Christmas dinner is a performance—pretending the food tastes better than it does, pretending the company is welcome, pretending family isn’t just another word for people you’re stuck with.

Catherine has transformed the Bennett dining room into a holiday magazine spread.

Crystal glasses catch candlelight like frozen tears waiting to fall. Cloth napkins fold into elaborate shapes that probably have names I’ll never learn. The extended table groans under enough food to feed a small army, and we sit around it like soldiers waiting for someone to fire the first shot.

“The turkey is absolutely divine, Patricia.” Catherine’s voice carries that particular brightness reserved for women performing civility.

Mrs. Bennett’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes as she accepts the compliment with measured grace.

“Richard’s mother’s recipe, actually. We’ve been using it for generations in this family.”

The subtle emphasis on this family lands exactly where she intended it to land. I reach for my water glass just to have an excuse to move my trembling hands.

The bracelet slides cool against my wrist, silver catching candlelight. Caleb’s gaze drops to the metal circling my arm, and his expression softens imperceptibly.

Mia sits to my left, her presence a gift I didn’t know I needed until she showed up.

“Catherine insisted I come,” she’d whispered at the door earlier. “Something about moral support.”

Catherine, bless her observant heart, had noticed more than I gave her credit for.

Caleb occupies the chair to my right, close enough that I feel heat radiating from his body. Every nerve ending on that side of me hums with awareness, skin prickling pleasantly. His presence feels like standing near a fireplace in winter—dangerous and warm and necessary.

Across the table, Lucas sits beside his mother with a bruise still fading along his jaw.

My stomach clenches at the sight of him, nausea rising thick in my throat. He hasn’t looked at me once since we sat down for this elaborate holiday charade. His eyes stay fixed on his plate, on his glass, on anywhere that isn’t my face.

Good. Keep those eyes down where they belong, you absolute monster.

Caleb, by contrast, hasn’t looked anywhere else since I walked through the front door. The adults chat around us like everything is perfectly normal and fine and not at all insane.

How can they not see Lucas for what he is beneath that practiced, charming smile? How can they sit here passing gravy boats while a predator carves turkey across from me?

The blindness infuriates me more than the forced proximity ever could manage to do.

“The market’s been volatile, but we’re positioned well for Q1,” my father says to Mr. Bennett. The rich aroma of gravy steam rises between them as dishes pass from hand to hand.

Richard Bennett nods sagely, swirling wine in his crystal glass. “Diversification is key in uncertain times, William. Our firms could learn much from collaboration.”

The business talk feels rehearsed, lines from a script neither man wrote but both perform flawlessly. I push roasted potatoes around my plate, their buttery scent turning my stomach.

“Serena, dear, you’ve barely touched your food.” Mrs. Bennett’s voice drips with concern so sweet it could rot teeth.

The weight of everyone’s attention presses against my skin like something physical.

“Just saving room for dessert,” I manage through a smile that makes my face ache.

Mia’s foot presses against mine under the table in silent solidarity and shared suspicion.

“The ham is excellent,” Caleb says, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Everyone turns to look at him with varying degrees of surprise at his voluntary participation.

“Thank you, Caleb.” Mrs. Bennett’s response carries frost beneath its politeness. “I’m glad someone appreciates the effort.”

Catherine clears her throat and launches into a story about her volunteer work at the hospital. I watch the adults perform their careful dance of diplomacy and barely concealed hostility.

Mia’s eyebrow quirks. What’s happening?

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify