Page 72 of Her Holiday Arrangement
The party carried on around her; music, glasses clinking, laughter threading through the glittering air. Riley’s body moved on autopilot: smile, nod, sip, repeat. But her insides were molten, a mix of humiliation and heartbreak that threatened to spill out if she opened her mouth.
Finally, she couldn’t stand another second. She set her glass down too hard on a passing tray and slipped from the room, ignoring the curious glances, ignoring the fact that she was supposed toperform.
Her heels clicked sharp against the stairs as she climbed, pulse hammering in her ears. By the time she shoved into the sanctuary of their shared bedroom, her hands were shaking.
Elizabeth followed minutes later, pristine as always. The Hale mask was back in place, expression smooth, voice measured. She shut the door softly, as if that could undo the violence of everything Sophia had just said, and everything she herself hadn’t.
“Riley—”
“No.” Riley’s voice cracked sharp through the room. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare stand there and act like nothing happened.”
Elizabeth’s jaw flexed. She set her clutch on the dresser with surgical precision, control in every movement. “We can talk about this in the morning.”
“No. Now.” Riley’s throat burned, but the words tore free anyway. “What am I to you, Elizabeth? A game piece? A prop to get you through this circus? Or maybe just a convenientwarm body while you parade me around like… like some kind of accessory?”
Elizabeth’s mask wavered, but only slightly. Her arms folded, posture defensive. “I told you not to get attached.”
The words hit harder than Sophia’s jabs. Riley’s chest hollowed out, but she stood her ground.
“You knew what this was,” Elizabeth pressed, her voice low, clinical.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Riley’s voice cracked, raw. “You don’t wake up next to someone, touch their body, taste them, look at them like—” She stopped, throat closing around what she couldn’t bring herself to say. “You don’t get to play both sides.”
Elizabeth exhaled, sharp, as if the very air hurt. “You don’t belong in this world, Riley. Not long-term.”
The words sliced so cleanly Riley had to clap her hand over her mouth, as if she could physically stop herself from breaking apart in front of her.
Elizabeth’s face shifted instantly, horror flickering through the cracks of her control. She hadn’t meant it, not like that. But she’d said it. And she couldn’t unsay it.
Riley’s hand fell away, trembling. Her voice came out small, fractured. “Wow. Okay. There it is.”
Elizabeth took a step forward, then stopped. The air between them felt like a live wire, ready to snap.
“Riley…”
“Don’t.” Riley backed toward the window, toward the snow-laced glass. “Just, don’t.”
For the first time since Riley had known her, Elizabeth Hale had nothing left to say.
Riley watched her walk out and return to the life Riley would never know.
That was the end, wasn’t it?
Her suitcase was still by the wardrobe, half-unpacked from when she’d tried to convince herself she belonged here. She pulled it onto the bed, unzipped it, and began folding her clothes with mechanical precision. Socks, sweaters, the book she never got around to reading. Each item tucked away carefully, as if neatness could hold her together when everything else was breaking.
Her hands trembled when she reached the lingerie Elizabeth had bought. She pressed the silk against her palm for a heartbeat before shoving it deep into the bag, out of sight. She couldn’t bear to look at it. Not now.
When she finished packing, the room looked too perfect, too untouched, as if she’d never been there at all.
Riley sat at the desk for a moment, staring at the blank notecard she’d pulled from the stationery set. Her pen hovered, hesitated, then finally moved.
I loved pretending. Because it didn’t feel like pretending to me.
She laid the note on Elizabeth’s pillow, smoothing it down with her palm. The words looked small, fragile, not nearly enough to hold everything inside her. But it was all she could give.
Riley stood in the doorway one last time. The bed, the heavy curtains, the faint scent of Elizabeth’s perfume clinging to the air; it all felt like a memory already. She wanted to look back, to leave some piece of herself in this room, but the ache in her chest demanded otherwise.
So she turned the knob, slipped out quietly, and didn’t look back.
