“In Germany,” he continues, “Christmas markets are serious. You drink wine that could knock out a horse. There are sausages everywhere. Actual fire pits. People are warm. Emotionally and physically. Here? It’s decorative suffering. Everyone’s cold, pretending they’re not, holding overpriced cocoa that tastes like it wants to be German.”
I snort despite myself.
“And the music,” he goes on. “Why is it all jingles? Where are the choirs? The doom? The proper winter despair that makes joy earned?”
“You’re mad there’s no misery,” I state.
“I’m mad it’s performative misery,” he corrects. “Also, the ornaments. All glass. All fragile. Nothing practical. In Germany, you buy things you can pass down or bludgeon someone with if needed.”
“That feels on brand for you.”
“Exactly,” he says. “This?” He scoffs. “This is Christmas for people who think hardship is parking.”
“You’re such a downer,” I joke.
Faulker leans back, finally smirking. “And yet you still let me ride with you.”
Chapter 14
Despite It All
Sofie
Despite the epicmind-fucks that have come one right after another, the looming takeover, the quiet hum of corporate espionage, the father I adore who is now perilously close to a deadbeat dadexcept on the good days, the days when he still deserves the Father of the Year trophy I made him in kindergarten prep school, the one where they only spoke Mandarin, the trophy he still keeps in his office, glued together because it broke once “by accident,” courtesy of “clumsy house staff,” —so Elena said— and the scuffed scribble on the bottom definitely not readinglove, Biancaif you don’t look too closely.
Despite the possibility that my father may have slept with Claudia’s mother, a timeline I am absolutely not ready to calculate yet,because I can’t, and that he may have threatened to take her unborn child, driving her to disappear from this city entirely and causing Claudia to live a hellish life…
Despite all of that, as crippling as it is, none of it ruined the joy of learning that I might have a sister who is one of the best people I know. Or that Savannah, whom I have already claimedwith my whole heart, might actually be my niece. Or that Paul, miserable old pain in the ass that he pretended to be, is actually something close to wonderful.
It was always going to be okay when Dad finally stopped havinggood days. I knew that. I planned for it. But now, I’m not as terrified that there’s something fundamentally wrong with me, that people eventually drift away unless I give them a reason to stay, unless I make myself indispensable —monetarily.
Sick? Absolutely. But I don’t pretend to be perfect.
I love my imperfections. Unlike my half-sisters, who Dad has spent thousands, if not millions, curating. Plastic doesn’t equate to pretty, and polish always wears off. Even if it didn’t, their ugliness shines brighter than any cosmetic product on the market because it is soul-deep.
And I refuse even to consider that James and Matteo are involved, which is why I have avoided them altogether.
Somehow, the worst discoveries of the last twenty-four hours have blurred at the edges. Not erased. Just… muted behind the time at the market with all the people who make me feel normal, loved, and seen for the real me.
Today gave me something else to hold onto. Holiday memories I didn’t expect to make. Laughter, warm lights, a sense of belonging that feels earned instead of staged.
And last night?
Aleks Kilovac. All sharp edges and cold distance, all intimidation and control, cracked open when I was at my lowest. In the middle of my first, and hopefully my last, panic attack. He didn’t disappear. He didn’t flinch, he stayed. Actually, he didn’t stay, he brought me in with no expectations and kept me safe.
What he showed me last night was more disarming than the muscles, the ink, the presence that commands a room, the drool-worthy hockey ass, and a very impressive bulge that couldn’t be hidden beneath those navy blue, threadbare Yale sweats. Heshowed me there’s something even more beautiful under all of that. Something fierce and protective and deeply human. And me, I don’t have a clue what to do with it.
That’s for a future Sofie to figure out, a nearer future Sofie is going to fall asleep —hopefully— in The Bridgeview hotel without a weighted blanket or a two hundred and fifty pound defensive wing surrounding me with all the heat he gives off.
“You okay, Sassy?” Paul asks.
“I’m,” I consider it for a moment and smile as I press my lips to the top of Savannah’s dark, silky waves. “Perfect.”
“Good, now stay in that place when I tell you something that might piss you off, make you react in the way you’re prone to and?—”
“Paul, nothing you say can yuck the yum that is asleep against my chest, or the newfound forever fondness and love I have for you.”
“They were pissed at him,” Paul says simply. “And he still didn’t say a word about you. About any of it.”
