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

Chapter 2: Ghost in the Foyer

The heavy oak door swung open, and I stepped into a wall of heat.

It smelled of cinnamon, expensive pine, and something cloying—like vanilla perfume sprayed over something rotting. The Grand Foyer was exactly as I remembered, only louder.

Gold. Everywhere.

Garlands wrapped around the marble columns like strangling vines. A twenty-foot fir tree dominated the center of the room, dripping with crystal ornaments that caught the light of the massive chandelier overhead. It was a kaleidoscope of aggressive festivity.

I felt small.

I felt gray.

Standing there in my damp coat, my boots leaving a puddle of slush on the pristine checkerboard marble, I was a smudge on a perfect painting.

"Evelyn! Oh, thank goodness."

The voice was soft, fluttering like a trapped bird. Aunt Margaret bustled out from the drawing room, her hands wringing together. She was the only Hart who didn't look at me like I was a tax write-off.

"You're frozen solid," she fussed, reaching out to touch my arm. Her fingers were warm, but her eyes darted nervously toward the stairs. "Give me your coat. Quickly, before Charles sees the puddle."

"Hi, Aunt Margaret," I managed, my voice cracking. I peeled off my wet layers, handing them over like contraband. "Is… is everyone here?"

"Your father is in the study," she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "And Isabella… well, Isabella is upstairs getting ready. She’s very excited. She has a… guest."

The car.

My stomach gave a violent lurch. "Who is it?"

Before Margaret could answer, a sound cut through the air.

Click. Click. Click.

The sharp, rhythmic staccato of stilettos on marble.

I looked up.

Isabella stood at the top of the sweeping staircase. Of course she did. She looked like a queen surveying her subjects. She was wearing a red velvet dress that hugged every curve, her dark hair cascading in perfect, glossy waves. She was vibrant, alive, and terrifyingly beautiful.

"Evelyn," she drawled. She didn't smile. She just… presented herself. "You’re late. Daddy was threatening to start dinner without you."

" I ran into snow," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "The roads were bad."

Isabella descended the stairs, one slow step at a time. She stopped three steps from the bottom, towering over me. She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my frayed sweater, my wind-chapped face.

A tiny, satisfied smirk touched her lips.

"Well," she said, smoothing her skirt. "At least you’re here. It wouldn’t be a family holiday without the whole set. besides…" Her eyes glittered with a malice I knew too well. "I have news. Big news."

She turned slightly, extending a hand toward the archway leading to the formal living room. The shadows there were deep, swallowing the light.

"Darling?" she called out. Her voice changed—it went syrupy, sweet, fake. "Come say hello. The prodigal sister has finally arrived."

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Darling?

Footsteps.

Heavier than Isabella’s. Slower. Deliberate.

The shadows shifted. A figure detached itself from the gloom of the living room.

First, I saw the height. He was tall—taller than I remembered anyone being in this house. Broad shoulders encased in a black dress shirt that strained slightly against the muscle beneath.

Then, he stepped into the light of the chandelier.

The world stopped.

Literally. The ticking of the grandfather clock ceased. The air left the room. The blood in my veins turned to ice, then fire, then ice again.

It wasn’t possible.

The face was harder now. Sharper. The jawline was etched in granite, covered in the shadow of a day’s growth. His hair was darker, cut shorter, severe. But those eyes…

Those eyes were the same stormy gray that had haunted my dreams for six years.

Adrian.

Adrian Blackwell.

My first love. The boy who had kissed me in the greenhouse while the rain hammered against the glass. The boy who had promised to take me away from this hellhole. The boy who had vanished without a word, leaving me shattered.

He was here. inside the house.

I forgot how to breathe. I stood paralyzed, my lips parted in a silent scream.

He looked at me.

For a second—just one fracturing second—his mask slipped. His eyes widened, a flash of raw shock cracking the stoic veneer. His hand, hanging by his side, twitched.

Then, the wall slammed back up. His expression went blank. Cold. Unrecognizable.

Isabella glided over to him. She looped her arm through his, pressing her body against his side. She looked at him with a possessiveness that made bile rise in my throat.

"Evelyn," she said, her voice ringing with triumph. "I don’t think you’ve met Adrian properly. He’s taken over Father’s acquisitions department in London."

She rested her head on his shoulder. He didn't pull away. He stood there, a statue of dark marble, staring right through me.

"And," Isabella added, pausing for maximum damage. She lifted her left hand.

A diamond the size of a quail’s egg glittered on her finger. Cold. Sharp. blinding.

"He’s also my fiancé."

The floor tilted.

I mean it—the marble physically seemed to slant beneath my feet. A roar of white noise exploded in my ears.

Fiancé.

Adrian and Isabella.

Isabella and Adrian.

The two people who had hurt me most in the world, standing together. United.

My vision blurred at the edges. Black spots danced across Adrian’s face. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at her. I felt like I was being vivisected, my chest cracked open and my heart exposed to the freezing air.

He was marrying her.

He had come back… for her.

"Evelyn?" Aunt Margaret’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. "Dear, are you alright? You look pale."

I couldn't speak. If I opened my mouth, I would vomit. Or scream. Or cry. And I couldn't do any of those things. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

I stumbled back, my heel catching on the edge of the rug.

Adrian took half a step forward—an instinct, a reflex—before freezing.

I didn't wait to see what he would do.

"I… I don't feel well," I choked out. The words were strangled, barely human.

"Bathroom," I gasped.

I turned and ran.

I didn't walk. I fled. I scrambled down the hallway, past the portraits of dead ancestors judging me, past the kitchen where the staff stared. I shoved open the door to the powder room and threw myself inside.

I slammed the lock home.

Click.

Only then did my legs give out. I slid down the door until I hit the cold tile floor.

I pressed my hands over my mouth to stifle the sob that was tearing its way up my throat. My lungs were seizing. I couldn't get air in. Short, shallow gasps.

Hyperventilating.

He was here.

He was hers.

The nightmare had officially begun.