What's all this?" I asked Chloe, watching a woman in an apron hurry past with an armful of linens. "This doesn't look like a family gathering. This looks like event planning for a small wedding."
"The staff," Chloe says like it's obvious.
I blink at her. "What staff? Why do we need staff for our family Christmas?"
"Precisely for that," Chloe says slowly, giving me a concerned look. "So they can, you know, help."
"Help with what?" I frown. "I'm genuinely asking. What part of Christmas requires hired help? You get a tree. You put some lights on it. You eat food. How hard can it be?"
Before Chloe can answer, a woman I vaguely recognize from pack gathering spots us and makes a beline in our direction. "There you are, Luna."
"My name is Emma," I say automatically.
The woman blinks at me while Chloe makes that face she makes when she's trying very hard not to laugh at me. "What?" I ask.
"Luna is a title," Chloe explains carefully. "You're Harry's mate. Harry's the alpha."
"He is," I say flatly. "Hadn't noticed. He's only constantly busy with pack business. Has people trailing after him at all hours, asking him a gazillion things, and carries the weight of everyone's problems on his shoulders. But sure, news to me that he's the alpha."
"Yes, and so that makes you Luna," Chloe finishes.
I raise an eyebrow. "Guess that's another thing Harry forgot to mention. In between saving the world and being mysteriously absent."
The packwoman is still standing there looking increasingly anxious. "We weren't sure about the seating arrangements. Harry always handles that, but since he's not here."
"Okay," I interrupt. "But why are you asking me? It's a reasonable question. I literally walked through the door 30 seconds ago."
"Well, because you're the Luna," the woman says, looking about ready to pull her own hair out.
Chloe jumps in quickly. "She means because Harry usually oversees these things, but because he's not here and you're his mate." Her voice trails off, but the implication is clear. I'm supposed to step in. I'm supposed to know what to do.
I stare at my friend, then at the woman, then at the people rushing around with clipboards and decorations and what might be a seating chart. "Wait," I say slowly. "Are all these staff people expecting me to run this entire event or something?"
Another person appears, a man with an actual clipboard. "Luna, quick question about the dinner schedule. Are we doing the gift exchange before or after?"
"Oh my god, they totally are," Damen exclaims.
I turn to Chloe, panic rising in my chest like flood water. "Chloe, they expect me to organize this," I tell her, panicked.
"It's going to be okay," Chloe says in that soothing voice she uses when I'm about to lose it.
"No, it's not." My voice comes out higher than I intend. "Last year, I didn't even have a family. I spent Christmas dressed as a [ __ ] elf at the bar I worked at for tips. And now I'm supposed to run some big family event for my boyfriend's family."
"Emma," Chloe says, reaching for my arm. "The pack's your family, too. And you're not alone."
I want to believe her. I really do.
"Well, she's kind of alone, though," Damen says. "Her boyfriend's not even here."
Chloe sends him a glare that could melt steel. "What?" Damian says defensively. "It's true."
Unfortunately, he's right. The last time I'd seen Harry was 6 weeks ago. He'd cupped my face in his hands, his gray eyes serious and tired and full of something that made my chest ache. "I'll be back before Christmas," he'd promised. "I'll be back before you know it."
"You'd better be," I'd said, trying for sarcastic but landing somewhere closer to desperate. "Because if you leave me alone for the holidays, I'm going to tell everyone embarrassing stories about you."
He'd smiled, that rare soft smile he only ever gave me. "I don't have embarrassing stories," he'd assured me.
"You drool in your sleep," I'd replied.
"That's—" he'd looked positively affronted. "I do not. You totally do. Sometimes you also mumble about interesting facts you've read about. It's adorable and embarrassing in equal measure."
He'd kissed me then, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. "I love you," he'd said quietly. "This will be over soon. I promise."
I sigh. "Maybe, maybe it would mean something to him if I tried. If I actually made an effort to integrate with the people he loves, tried to fit in with his Christmas traditions. Not like I have any of my own to bring to the table. And maybe if I could make sure that when he finally gets here, he gets to actually relax for once instead of running an event when he's supposed to be on holiday. God knows the man never stops working."
I take a deep breath. "I can do this. I can be mature about this. I'm a grown woman. I can handle Christmas, right?"
"How many people are coming to this thing?" I ask, trying to sound calm and reasonable.
Chloe brightens. "Oh, it's not even the whole pack. Just the really close members. It's going to be fun. And you'll see."
"Okay, that sounds manageable. How many?" I press.
"Only 50," Chloe says.
"15?" I exclaim.
"50," Damen corrects, earning himself death glares from both me and Chloe.
The word lands like a brick. 50. Half a hundred. 50? I stare at Chloe like she's lost her mind. I don't even know 50 people from this pack.
The clipboard guy clears his throat nervously. "Luna, if you could just tell us about the—"
"I'm processing here," I tell him, holding up a finger. "Just give me a minute."
Okay. I'm trying to figure out where I can escape to when the front door opens with a gust of cold air and raised voices. "Absolutely ridiculous that we're the last to arrive." A stern male voice is saying, "I told you we should have left earlier, Kila."
My stomach drops. Harry's adoptive parents have just walked in. I've met Ronan and Kila Harrove exactly once at a pack gathering 3 months ago. It had consisted mostly of them looking at me like I was a stain on their expensive furniture.
"Emma," Ronan says, "it's not quite cold, but it's not warm either. I see you've arrived."
"Yep," I say because apparently my brain has decided that single syllable responses are the way to go. "Here I am."
Kila's eyes sweep over me, taking in my Nirvana t-shirt. "We thought something had happened," she says delicately. "You arriving so late when there's so much to be done." The implication is clear. I should have been here earlier.
"Traffic," I say, which is a lie.
