Page 10 of Her Holiday Arrangement
The city was still cloaked in shadow when Elizabeth opened her eyes.
No alarm had gone off, none ever did. She hadn’t needed one in twenty years.
A glance at the sleek, rose-gold clock on her nightstand: 4:57 a.m.
Three minutes ahead of schedule.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the warm hardwood with a mutedtap. The penthouse was quiet, except for the soft hum of the underfloor heating system and the faint buzz of city traffic far below. She padded to the ensuite bathroom, flipped on the mirror lights, and began her morning routine, efficient, familiar, controlled.
Cleanser. Cold water rinse. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream.
No room for hesitation. No space for weakness.
By 5:30, she was on her treadmill in the glass-walled gym. Sixty minutes at an incline. Thirty reps with hand weights. Ten minutes of precision stretching. All while skimming emails onher tablet, dictating three responses, and flagging a contract revision she’d have her legal team fix before takeoff.
Her body moved on muscle memory. Her mind was not so cooperative.
It kept circling back, like a plane in a holding pattern, to Sophia’s final words.
“Cold to the end.”
“I won’t freeze to death at your mother’s snow palace while making small talk with people who think I’m your accessory.”
Elizabeth increased the treadmill speed.
She should cancel the trip. It was the logical thing to do. One fewer headache. No need for polite conversations or passive-aggressive Christmas cocktails or the inevitable disappointment in her mother’s eyes.
But the idea of canceling lodged in her throat like a stone.
No. That would be seen as weakness.
By 7:15, showered and dressed in a charcoal cashmere turtleneck and tailored trousers, Elizabeth stood in her kitchen, watching the city wake while her espresso machine hissed and poured out a stream of strong, black coffee.
She took her first sip and stared out at the skyline unfolding like a promise. Everything below her was small. Manageable. Ordered.
But her stomach was tight. Not with nerves, she told herself. Anticipation, maybe. Or annoyance.
The private elevator chimed.
A moment later, Ana, her concierge, stepped inside, followed by two assistants from her favorite boutique, both wheeling in racks of clothing.
“Good morning, Ms. Hale,” Ana said. “Camille sent over Miss Jensen’s wardrobe for the trip. She’s had everything steamed and packaged per your specifications.”
“Put it in the second bedroom,” Elizabeth replied coolly, not turning from the window.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sipped her coffee, back still straight, eyes still forward, but her ears tracked the movement behind her. Fabric swishing. The soft jingle of branded hangers. The zip of garment bags being opened and checked.
She didn’t look. There was no reason to.
And yet.
A glimpse of something cream-colored in the reflection. Cashmere? Or silk? No. Lace.
Lingerie.
She sipped her coffee harder.
