Chapter 1
The car wheels crunch through fresh snow as Cillian navigates the winding driveway. I press my forehead against the glass, grinning like a child on Christmas morning.
Outside, the world has been dipped in sugar. The dark pines are frosted white, sparkling under the twilight like they’ve been dressed just for us.
“It’s magical,” I breathe, turning to look at Cillian. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be likeNarnia.”
Cillian smiles, though his eyes remain fixed on the narrow path ahead. “It has its moments. Especially when the snow covers everything up.”
I reach over and cover his hand on the gear shift, smoothing my thumb over his knuckles. I can feel the tension radiating off him, a hum of nervous energy that he’s trying to suppress.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Relax. We’re here. No more work emails, no more city noise. Just three days of warm fires and eggnog.”
He lets out a breath, turning his hand over to lace his fingers through mine. He gives my hand a firm, reassuring squeeze.
“Listen, Star,” he says, his voice serious but warm. “I need you to remember what I said about my mother. She can be... particular. She has a very specific idea of how things should be done.” Particular. He once described her as “tactfully ruthless” when he was drunk. I’ve seen the way his shoulders tense when her name appears on his phone, how his voice shifts to something formal and distant during their calls. But still, all family has drama, right?
“Particular. I know.” I wave the warning away with my free hand. “But I can handle particular. I dealt with that gallery owner in Chelsea who screamed if the macaroons weren’t color-coordinated with the abstract expressionism. I am fully prepared.”
“It’s not just the macaroons,” Cillian says, glancing at me. “She can be chilly to outsiders. I just don’t want you to take it personally if she’s not warm right away.”
“She won’t have a choice,” I promise him, beaming. “I have a secret weapon.”
I’m thinking of the artisan truffles I spent an hour selecting—dark chocolate with sea salt, her favorite—and the fact that I memorized the stuffing recipe he told me about. I am not entering this house as an intruder; I am entering as a daughter-in-law ready to be embraced.
Cillian looks at me, and his expression softens into something fiercely affectionate. He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles.
“You’re right,” he says, and he sounds like he truly believes it. “Once they get to know you—once they actually see you the way I do—they’re going to love you. They won’t be able to help themselves.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m lovable.”
“You are,” he agrees. “And I love you. Remember that? No matter what she says about the traffic or the timing, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest as the house comes into view. I picture myself standing by their tree, holding a glass of wine, finally part of the big, messy, beautiful family Christmas I’ve always wanted.
“Your parents actually live here? Just the two of them?” I ask, counting windows, calculating rooms.
“And a small staff,” Cillian says as if it’s nothing. To him, it probably is. “Housekeeper during the week, groundskeeper for the estate, and my mother’s assistant who’s basically on call twenty-four seven.”
What a life.
I think about our apartment back in the city—the one we chose together six months ago. The paint-splattered living room where I placed my easel by the window. The kitchen where Cillian makes Sunday pancakes, splattering batter on cabinet doors I keep meaning to refinish. The bedroom where we’ve created our own world, tangled in mismatched sheets that feel like home.
That world feels very distant now. For the first time, my stomach twists.
“You grew up here?” I ask, though I know the answer. It’s just hard to imagine Cillian—my Cillian, who sleeps in ratty T-shirts and sings off-key in the shower—as a child in this place.
“Until boarding school at thirteen,” he says, his eyes fixed ahead. “Then holidays and summers. Less and less as I got older.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek, saddened to hear about his lonely childhood.
The car rounds another curve in the driveway, and suddenly the estate unfolds before us. What was imposing from afar becomes overwhelming up close. Stone walls rise from manicured grounds now covered in pristine snow.
“Home sweet home,” Cillian murmurs.
He puts the car in park and turns to me, his gold-flecked eyes clear and steady. “Ready to charm the Brown dynasty?”