"I see," Kila says in a tone that suggests she doesn't believe me. As they turn away, I try to think of ways in which this conversation could have gone worse but come up short.
"They're always like that," Chloe says, leaning in close. "Don't worry. It's meant to be reassuring."
It's not. Not when 2 seconds later, Kila's face transforms into a genuinely warm smile as she exclaims, "There you are, my darling." I turn to see a beautiful redhead entering through a side door, one hand on her very pregnant belly. She's wearing a cream-colored sweater that looks both expensive and effortless. And her dark red hair is pulled back in a way that definitely took effort to look like it didn't. Of course, Vivien looks perfect. Everything Vivien does is perfect. She is essentially perfect.
Kila rushes over to embrace her carefully, mindful of the baby, while Ronin's stern expression softens into something approaching fondness. "How are you feeling?" Kila asks. "Is the baby?"
"Everything's fine," Vivien assures them with a warm smile. Her light green eyes flick briefly to me, then back to the Harrowes. "Don't worry about a thing. I know this is Emma's first time organizing a pack Christmas, so I've made sure everything is under control."
I pause at that. Wait, what?
"Oh, that's wonderful," Kila says, relief obvious in her voice. "We knew we could count on you."
I roll my eyes. Of course, they love Vivien. Everyone loves Vivien almost as much as they love Harry. Which is fine. I don't need to be loved by the pack. I just need to—
"Emma." I turn to see Vivien approach. Something's off about her expression. She looks anxious, which is weird because Vivien never looks anxious.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and her voice has this nervous edge to it.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I lie. My default setting. "I only just got here a minute to learn complete strangers were counting on me of all people to run an event the size of a small wedding."
Vivien smiles placatingly. "I can help," she assures me. "I'll handle it, okay? All of it. You won't have to lift a finger."
I blink at her. This is even worse than I thought.
"Okay, you don't have to be that worried, Vivien," I tell her defensively. "I'm not a total disaster. I'm sure I can manage."
"Of course you can," Vivien exclaims even more nervously. "I just thought, you know, you haven't seen Harry in a while. You'll probably be happy to relax and spend time with him instead of worrying about all this."
I stare at her. That's actually kind of thoughtful, especially coming from an 8-months-pregnant woman. Too thoughtful, actually, and very unlike Vivien.
"Well, Harry's not here yet, so—" I attempt slowly. "So, you just relax, sit back. I've got you," Vivien assures me, smiling a smile that's way too wide. It doesn't reach her eyes.
Okay, now I'm really suspicious.
"Vivien," I say carefully. "If I let you, the heavily pregnant woman, do all the work in my stead, I'm going to look like the world's most incompetent fool at best, or a total [ __ ] at worst." I pause, studying her face. "Though perhaps that's what you want," I add.
Vivien's face crumples. Her eyes go wide and hurt and she looks like she might cry. "Not at all, Emma," she says, her voice cracking slightly. "I just want to help. I wouldn't—I wouldn't just sabotage you like that." She looks so genuinely devastated at the thought that I immediately feel terrible.
"Okay, sorry," I say quickly. "It's just you," I trail off, catching Vivien's expectant expression as she waits for me to finish that sentence. "It's just that from the moment Harry and I got together, she's made it abundantly clear I was nowhere near good enough for him. Like, I swear every time he touches me in public, she literally stiffens." That said, though, come to think of it, she hasn't really done that since she gotten pregnant. She's been different, mellowed out somehow, less judgmental. Still, this is extreme, even for mellowed-out Vivien.
"We can work together, I guess," I offer, unsure what else I can say.
Vivien's entire face lights up. "Oh, that's perfect," she gushes, grabbing my hands and squeezing them. "Okay, so I'll handle the seating arrangements and the food coordination and the decorations and the schedule," Vivian says, counting on her fingers as she lists. "And making sure the staff knows what to do and coordinating with the caterers. And oh," she beams at me. "Emma, you can be in charge of making sure there are enough napkins."
I blink. "Napkins?" I ask.
"It's very important," Viven says seriously. "We need cloth napkins obviously, not paper, and they need to match the table settings. And well, I'll make sure you have a list of exactly how many we need and where to put them and where to get them."
"Okay." She squeezes my hands one more time, then bustles off toward a group of staff members, calling out instructions about table placement while I stand there gaping after her. Napkins. She's going to run the entire thing and I need to look after napkins.
"Chloe," I say, not taking my eyes off Vivien's retreating form.
"I know what you're going to say."
"You do?" Chloe asks.
"Yes, you're going to say people change and it's Christmas. And maybe Vivien just wants to be nice," I mutter. "But I think—"
"Oh, no," Chloe says, shaking her head. "That was weird as [ __ ]. Something's up with her."
I turn to stare at my best friend. Chloe, who always sees the best in people. Chloe, who could find a silver lining in a natural disaster. If even Chloe thinks something's wrong, then something is definitely seriously wrong.
"What do you think it is?" I ask nervously.
Chloe just shakes her head, watching Vivien direct staff members with manic energy. "I have no idea," she says with a frown. "But whatever it is, it's big."
"Great," I groan. "Just great." I pull out my phone again. Still nothing from Harry. This is going to be a disaster. I can feel it.
Chapter 2. Vivien.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and roasted pine nuts. The sharp bite of fresh rosemary someone's chopping at the far counter. And underneath it all, the stress sweat from the catering staff. "No," I'm saying to the head chef. "We'll need three different vegetarian options because we have pack members with dietary restrictions." I pause. My baby is shifting inside me, an elbow or maybe a knee pressing against my ribs, and I have to take a breath and press one hand to my stomach. The baby settles somewhat. "The appetizers need to be passed no later than 7," I continue studying my clipboard, even though I've memorized every item on it. I made this list at 4:00 a.m. when I couldn't sleep, lying in bed next to Jake, listening to him breathe. "We're expecting at least 50 people, possibly more if family from New England decide to show."
