Page 1 of Her Mountain Christmas
One
Ella
Normally, I’m someone who loves Christmas. I love the music, the decorations, the coziness and warmth of the season. I love picking out gifts for people who are special to me, and watching their faces as they unwrap them. Usually, I love the parties, too, but this year’s massive Montgomery family bash feels different. Off, somehow. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m on edge. Maybe it’s from the way my parents have been looking at me all night. Maybe it’s because all of these gorgeous Christmas decorations clash with the ugliness I’ve been witnessing in my family lately.
And the decorations are gorgeous. Every year, my family reserves the ballroom in a fancy hotel in downtown Edmonton, going all out. This year, there’s a massive Christmas tree standing between two soaring windows, glittering with twinkling white lights and decorated to perfection with red, green, and gold ornaments. Holly drips from the glowing chandelier above, and poinsettias decorate nearly every surface. A fire crackles merrily from the hearth, festooned with a twinkly garland, fake presents in lush green and red wrapping paperpiled on either side. Towering arrangements of glowing birch branches and red velvet ribbon line the walls, interspersed with miniature Christmas trees, decorated to match the huge one.
Jazzy Christmas music floats on the air, mingling with the conversations I’m not a part of and the clinking of glasses. I look down at my own glass, watching the dancing bubbles in my champagne for a moment. The guest list is a who’s who of the Edmonton elite. Politicians, CEOs, academics, social media influencers, even a few hockey players.
It’s like a rich person salad.
I take a sip of my champagne, wondering if I should go flirt with one of the hockey players. I like flirting. Not that I’ve ever done anything more than that—well, beyond a few kisses here and there. The moment things swing from light and fun to serious, I get cold feet and bolt, usually with a wink and a joke.
I smooth a hand over my beaded red dress. It’s fitted, emphasizing the flare of my hips, and the off-the-shoulder sleeves leave a good amount of skin exposed. It’s in a deep ruby shade that felt both festive and sexy when I picked it out, and I love the way the beads catch the light whenever I move. My long blond hair falls down my back in perfectly styled waves, and my makeup is flawless.
I look perfect, just like I’m expected to. It’s the only thing expected of me—show up, look pretty, smile lots, don’t say or do anything even remotely interesting.
I’m surrounded by wealth, beauty, power. And I feel completely hollow on the inside.
I grew up in this world, thinking I was lucky. And in some ways, I guess I was. But a glittering cage is still a cage, and I’m a silly little bird longing for freedom. But birds in cages don’t get to fly high and free. They’re expected to look pretty, sing on command, and never complain because who wouldn’t want to live in such an opulent cage?
I spend the next hour eating cranberry brie bites and too many olives, making the rounds and smiling at everyone, just like I’m expected to. One of the hockey players does try to flirt with me, and he’s cute, but he’s not my type. Too baby faced. He’s probably only a year or two older than me, and he looks like his mom still does his laundry for him. No thanks.
When my stomach starts to go a bit sour from all the olives, I slip out of the main ballroom, needing a few minutes to breathe through the stress-induced indigestion. My heels sink into the plush carpeting of the hallway, making me slow my steps. A lushly decorated alcove catches my attention, and I step into it, taking a deep breath as the twinkling lights refract off my dress, making me look a bit like a mirror ball.
The elevator dings and I hear footsteps approaching the ballroom. I go still at the sound of my father’s voice. He’s talking to someone, and I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. But their voices are low. Conspiratorial in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I slink into the corner, something like dread pooling with the olives in my stomach. The footsteps slow only a few feet from where I’m hidden, and I hold my breath.
“She’s not a child, Bradford. She’s twenty-two years old, and I promise you, she understands her duty to this family and the Montgomery name.” My father’s voice is quiet, but no less confident for the lack of volume.
“I hope you’re right, Montgomery. I won’t have a whiny brat on my hands.” That voice makes my blood turn to ice in my veins. It belongs to Bradford Guilfoyle, one of the richest—and most despicable—men in Edmonton. He’s revolting. I hate him.
“Ella will come around, just like she always does,” says my father, and my stomach starts to churn sickly. I press a shaky hand to my mouth. Come around about what? I don’t want anything to do with Bradford. And god, my father’s so sure of me. So sure of my compliance. Like I’m a pawn on hischessboard, and there’s no doubt that I’ll go wherever he wants me to.
“And if she doesn’t?” Bradford asks, his voice dripping with challenge.
“She will.” It’s my mother’s voice this time, cold and hard as ice. “She knows what’s expected of her.”
I do? What the actual fuck are they talking about?
Bradford makes a humming sound, clearly considering what he’s been told. “Well, I guess if she gives me any trouble, I can always send her off to that clinic in Switzerland. Plenty of good doctors and psychiatrists there who can smooth out any undesirable wrinkles in her personality.”
My dress suddenly feels too tight. I can’t breathe. They’re talking about me like I’m an object. A pet. A possession. I feel sick. I feel like my world is tilting on its axis, everything shifting. Rearranging. I swallow hard, dizzy with hurt. Time feels like it’s stopped completely.
I flatten myself against the wall, feeling cold and alone. So very, very alone. This can’t be real. I knew my parents were controlling but this…this is next level.
My father laughs, making my skin crawl. Bradford’s making jokes about having me fucking lobotomized and he’s all chuckles. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, Bradford,” he says affably, as though they’re discussing golf. “But good to know you’re prepared.”
I think I might throw up.
“Fine. Let’s announce the engagement as soon as possible, then.” He sounds so smug, so satisfied, like he’s negotiated a good deal on a piece of property.
Engagement. The word echoes through my head like a clanging bell, reverberating and far too loud. They want me to marry Bradford Guilfoyle, the most disgusting, misogynisticperson I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s vile. And he apparently thinks he can threaten me into compliance.
I feel dirty. Used. Disposable. Emotions crash into me, one after the other. Rage. Fear. Despair. Panic. They tangle together, making it impossible to think, to react, to do anything but stand plastered against that wall, heart pounding, stomach churning. I’m pinned by the weight of them. I want to scream, to let it all out because it’s too much to bear, but I’m too frozen.
My mother speaks again, her voice like a knife. “She’ll make a beautiful bride, Bradford. She’ll be perfect for you. You’ll see.”
My eyes sting with tears, but I blink them back. I refuse to cry. Not here, not now. I take a deep breath, trying to think. To focus on anything but the chaos of emotion inside me.
