“You’ve been quiet since the last stoplight.”
“I guess I’m nervous,” I admit. “What if he doesn’t show? What if his explanation is just—less than stellar?”
Emery snaps her compact closed and looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Marigold. Honey. If you wanted answers, you could’ve just answered his calls.”
“I didn’t want a half-assed excuse over the phone,” I say quietly, my fingers smoothing the velvet of my burgundy dress.
“I need to see him. Look into his eyes and hear the truth straight from his mouth. When he says it’s over, I want him to have the balls to say it to my face.”
She studies me for a moment, serious now.
“How do you know he’s going to say it’s over?”
A lump rises in my throat.
“Because if he wanted to stay, he would have,” I whisper. “And he didn’t.”
The limo turns off the main road, and onto a long, winding drive flanked by snowy evergreens.
My breath catches as we approach the gates of Uncle Uzzi’s estate.
It looks like something out of a fantasy novel.
Tall wrought iron gates shimmer with enchantments, pulsing softly with golden light.
As we pull up, they swing open without a sound, revealing a long brick drive lined with glowing lanterns that float several feet above the snow-dusted ground.
Beyond that?
Pure magic.
Uzzi’s mansion rises like a confection of Old World elegance and holiday charm—an enormous Victorian-style estate with steep gables, balconies wrapped in garlands, and warm amber light glowing from every window.
Twinkling fairy lights dance across the rooftops, forming intricate snowflake patterns that shift in rhythm with the music drifting from within.
Yes, music.
A live string quartet is playing Carol of the Bells somewhere near the front entrance.
There’s a massive ice sculpture of a reindeer prancing in the circular driveway fountain, surrounded by glittering snowflakes suspended mid-air, held up by nothing but invisible magic.
Snow falls gently around us—slow, soft, shimmering flakes that don’t melt when they hit the ground.
“Holy shit,” Emery breathes, practically flattening herself against the window. “We’re in the freaking North Pole.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, swallowing down the mix of awe and anxiety tangling in my chest. “With better snacks.”
“Hell yeah,” she says with a wink.
The limo pulls to a smooth stop.
A footman—yes, a footman—opens the door for us and offers a gloved hand.
We step out together.
The snow glows beneath our feet. The scent of mulled wine and sugared almonds lingers in the crisp air.