I pause again as I catch a whiff of Jake's scent. My shoulders drop half an inch before I can stop them. Tension I didn't know I was carrying suddenly easing. I resent it immediately. Now is not the time to relax. Now is the time to make sure everything is perfect. "And the mulled wine needs to be ready by 6," I continue louder than necessary. "People will want something warm when—"
"Babe," Jake's voice, rough with sleep. I can hear him moving behind me, smell the coffee he hasn't had yet. The faint scent of the sheets still clinging to him. I don't look up from my clipboard. "The timing on the dinner service is crucial," I go on. "So, we need to make sure everyone understands the schedule."
"Babe," Jake says, entering my line of vision.
"Oh." I smile at him. "You're here. I didn't see you."
Jake rolls his eyes. He knows I'm lying. He always knows when I'm lying. That's what happens when you've known someone since you were 13 years old. When you've hurt each other and loved each other and finally, finally figured out how to be together. He knows me better than anyone. Sometimes I wish he didn't.
"Right?" he says dryly. "Because my incredibly subtle presence and attempts to get your attention were so easy to miss." He's teasing me, but there's concern underneath it. I can hear it in his voice. See it in the way he's studying my face, looking for cracks. I turn back to Marie before he can see them. "The ham needs to be glazed every 20 minutes," I tell her. "And someone needs to check on the—"
But Jake is closer now. I can feel the heat of him at my back. Then his hand is on my waist, warm, solid, possessive. "Jake," I start, but it comes out breathy. His fingers spread across my hip, thumb rubbing small circles through the fabric of my sweater. I feel his nose dragging along the curve of my neck. He's scenting me deeply. His breath is hot against my skin. My clipboard nearly slips from my fingers.
"What are you doing?" I manage.
"You're stressed," he says. "It's bad for the baby." His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me back against him more firmly.
"I'm fine," I lie, leaning into him.
"You're not." His teeth graze my skin. His wolf is very close to the surface. I can hear it in the possessive urgency. Jake's wolf has been on edge for weeks now, ever since I entered my third trimester. Every instinct is screaming at him to keep me and the baby safe. I don't totally hate it, to be honest. But right now is not a good time.
I pull away gently but firmly. "Viv." Jake's hand is on my arm now.
"What are you doing up?" I reply.
"Working," I reply. "I can see that." He grabs onto an empty mug. "I thought we agreed that in the mornings you'd stay in bed, have a lie-in, wait for me to bring you breakfast."
"It's past noon, Jake," I interrupt, patiently filling his mug with coffee. "I already had to pee six times since 6:00 a.m. There was no way I was just going to stay in bed." I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, trying to tame the worst of the bedhead situation. It's hopeless. His hair has always had a mind of its own. I love his hair. I love the way it feels between my fingers. God, I love him. The thought comes unbidden and with it a sharp spike of guilt. I love him so much it terrifies me. I love him so much I destroyed someone else's happiness to keep him.
Jake pouts at me over the rim of his mug. "You should have woken me up," he whines like the overgrown manchild he is.
"Oh, I tried." I laugh. This morning at 6:30, after my second bathroom trip, I'd tried. Gently at first, a hand on his shoulder, his name spoken softly, then firmly. He'd mumbled something that sounded like "tacos" and rolled over, taking most of the blankets with him. Jake's always been a heavy sleeper. I remember being 16, trying to wake him for the pack breakfast. Harry had eventually given up and drawn a mustache on his face with a marker. Jake had worn it for 3 hours before he noticed.
"The piercing screams of our future newborn are my last hope," I tell him.
Jake takes a long sip of coffee. I watch his throat work as he swallows. "Okay, fine," he says. "But babe, go back to bed now." He tries to steer me away from the kitchen toward the door. His arm is solid around me, guiding me. And for a second, just a second, I want to let him. But I can't.
"Or chill on the couch or something," Jake continues. "I'll make you a snack."
I duck under his arm, slipping away. "I can't, Jake." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "There's just way too many things to get done for the party tonight."
I feel Jake gape after me. "The party?" His voice climbs an octave. "Vivien, I sure hope you don't mean the annual Christmas Eve party/enormous pack gathering my parents insist we host every year."
I turn back to him. "What else would I mean?" I deadpan.
"You can't be serious." Jake strides toward me. "Viv, every year that thing gets bigger. We host like an insane amount of guests."
"Which is exactly why I have to organize," I cut him off. The baby kicks hard. Right under my ribs, a sharp jab that makes me catch my breath. I press my hand to the spot, rubbing gently.
"It's precisely why you shouldn't," Jake's voice is rising now. He points at my stomach, at our baby, accusingly. "It's too stressful. You should be resting. The doctor said it could be any day now. And in case you haven't noticed, we're stuck in the mountains."
"It's fine," I say. "There are at least two pack healers in attendance tonight."
Jake growls. "We barely even know them," he argues. "Why are they in attendance? Seriously, what's up with these huge fancy business meetings we have instead of Christmas?"
He's not wrong. That's what our Christmases have become over the years. Pack politics disguised as holiday celebrations. Alphas and betas from neighboring territories making alliances, showing strength.
"Look, Jake," I make my voice firm. "This is important. Do you know what day it is today?"
Jake blinks at me. "Christmas Eve?" he asks. Of course, that's what he thinks because to Jake, Christmas Eve is about family and presents and too much food and getting drunk. It's not about politics or duty or the weight of leadership. Harry takes care of that. Harry always makes the annual Christmas party perfect. He remembers everyone's dietary restrictions, everyone's feuds and friendships, who needs to be seated far apart, and who wants to be together. He takes care of everyone.
