Nana hums, handing me a mug of tea that somehow she’s already anticipated I’ll need. “You’re always working,” she says gently. “Always taking care of everyone else.”
“I like to keep busy,” I say, though even to my own ears it sounds rehearsed.
She studies me with that knowing look of hers, the one that sees through everything. “Busy is fine. But it’s not the same as taking time for yourself. Or for your men.”
My lips twitch into a small, guilty smile. “That sounds like something you’d say.”
“Because it’s true,” she says simply. “Those boys of mine—Vincent, Cast, Damien—they all orbit around you whether they admit it or not. And you? You hold too much. If you don’t rest, if you don’tlet yourself be loved back,you’ll burn out before the new year.”
Her words sink deeper than I want to admit. I glance toward the living room where I can hear laughter—Vincent’s low voice, Damien teasing Elise about her ballet shoes, Theodore’s wild shrieking as Rose steals his stuffed reindeer.
“I know,” I murmur. “I just… forget sometimes that I’m allowed to not work, or take care of my four kids, or be a wife to my three husbands.”
Nana smiles softly, touching my cheek. “You could have forty kids and two hundred husbands.”
Before I can answer, Cast’s arm wraps around my waist from behind, pulling me gently against him. “I love you enough to share, but I can’t put up with your other 198 husbands.” he teases, his breath warm against my ear.
“She’s right,” I say, turning in his arms. “I needed to hear it.”
Penny darts past us toward the living room, calling for Theo and Rose. The house fills with the kind of noise that only comes when everyone’s home—the good kind, the kind that wraps itself around you until you can finally breathe again.
Nana chuckles and goes back to stirring the pot. “See? That’s better already.”
Cast lowers his voice, eyes searching mine. “You sure everything’s okay? You sounded… off when you called.”
I hesitate, then shake my head lightly. “Just a weird customer,” I say, letting my hand rest against his chest. “I’ll tell you later.”
He studies me a second longer, then nods. “Alright. But you’re not leaving my side tonight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
8
CAST
“Listen,”I say into the receiver, voice lower than I want it to be.
The man on the other end answers in a static whisper, the dialect thick. “I have him in scope right now.”
“Where is he?” My jaw tightens.
“The dinner table.” He responds and I hear the sure click of a safety being turned off.
“We let him enjoy the holidays,” I tell him. “Let him think he’s safe for a while. Family dinners. Hot chocolate. All of that.” My mouth tastes like iron. “But before January, he’s gone. This has to be clean. He’s a public figure.”
There’s a pause, more like the sound of something heavy settling. “You sure you want to wait?”
I can feel the room tilt from the weight of the decision, the ledger of consequences balanced on my shoulders. “Yes,” I say. “People need to feel safe, even if it’s a lie. But don’t let it drag into the new year. We can’t afford it.”
Footsteps pass outside my office, a fast, nervous staccato. The hallway door clicks; someone moves past the frame. For a second I think it’s just a courier, someone running a late errand. Then a familiar silhouette cuts the light: Vincent, shouldershunched like he’s carrying something inside his coat that wants to get out.
He picks up his pace down the stairs as he mutters into his own phone, the words spilling sharp and urgent. “No, you don’t understand—find it now. The numbers drop every day. If we don’t lock it down, we’re done by the new year.”
The thread of the conversation in my other ear snaps like a taut wire. I hear my own name—probably not mine, but the way he says “we” makes it mine whether I want it to be or not. I end the call without thinking, the receiver thudding back into its cradle with more force than necessary. My heart is already moving, hot and heavy.
Vincent’s voice cuts through the corridor like a blade. “You need to hunt now, not later. This isn’t about patience—it’s about survival.” His words are urgent enough that I can hear the fray in them, the ragged edge of a man running out of time.
I stand, boots squeaking on the freshly waxed floor, and follow him without thinking. The stairwell smells of motor oil and peppermint—the seasonal wreath hanging on the railing doing nothing to mask the grit. He’s two steps ahead, his coat flaring, jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticks at the corner of his mouth. When he turns at the bottom, he doesn’t see me at first; he sees the ledger on the counter, the open laptop glowing with numbers that aren’t supposed to move this way.
