Chapter One
Meredith
FuckingChristmasmusic.
It leaked through the walls like rot, clawing past the thin insulation and bleeding out of my neighbor’s apartment. A cursed holiday plague with a cheery melody. I buried my head under the comforter, teeth clenched, trying to pretend I didn’t recognize the song.It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.Of course it is. If I had a lighter and zero conscience, I’d have set their stereo on fire and roasted chestnuts in the ashes by now.
But I do have a conscience—weak and exhausted as it is. And that feeble voice in my head kept screaming at me:Get up,Meredith. It’s Christmas Eve, and you still have a business to run.
With a groan, I shoved back the covers and swung my legs to the cold hardwood floor. The early morning light crept in, turning the fogged windowpanes a hazy gray. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, but the city beyond my window already glowed red and gold with holiday lights. A postcard of festive cheer. My skin prickled just looking at it. I turned away.
I pulled on my favorite black sweater—the one with sleeves long enough to swallow my hands—and a pair of crisp black slacks. Next came my well-worn black boots and the black wool coat waiting by the door. All black, head to toe. My personal funeral attire for the joy everyone else kept trying to resurrect around me. Last week, an investor had actually called it my “Grinch couture” and laughed, like I was in on the joke.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, my roommate and assistant was already there. Vanessa stood at the counter, bubbly, blonde, and disgustingly good at mornings. The rich scent of coffee and vanilla oatmeal swirled in the air as she hummed along to the same infernal Christmas tune that had dragged me out of bed. Of course she was humming. She practically was a Christmas song personified.
“Morning!” she chirped, far too bright.
I answered with a noncommittal grunt and headed straight for the coffeepot. Caffeine first, conversation later—maybe. As I poured myself a mug, I finally registered the crime scene on our marble kitchen island: piles of wrapped presents, shiny and sparkling. It looked like Santa’s workshop had exploded all over my countertop, glitter and ribbons everywhere. My eye twitched.
“What the hell is all this?” I snapped, shoving the cabinet closed after grabbing sugar for my coffee. The bang was louder than necessary, but it made me feel a tiny bit better.
Vanessa didn’t even flinch. “Gifts, obviously. It’s Christmas Eve,” she replied, as if that were a reasonable explanation for this assault on my kitchen.
“We’ve talked about this,” I growled, gesturing at the heap of packages with my mug. Coffee sloshed over the rim, practically foaming with my irritation. “No presents. No surprises. No fake holiday cheer. I know we’ve had this conversation,repeatedly.”
Vanessa turned, flipping her high ponytail over one shoulder as she fixed me with a knowing look. “And you’ll be thrilled to hear that none of those are from me,” she quipped, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow. She gave her oatmeal a casual stir and added, “Apparently people still adore you despite your coal-hearted ways.”
I rolled my eyes, but stepped closer to inspect the pile. She was right, none of these were from her. I could see gift tags with corporate logos and familiar names. Clients, investors, business partners…all doing their annual ass-kissing. Frost Holdings branded merchandise in glossy bags, gourmet chocolates in shiny foil, limited-edition whiskey bottles with big gold bows. I’d seen it all before. Bribery with a side of tinsel.
I was about to turn away when I noticed one box that didn’t match the rest. Near the back of the pile sat a medium-sized package wrapped in plain brown paper. The corners were crisply folded by hand, and a single strand of gold ribbon was tied around it in an unfussy knot. No sparkly name tag, no corporate logo, no postage stamp. It just sat there amidst the glitter and glamour, quiet and unassuming. Wrong. Out of place.
I froze, my gaze locked on that box. It didn’t belong with the others. Among gifts that screamedobligationandPR, this one felt…different. Personal, even. A strange little island in a sea of gaudy wrapping paper.
“Mer? You listening?” Vanessa’s voice floated into my consciousness, but I barely heard her. She was rattling on abouttoday’s itinerary—board calls, an investor lunch, some charity gala tonight—her words turned to static in my ears. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the brown paper package.
My heart gave a thud against my ribs. There was something about the simplicity of it, the way the dull gold ribbon lay slack and humble, that made my chest tight. I set down my coffee mug, hardly noticing when it sloshed onto the counter. Slowly, I reached out and slid the mystery box toward me, pulling it out of the pile.
“Hey, you okay?” Vanessa asked, finally noting my distraction. Her spoon clinked against her bowl as she paused her breakfast prep.
I didn’t answer. I was too focused on the package in front of me. Up close, I saw the paper was a bit thick, like the expensive kind used for parchment letters. The gold ribbon wasn’t the synthetic curly type; it was soft fabric, the kind you’d find at a real florist or artisan shop. My fingers hovered over the bow. Part of me screamed to stop—that this was something I shouldn’t touch. It felt like a trap, or a test, or maybe just a prank wrapped up waiting to spring on me.
This was how bad horror movies started, lonely woman, anonymous gift, cue the blood. I wasn’t interested in playing the lead.
But my fingers were already tugging at the ribbon.
The knot came undone with a single gentle pull, the ribbon slithering off and falling in a loose coil on the counter. I peeled back the plain brown paper, my pulse picking up speed. Underneath was a simple white box with no markings. My throat went dry. I lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in a cradle of tissue paper, was a snow globe.
I stared, not breathing. Just a glass sphere resting on a dark wooden base, nothing written or engraved. No cheesy glitter or tacky holiday scene. Inside the globe was only a tiny model ofa cabin and a few sparse pine trees set against a backdrop of painted pines. When I gingerly picked it up, fake snow swirled around the little cabin in a lazy drift. It was so simple, so unremarkable and yet I felt like the floor had opened up under me.
A cabin. Just snow and a cabin.
My breath stuttered as the globe trembled in my hands. I knew that cabin. The slanted roof with missing shingles, the crooked front porch, the sagging porch swing on the right side. Even the half-dead tree out front with a broken bird feeder dangling from one low branch. It was exactly the same.
A ghost of a memory slipped its cold fingers around my mind. I was twelve years old when I arrived, sitting on a thin blanket on a colder floor. Curled up by a drafty window in a foster home that smelled of mildew and despair. Outside, across a snow-covered yard, stood a cabin just like the one in this globe. I used to stare at it through the glass, watching snow fall on its roof, imagining who might be inside and what their life was like. That cabin had been my escape in daydreams until the day it wasn’t. Until reality crashed in and shatteredeverything.
My stomach lurched. Blood roared in my ears. Suddenly I was right back there, that lonely kid with chattering teeth and a bruised heart, watching the snow bury another hopeless year.