I sigh and turn to the catering staff. "Guys," I say, "what day is it today?"
Marie doesn't even hesitate. "It's the day the alpha comes home, miss."
"See?" I snap my head back to look at Jake. "Today's the day the alpha comes home."
Jake is staring like I've sprouted a second head. "What the?" He shakes his head, bewildered. "Babe, why are you calling him the alpha all of a sudden? That's so weird. Have you forgotten the number of times Harry held your hair while you puked due to alcohol poisoning?"
"Ow." I elbow him in the ribs hard. "That happened one time, jackass," I hiss at Jake.
"Still counts," Jake says. "And the point is that Harry is coming home today." I interrupt. "Meaning he will not have time to oversee everything when he does. Or did you forget?" I add that he's been gone for months hunting down a psychotic hybrid and dismantling a criminal network while we couldn't help him because of my pregnancy.
Jake is looking at me now with that laser-focused intensity he gets when he sees right through my [ __ ]. "Viv," he says quietly, and his voice has gone gentle. "Harry doesn't blame you for being pregnant. He's happy for us."
My breath hitches. Of course he is. Of course he's happy for us. I remember his face when we told him about the baby. The way his gray eyes had lit up, the rare, genuine smile that transformed his usually serious expression. My chest feels tight. My throat is closing.
"I know that," my voice comes out too high, too thin, not controlled at all.
Jake's expression shifts, goes serious in a way it rarely does. He steps closer, lowering his voice so the catering staff can't hear. "Viv," he says softly. "This is about the thing, isn't it?"
My hands start shaking. I clasp them together. "What thing?" I ask, but my voice cracks on the words.
Jake gives me a look, his blue eyes steady on mine. "You know," his expression says. "The alternate reality, the wish, the choice I made to sabotage Harry and Emma's relationship so I could stay with Jake in that world. The way I chose myself over them. Harry and Emma getting back together would have reset this alternate reality in which I'd finally found happiness with Jake. At the time, I thought we would never be able to work things out in this one. I couldn't lose him, and so I deliberately separated Harry from his mate. Not only that, but getting Emma out of the picture had put her in danger in the process. I hadn't done that knowingly because I deliberately not wanted to know, and she'd almost been killed because of me. Now, they don't remember. Harry and Emma have no memory of that other reality, of what I did to them. Only. I remember. Jake knows. I've told him we agreed to move forward. Be grateful for the baby, for each other, for the happy ending we got. But I can't let it go."
"The thing we don't talk about," Jake says when I don't respond.
"Then why are you talking about it?" I ask, turning away sharply.
"Because you're being weird about Harry's return," his voice rises slightly. I tense at the name. "I'm not being weird," I insist. "I'm setting up the event I've helped Harry set up for years. We always co-host."
"Yeah. And this year, you're pregnant with my child," Jake says. And there's something fierce in his voice now. "And Harry has a mate now to co-host."
"Jake, you know, Harry hasn't even begun explaining to Emma what being Luna entails," I remind him. "He literally told us to shield her from it because she's already learning what it is to be a shifter, which is a lot." It had been shortly after they'd been mated. "I don't want Emma troubled with all that Luna stuff when she's still learning to manage her new abilities," Harry'd said, his gray eyes. "Serious. It's too much. She's already overwhelmed."
Jake sprawled in his chair with his usual lack of concern for proper posture, had smirked. "More like you're worried she'll bolt when she finds out dating you comes with a stack of responsibilities the size of the Continental Divide." Harry had given him a look that meant, "You're not wrong, but I'm not admitting it." Then he turned to me. "I'm counting on you, Viv," he'd said quietly. "Make sure everyone leaves her alone. She has enough on her plate as it is."
"Yes, fine. You're right. He did say that," Jake concedes now, pulling me back to the present. "But that was before you became pregnant."
"Jake?" I interrupt him, and my voice has gone sharp, defensive. "I don't know why we're even debating this. Less than a year ago, Emma was a human student with no family and no prospects. Obviously, she does not have the skills to run an event this big." I go on. "So, if I don't step in, she'll mess it all up and it'll be up to poor Harry to compensate for her total lack of abilities again."
When I interrupt myself when I notice Jake is pointing behind me. "Oh no." I turn slowly. Emma is standing in the kitchen doorway, spine straight, jaw tight, shoulders squared.
"Oh god, no."
"Emma," I exclaim. "How are you doing?"
Emma gives me a smile that's all teeth and zero warmth. "Stellar." Her voice drips with sarcasm. "I looked into your napkins. You wanted paper, right?"
For a second, I'm confused. Then I remember earlier I'd asked her to check on the napkins. "Cloth," the word bursts out of me, scandalized. I can't help it. Paper napkins at a pack Christmas.
"Emma, we need cloth napkins matched to the table settings, properly pressed."
Emma rolls her eyes. "Right," she snaps. "Must have escaped me with my poor background and total lack of skills."
Jake snorts beside me. I send him a death glare. "Oh, come on," he says, not even trying to hide his amusement. "You literally just said she was no help. No wonder she's annoyed."
"Not helping?" I hiss. Emma is already turning to leave, her shoulders tight, her movements sharp with anger.
"Emma, wait." I move to follow her, but my pregnant belly makes me waddle more than walk.
"Viv." Jake grabs my arm, trying to pull me back. He's going to start lecturing me now about letting Emma handle things herself, about resting. But I can't let Emma do this alone. I can't. I already abandoned her once in that other reality when I chose my happiness over hers and Harry's. When I actively sabotaged their relationship, when I stood by and let her almost die. Yes, that reality was undone. Yes, she doesn't remember. But I remember. I remember what I did to her. How I dismissed her, undermined her, treated her like she was nothing, like she was an obstacle instead of a person. And I can't do that again. I won't.
