THE HOLIDAY RIVAL: I Fell for My Sister’s Enemy

The windshield wipers slashed back and forth, a metronome counting down the seconds until my execution. Slap. Slap. Slap. Outside, the White Mountains were disappearing. The world had dissolved into a blurred canvas of aggressive white and dirty slate gray. My vintage Mini Cooper rattled against the wind, fighting a losing battle for traction on the icy asphalt. I should turn around. The thought wasn’t new. It had been playing on a loop in my head for the last three hours, ever since I crossed the state line. I could just… stop. Turn the wheel. Go back to my tiny, drafty apartment in the city where the radiator hissed and the smell of turpentine was the only company I needed. But I didn’t turn. I kept driving. Because I was a coward, and because Charles Hart didn’t accept "no" for an answer. Not even at Christmas. Especially not at Christmas. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned the color of bone. The leather was freezing under my palms. The heater in this car had died somewhere near Concord, leaving me in a box of stagnant, biting air. I could see my own breath, little ghosts escaping my lips every time I exhaled. "Just three days," I whispered. My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the roar of the wind. "Seventy-two hours. You can do anything for seventy-two hours." I glanced at the passenger seat. My sketchbook sat there, battered and dog-eared. My shield. As long as I had that, I could disappear. I could retreat into charcoal lines and graphite shadows where no one could tell me I wasn’t enough. Focus, Evelyn. The road curved sharply, flanked by pines that looked like jagged teeth against the sky. A memory hit me then, unbidden and sharp as a paper cut. I was ten. It was the annual Christmas Eve gala. I had spent weeks painting a portrait of the house in the snow, shading every brick, every icicle. I had brought it to my father in the study, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He hadn’t even looked up from his ledger. "Not now, Evelyn," he’d said, his voice dry as dust. "Go help Isabella with her dress. The sash is complicated, and she needs to look perfect for the guests." I had left the painting on the corner of his desk. The next morning, it was in the trash bin, folded in half to make room for empty scotch bottles. I blinked, forcing the memory back into the dark box where I kept the last twenty years of my life. The trees parted. There it was. The Hart Estate didn’t look like a home. It looked like a fortress built to withstand a siege. Dark stone, high turrets, windows that stared out at the valley like unblinking eyes. It sat on the hill, dominating the landscape, demanding submission from the very earth it rested on. My stomach dropped, a sudden, violent vertigo that had nothing to do with the car’s motion. It was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Gothic, imposing, and completely devoid of warmth. Even with the Christmas wreaths hung on the massive iron gates, it felt cold. I slowed the car, the tires crunching over the packed snow. This was it. The threshold. I reached up, my fingers finding the silver locket resting against my collarbone. It was cold metal on cold skin, but the habit grounded me. My mother’s photo was inside, tiny and faded. She was the only person in this house who had ever really seen me, and she had been gone for a long time. Armor on, I told myself. I visualized it. A layer of glass settling over my skin. Hard. Impermeable. Let them look through me. Let me be invisible. Being invisible was safe. It was when they noticed you that the bleeding started. I rolled down the window to punch the code into the keypad at the gate. The wind slapped my face, stinging my eyes, instantly freezing the moisture on my lashes. One. Nine. Eight. Four. The year the company went public. Not a birthday. Not an anniversary. Business. Always business. The iron gates groaned, moving with a reluctant, rusty screech that echoed through the silent woods. They swung inward, inviting me into the belly of the beast. I drove through. The driveway was a winding half-mile of perfectly plowed asphalt, lined with ancient oaks that clawed at the gray sky. I drove slowly, delaying the inevitable arrival by mere seconds. As the main house came into full view, my breath hitched. The driveway was empty. Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy. Charles’s Rolls Royce wasn’t there. Isabella’s red convertible was missing. Maybe they were out. Maybe I had an hour. An hour to get to my room, lock the door, and pretend I didn’t exist. I pulled around the circular drive, aiming for my usual spot near the service entrance—the spot where my rusty Mini wouldn't offend the aesthetic of the manor. Then I saw it. I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded a few inches before shuddering to a halt. Parked directly in front of the massive oak double doors, right in the center of the master stairs, was a car. But not just a car. It was a sleek, low-slung beast of a machine. Matte black paint that seemed to absorb the weak winter light rather than reflect it. It looked like a weapon on wheels. Aggressive. Expensive. And unfamiliar. I killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, ringing in my ears. My father didn’t drive sports cars. He liked British luxury, heavy sedans that felt like tanks. And Isabella only drove things that screamed 'look at me' in bright, candy-apple colors. This car was silent power. It was a predator crouching in the snow. A shiver that had nothing to do with the broken heater spiderwebbed down my spine. Who was here? We didn’t do guests. The Harts didn’t have "friends." We had business associates, rivals, and employees. Christmas was a closed-door affair, a time for the family to tear each other apart without an audience. I stared at the black vehicle, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. Snow was beginning to dust the hood, which meant it hadn't been here long. The engine might still be warm. I wasn't just walking into a lion's den. Someone else was in there with the lions. And for some reason, that terrified me more than anything else.