"Babe, look. You need to relax," Jake starts.
"You know what?" I spin around to face him. "How about you help me? Huh? How's that?"
Jake looks startled. "Me?" His tone says it all. "Me? Help organize a party? Have you lost your mind?" And he's right to be surprised. Jake has never helped run an event in his entire life. He shows up, he drinks, he charms everyone. He's the life of the party. But organize, plan, execute. Jake doesn't do those things.
"Yes, you, my love." I give him my biggest, brightest smile. The one he knows means I'm not being nice. I'm challenging him. The one that says, "Prove me wrong." It works. I can see it in the way his jaw sets and his eyes flash. He's never been able to resist a challenge, especially not from me.
"Fine," Jake says, squaring his shoulders. "Yes, I'll help, darling." He drags out the endearment, making it a mockery. "Happy to."
We smile at each other. It's not a nice smile on either end. It's a "we're both being stubborn, and we'll see who cracks first" smile. It's the same smile we've been giving each other since we were teenagers. Since the first time we fought over something stupid and both refused to back down.
"You will run the kitchen with the caterers," I say sweetly.
"Great," Jake replies, matching my tone exactly.
"As you know," I continue, watching his face carefully for the moment reality hits. "They'll all be leaving soon to go to their families, so it'll be up to you to find people to help in the kitchen and cook/warm up all the meals for lunch and dinner."
Jake's face falls. "What?" he asks.
"And make the cocktails," Thomas pipes up helpfully from where he's stocking bottles at the back of the kitchen.
"Yes," I say, batting my eyelashes innocently. "Didn't you know we always give the staff the holidays off and organize to run things ourselves as family for the holiday? The alpha and I always thought it was more convivial that way. It was Harry's idea originally. He thought it was wrong to make people work on Christmas Eve when they should be with their own families. So, the staff sets everything up, then leaves around 3, and the pack handles the actual event." And I know full well Jake has never paid attention to these details.
"I'll look into it," he says through gritted teeth.
Relief floods through me. He's going to be busy now. Too busy to hover over me. Too busy to ask me uncomfortable questions about my feelings. Perfect.
"Emma," I call out, already moving toward the door as fast as my waddle will allow. "Let's talk napkins." I can feel Jake's eyes on me as I leave. I can sense his concern, his frustration, his love. But I have to make things right. I have to make Emma's life easier so Harry's life can be easier. And so this weight on my shoulders can perhaps finally lift.
Chapter 3. Emma.
"Can you believe her?" I screech. "Like because I used to bartend, I can't pick out napkins. Is she for real?" I'm pacing back and forth across the guest bedroom I've claimed as my temporary refuge from the absolute insanity downstairs. "You know, I've had about enough of her holier-than-thou attitude," I go on, like she's so perfect. "You know that she got pregnant from her mate in another reality, but somehow I'm the problem because I don't have a family and I wasn't born a shifter. Like, how is that even my fault?" My feet are wearing a path in the expensive rug. Probably some antique Persian thing. Good. Maybe I'll wear a hole in it.
"Look," I declare. "I shouldn't even be saying this, but you're like the wisest person I've ever met, so I know you'll keep it to yourself." I take a breath. This has been sitting on my chest for months, and it needs to come out. "How is she so possessive of Harry when she's literally pregnant with his cousin's baby? Like, what? She needs both to be happy or something? That's weird and incestuous and weird." I cross my arms, waiting for validation. The only thing I get is the sound of electronic beeping and music from what is most likely a Super Mario game.
"Are you listening to me?" I prompt.
"What?" Max curses silently at her screen. "Sorry, but I'm having trouble with the final boss."
I stomp my foot. "Max, are you serious right now? I'm having a crisis and you're focusing on some stupid game."
The girl finally deigns to look up from her console and her expression is so fed up that I almost laugh despite myself. "I'm a 12-year-old kid, Emma," she points out.
"Max, be serious here," I shoot back. "You know, I trust no one's opinion more than yours."
"That's sad, man," she tells me.
"But I'm right, aren't I?" I press, needing the validation. "I mean, Vivien is being a total pain here."
Max makes a sharp shushing noise, her hand coming up in a silencing gesture. "Let me think," she says. She goes very still. Her eyes unfocus slightly and her head tilts to the side like she's listening to something. Right. So Max glances briefly to her left and frowns, nods like someone just told her something.
"Look, I think you should keep in mind that Vivien is pregnant right now and so in a vulnerable place," she declares.
I stare at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"She's about to bring a baby into the world," Max continues. "Her entire life is going to change. You can't blame her for wanting stability, reassurance."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Excuse me, but how would you even know about that? You're 12," I exclaim.
"You just said I was wise," Max snaps, some of her usual kid attitude returning.
"Doesn't mean you need to sound like the Dalai Lama," I snap. "It's freaky."
Max rolls her eyes dramatically. "Look, hormones and [ __ ]." She translates. "She's feeling sensitive. All right."
"Yeah, okay. That's also," Max adds, "every wolf in the vicinity is going to be smelling her soon-to-arrive innocent child on her and feeling extra protective. Yes, even your mate." She gives me a pointed look and my stomach drops. "So, if I were you, Max continues, "I wouldn't go face to face with Vivien right now. You'll lose by default. Everyone is going to be on her side."
I groan, throwing my head back. "Everyone is always on her side, Max. She's little miss perfect. The only person who was remotely willing to criticize her is now sleeping with her." I stop, realize what I just said. "I mean, is in a relationship with her," I correct quickly.
"I know what sex is, Emma," Max snorts.
"Of course, she does." Anyway, I say, trying to redirect. "What am I supposed to do? Let her walk all over me?"
"Yeah, I guess," Max shrugs. "Look, she wants to run this entire event in your stead. Let her. Less work for you."
I consider this. It's logical, practical, and honestly, Harry would probably tell me the same thing. God, I wish he was here.
"I guess," I concede, but "everyone is going to think she's done amazing again while I look lazy and incompetent in comparison."
"So what?" Max meets my eyes. "You already pale in comparison. Nothing new."
I grimace. "But maybe if I step up and plan a really nice evening for all those fancy shifter people I've never met. Maybe for once people will see Vivien isn't like a gazillion times better than me," I argue.
"That's a big maybe," Max says. "Not to mention only achievable if you pull it off, which is a big if."
"Fine," I throw my hands up. "So I give up. Competition over. She wins." I stomp toward the door, feeling childish and not caring. At least someone here is treating me like an actual person instead of a disappointing substitute for whatever perfect Luna they were expecting.
I realize halfway down the hall that I haven't thanked Max for her advice, so I quickly turn back, walk toward the kid's bedroom, and freeze at the door. Max is looking to her left again at that empty space, and she's talking quietly like she doesn't want me to hear. "What she's saying? I told her what you said about Vivien feeling vulnerable or whatever. What else would you have me do?" A pause like she's listening to a response, except there's no one in the room with her. "Nah, Emma's right," Max affirms. "Vivien is kind of a [ __ ]."
I slip out of the room silently, my new shifter hearing picking up more of Max's one-sided conversation, even as I close the door. I make it maybe three steps down the hallway before nearly colliding with Chloe. "There you are," she exclaims, grabbing my arms to steady us both. "You're back."
Relief floods through me. Chloe went to pick up Rose from the train station. Damian's little sister who, like Damian, bears the vampire gene, but unlike him, hasn't changed into one yet. "Did you get Rose?" I ask.
"Yeah, she's settling in." Chloe beams. "If someone had told me last year we'd be celebrating our next Christmas with Harry's mate, Vivien pregnant with Jake's child, and vampires, I wouldn't have believed it." Despite everything, I laugh.
"The craziest one being," I ask.
"Definitely the pregnancy," Chloe says without hesitation before adding, "Hey, is Max in her room?"
"Yeah, but—" I pause, glancing back at the closed door. "She's doing that thing again."
Chloe's face falls. "The thing where she—the imaginary friend thing?"
"Yeah." I gesture for us to move further down the hallway away from the door. "Do you think we should take her to therapy? Harry said she should go to therapy," to which I said he was a total hypocrite because he won't go to therapy.
A massive crashing sound erupts from somewhere downstairs. Even from up here with walls and floors between us, I hear it clearly. "What was that?" I ask, already moving toward the stairs.
Chloe shakes her head, confused. "I have no idea." We hurry downstairs, following the noise and the smell of something burning. Multiple somethings burning. The acrid scent reaches my nose before we even get to the kitchen, making my eyes water. We round the corner and what the— I stop dead in the doorway. The kitchen looks like a war zone. No, worse. Like a war zone where the losing side was armed exclusively with baking supplies. There are not one but two small fires, actual flames crackling in two different pans on the stove. Flour coats every surface like freshly fallen snow, but less magical and more apocalyptic. Eggs are smashed on the floor, yolks spreading in bright yellow pools. Something that might have once been vegetables is scattered across the counter. And there's a pot boiling over, sending starchy water cascading onto the stove top with an angry hiss. In the middle of this chaos stands Jake, his blonde hair dusted white with flour.
"Jake, what is happening?" I ask, my voice climbing despite my best efforts to stay calm.
Chloe is already moving, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the wall with the efficiency of someone who's been through pack disaster training. "[ __ ] if I know, Jake," the catering staff left me this list, right? They were like, 'Jake, you just need to do these simple things,' and they gave me this whole—" He gestures wildly at a piece of paper covered in complicated instructions. "—this entire list of times and temperatures and 'let it rest' and 'baste every 15 minutes.' And I was like, 'Okay, sure. I can handle that.'"
Chloe sprays white foam over the fires. They sizzle and die. But then, Jake continues, clearly spiraling. "Vivien came in and gave me additional instructions, which were different. She was all, 'The lamb needs to be at 325°,' but the caterer said 350. And then she said something about the roasting vegetables needing to be stirred. And I tried to do both and then everything started burning at once."
"Jake," I interrupt. "Just tell me what happened to the food."
Chloe is checking the ovens now. She opens the first one and a wave of smoke pours out. She coughs, waving it away. "Your three roasts have been carbonized," she observes, setting the pan on the counter with a dull thunk.
Jake's face crumbles. "Well, at least there's a—"
fourth one. Chloe checks another oven. Nah, it's burnt, too, she reports.
Jake slams his hand on the counter, sending up a poof of flour. The kitchen door swings open and Damian enters, Rose trailing behind him. They both stop short, taking in the scene.
"Oh my god," Rose breathes. "What happened here?"
"We're basically out of food," Jake says, and his voice cracks slightly. "The caterers left us with all the preparation done, and I've burnt it. All of it. We have 50 people coming in." He checks his watch. "Less than 2 hours and we have nothing to feed them. Vivien is going to kill me or worse, leave me here."
Damian, who's moved to the bar area at the beginning of Jake's speech, is already mixing something. He pours an amber colored concoction into a glass and hands it to Jake.
"Down this, mate," Damen says, "looks like you'll be needing it."
Jake knocks it back in one swallow. "Good stuff," he says automatically, then goes right back to panicking. "But seriously, what are we going to do? Everyone's going to arrive expecting this amazing feast, and we have nothing."
"Okay," I interrupt, opening cabinets, checking the fridge. "What's actually salvageable?" Chloe joins me, and together we take inventory. Most of the roasts are burnt beyond recognition. But there are vegetables that are only slightly charred. We can work with those. There's bread that's untouched. Cheese. Some appetizers that were pre-made and just need to be plated. It's not great. It's nowhere near enough for 50 people. But it's something.
"Okay," I turned to face the group. "Jake, you're going to plate these appetizers. Make them look nice. Use the fancy plates. Whatever. We need to start serving something in the next 30 minutes." Jake nods, looking grateful for clear instructions.
"Chloe, you're going to help me salvage what we can from the vegetables. We'll call them rustic and roasted and hope nobody asks questions."
"On it," Khloe agrees.
I turn to Damian. "Cocktails?" I say. "Can you make everyone loads of cocktails?"
Damian's face lights up. "Of course," he says, already moving back to the bar. "What did you have in mind?"
"Make a big pot of mulled wine," I tell him. "A big pot of eggnog and Pimm's. Can you make Pimm's, darling?" Damen says, and he actually grins. "I can make anything."
Chloe appears at my elbow. "Just a heads up. Shifters don't get easily drunk, so you'll need to use the special alcohol." She points to a cabinet. "It's marked, but also like, don't taste it at all."
Damen looks scandalized. "Don't taste it? How am I supposed to know if it's properly balanced?"
"Damian?" Chloe interrupts, giving him a look. "Make it work."
Rose has been quietly observing all of this, and now she steps forward. "What can I do?"
I look at her. 16 years old, human, probably has no idea what she's gotten herself into by coming here. I know the feeling. "Help Damian," I decide. "Keep him from tasting things." Rose nods, taking her assignment seriously.
"Okay," Jake says. "But what about the main course? We can't just serve appetizers."
He's right. We can't. "I think we need to ask for Vivien's opinion, Jake," I tell him. "I'm sorry."
Jake's expression crumbles. "No, you're right," he says quickly. "You're right. We should tell her. She needs to know." A pause. "Can you tell her?"
I want to say no. But looking at him, flower-covered, panic-stricken, clearly at the end of his rope, I can't. "Fine," I say. "I'll find Vivien. I suppose it might be fun telling her the father of her child destroyed Christmas dinner. I mean, for once, none of this mess is my fault. Great. Just great."
"Fine," I say. "I'll find her and tell her. But Jake, we need to figure out a backup plan like now."
"Okay," Jake nods, looking relieved to have someone else taking charge. "Okay. Yeah, we'll figure it out. We will. I'll find Vivien," I repeat, already moving toward the door.
I try her scent first. That particular combination of jasmine and something sharp I can't quite name. But it's like being at a perfume counter in a department store after someone sprayed every single bottle. That's what this is. Olfactory assault. I check the main hall. Not there. The sitting room empty. The formal dining room where people are starting to gather. No.
Vivien. Luna. An older woman with silver-streaked hair grabs my arm like I'm a life raft. "Where should we put the gifts? Harry usually designates a specific table."
"Um," I look around helplessly. "By the tree." I keep moving. Emma. A man I don't recognize waves me over. "We're having a debate about whether to set up the children's activities in the sunroom or the library."
"Sunroom?" I say without stopping.
More people keep arriving. I can hear the front door opening and closing. Hear the greetings and exclamations. Hear the growing noise level. And everyone, everyone asks the same question.
"Where's Harry? When is the alpha arriving? Have you seen him, Emma?"
"I don't know," I want to yell. "Maybe he's stuck in traffic. Maybe he's fighting a vampire shifter hybrid. Maybe he's decided to become a hermit and live in the woods." All equally plausible at this point.
I pull out my phone again, check it, still nothing. I tell myself I don't care. I tell myself I'm mad at him anyway for leaving me to deal with this without any preparation. You know what? When he arrives, I'm going to ignore him completely. Make him work for my attention. Oh, who am I kidding? The second he walks through that door, I'm going to tackle him or punch him. Could go either way, really.
"Emma," another voice calls out. I turn to find a woman I vaguely recognize from pack gatherings. Late 30s, elegant in a silk blouse and tailored pants. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun that looks like it's giving her a facelift through sheer tension alone.
"Hi," I say, trying to place her. "She's someone important, I think. Someone who's always near Ronin and Kila at events."
"So good to see you," she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Actually, her smile looks painted on, like she practiced it in a mirror while saying, "I'm definitely not judging you," over and over. "So, I've been meaning to ask, 'What are you getting Harry for Christmas?'"
The question catches me off guard. "Really?" That's what she stopped me for. To ask about Harry's gift. "Oh, um, nothing big." I shrug because it's true.
She laughs, but it sounds like wind chimes made of condescension. "I completely understand," she says. "He's impossible to shop for, isn't he? It's like he doesn't like anything."
My eyebrows go up. "Excuse me. He does like things." I start feeling defensive. "He—"
"It must be so hard," she interrupts, not even listening. "Having to find him a gift when you've only been together for what, a few months. I remember when Harry and I were dating. I could never figure out what to get him either."
Wait, hold up. She dated Harry? My brain screeches to a halt like a car hitting black ice. This woman, this woman with her paint-by-numbers smile and her bun so tight it could double as a medieval torture device, dated my mate. I look at her with new eyes, trying to picture Harry with her, trying to imagine him. Nope, can't do it. My brain is refusing to cooperate with this image.
"But if you want," she continues, "I could give you some advice. I probably know him better than—"
"Oh, oh, no, she didn't," I know what my mate likes," I interrupt. "Thank you, though." I turn away before I say something I'll regret. Or more likely, before I say something I won't regret, but everyone else will think I should because apparently no one appreciates crass sexual innuendos anymore. I'm still coming up with good ones.
When there's a massive cracking sound from outside, everyone stops and goes quiet. A minute to honor the dead, of sorts. Because outside, the enormous 15-foot Christmas tree that someone spent all afternoon decorating has committed suicide via gravity. Through the window, I see lights tangled, ornaments scattered like the aftermath of a glitter bomb, branches splayed across the driveway.
"Oh my god," someone whispers. "How did that even— Where's Harry?" I hear a guy ask.
"Harry would have checked the stand." I roll my eyes and groan. And there it is again. "Harry would have. Harry could have." Seriously, do these people need Harry to tell them when to go to the toilet, too, or what? I mean, at this point, he's my mate. The literal other half of my soul. And even I am more independent from him than this crowd.
I see someone coming near me, ready to ask me a question. I can already guess. "You know what?" No, Harry isn't here. And yes, the tree fell. I tell him before he can speak. "Deal with it. Keep calm. Move on."
Okay. I mean, we're just having a rustic Christmas, I tell myself. Very authentic. Very "things go wrong, but we persevere." Honestly, beats last year's bar and the [ __ ] elf costume. Doesn't beat binging the Die Hard trilogy with ice cream. But then again, what does actually—
"Miss Emma," the guy who came to find me attempts— "I was sent to tell you that—" he doesn't finish his sentence because all the lights go out. All of them. The entire house plunges into darkness.
Someone screams. "Calm down," I shout. "Everyone stay calm. It's probably just a blown fuse or the generator's out."
Someone yells from somewhere deeper in the house. "The backup's not kicking in."
"Of course it's not. Why would anything work properly today? Does anyone have a flashlight?" I call into the darkness.
"I've got one on my phone." Someone answers. Small lights start appearing. Phone flashlights creating little pools of illumination in the dark.
"Okay," I say. "Someone go check the generator. Someone else find candles. Everyone else, just stay where you are and chill, I guess." Meanwhile, I'm internally screaming. We were supposed to be keeping food warm in the ovens, and we need light for people to see their drinks. And I have no idea where Harry is.
"Candles." Someone appears with an armful of them. "I found the emergency candles."
"Great," I say. "Start lighting them everywhere. Make this place look romantic and intentional instead of like we're having a power crisis."
"Intentional?" the guy asks, sounding confused.
"It's called fake it till you make it, buddy. Trust me, I'm an expert," I reply, patting his shoulder.
People start moving, lighting candles. Soon, the house is glowing with warm, flickering light, the candles casting dancing shadows on the walls. And it actually looks kind of beautiful, atmospheric. Conversations drop to hushed tones, and I think I can work with this. Maybe I'm like some kind of event planning genius instead of someone frantically improvising. Who knew?
I'm surveying the candle-lit room, mentally checking off tasks, and trying to feel like I have any idea what I'm doing when Damian appears. He's carrying a tray laden with drinks, steaming mugs that smell like cinnamon and alcohol and Christmas. Chloe is behind him along with a guy from the pack I vaguely recognize. They're all carrying trays filled with drinks.
"I can't find Vivien," I say quietly.
"Well," she replies, "We finished a few appetizers, but there's barely enough for everyone. We'd need more and an actual main course."
I turned to survey the room. People are settling in, talking, adjusting to the candle light. The fallen tree has been temporarily forgotten. The lack of dinner hasn't been noticed yet. But they will notice. People can only drink so much before they realize there's no actual food.
I turn back to Damian. "Keep making eggnog," I tell him. "It's filling, and hopefully the guests will be too. Wasted enough to notice the lack of food?"
Damian finishes. I meet his gaze. "Can you make it happen?" I ask solemnly.
Damian nods, committed. "It would be my honor," he says, his expression growing serious. "I'll make everything extra strong and hide the taste. They won't know what hit them."
"Great." I square my shoulders. "And I'm going to go find Jake and tell him we should get pizza." I see no way out other than pizza, unless Jake knows the address for a catering service not only open on Christmas Eve, but still available at 7:00 p.m., which let's be honest here, he probably doesn't. Harry's going to walk in and find his Christmas event has devolved into drunk shifters eating Domino's by candlelight. Oh well, if he wanted things done a certain way, he should have at least called, texted, perhaps shared his itinerary. I'm not bitter.
I shove my phone away and start tracking Jake by scent, following his particular pine and whiskey smell through the maze of other scents. Look at me using my shifter nose like a perfectly competent person. Who's useless now, Vivien? His scent leads me upstairs, away from the main party, down a hallway lined with family photos. Generations of Harros staring down at me with serious expressions. Probably judging me for the pizza plan. Whatever, I mutter. You're all dead. You don't get a vote.
I follow Jake's scent to a door that's slightly ajar. A private reception room, looks like, smaller, more intimate than the main gathering spaces. I'm reaching for the handle when I hear voices inside. Vivien's voice, high-pitched, and hysterical. Oh, great. Pregnant lady breakdown. Just what this night needs.
"I can't do it anymore, Jake," I hear her say. "I can't keep this to myself. I have to tell them."
Jake's voice responds lower. Urgent. "You do not have to tell them."
"I can't keep lying to Harry," Vivien's voice cracks and she sounds close to tears.
My hand freezes at the door. Did she just say she was lying to Harry?
"I— I'm telling him," Vivien says, "I'm telling him I purposely broke him off with Emma in the alternate timeline and that I nearly killed her."
My hand drops from the door. I stand there, frozen in the hallway, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. Vivien nearly killed me in an alternate timeline. What the heck does that mean?
Don't worry, part two is already available on my Patreon and it's completely free. All you have to do is click the link in the description to listen to the end of the story at no cost. I really hope you enjoyed this first part. I loved writing this exclusive Christmas story, especially getting to spend time again with some of my favorite characters. This was made possible thanks to everyone who supports my work, and I'm truly grateful for each of you. Let me know what you thought in the comments. Love, Lily.