Mathéo Boucher: A Christmas Deal

Chapter 6: Eloise

For the first time in a long time, I was unescorted. The realization settled over me the moment I slid into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce, my coat draped neatly across my lap, my hands folded without anyone else’s arm claiming space beside me. It felt strange—but not unpleasant. There was something freeing about it, something lighter in my chest. Father had decided I didn’t need a date for Thanksgiving dinner held at our own house. I wouldn’t have put it past him to arrange for someone to escort me into my childhood home, just to keep up appearances, but tonight—miraculously—it seemed acceptable that I arrived alone.

Marcus turned into the driveway, guiding the car along the familiar curve of brick that wound through the property. This was our family home, the one Leah and I had grown up in before boarding schools and obligations pulled us away. When we were sent off, Father had bought a penthouse closer to the city—a weekday residence for him and Mother during working weeks—but this house had always remained the constant. The place we were meant to return to. The place that never quite felt like it belonged to us anymore.

Nothing had changed. The fountain still stood proud in the center of the courtyard, though the water had been turned off for winter, its stone edges dusted with frost. The gray brick façade looked as solid and unyielding as ever, ivy climbing in carefully curated places, never allowed to grow wild. Warm light spilled from the windows, casting soft glows onto the hedges and shrubs—Mother, no doubt, instructing the staff to light every candle in the house to manufacture the illusion of warmth and intimacy. Thanksgiving, according to her, was all about atmosphere.

Marcus stopped in front of the main entrance and stepped out immediately, opening my door with practiced efficiency. He hadn’t been my driver for long, but he’d adapted to my routines quickly. Early thirties, handsome in an unassuming way, married, with his first child on the way—he worked every chance he got. I knew he hadn’t hesitated when I asked him to drive me tonight, not with the holiday pay my father offered.

“Thank you, Marcus,” I said as I stepped onto the salted brick, my Louboutins steady despite the cold. “You can go grab something to eat while I’m inside. Leah and I will likely need a ride to the Kims’ Thanksgiving celebration later.”

“Perfect, Miss. I’m nothing more than a text message away,” he replied, closing the door behind me as I turned toward the house.

The strangest part of growing up—something that still made my skin prickle—was that I couldn’t just walk in anymore. The door didn’t open for me the way it once had. This wasn’t my place now. I had to ring the bell, like a guest. Like a stranger waiting for permission to enter.

The chime echoed through the house, followed by footsteps. A maid opened the door with a bright smile. I didn’t know her name—I rarely did—but I smiled back, wished her a happy Thanksgiving, and handed over my coat. She guided me toward the East drawing room, the space Father insisted on using for pre-dinner drinks whenever we entertained. I wasn’t even sure we had guests tonight.

I straightened my shoulders, setting my expression into the perfect, pleasant smile Mother had trained into me from childhood, just in case. The sound of Leah’s laughter reached me before I reached the doors, familiar and comforting. But the moment I stepped inside, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.

I stopped short.

The drawing room looked exactly as it always had. Cream-colored wallpaper. The chandelier was suspended over the glass coffee table between the two soft pink couches. The off-white rug beneath them—still marked, if you looked closely, by the faint stain in the upper left corner where Ashton had spilled whiskey when we were seventeen, sneaking sips of my father’s collection and laughing like we were invincible. The drink cart still stood in the corner, bottles arranged neatly, though I knew the real stock lived downstairs. The tall windows opened onto the East patio, heavy pink drapes pooling onto the floor. Even the fireplace crackled with practiced warmth.

Everything was the same.

And then there was him.

Ashton sat exactly where he always had—on the left couch, the drink cart positioned behind him like it had been placed there for his convenience. His posture was flawless. Back straight. Shoulders squared. His left ankle crossed over his right knee. Hands folded neatly atop his leg. The same controlled, polished version of himself he’d always presented in front of my parents.

It had been years since I’d seen him. Years since I’d allowed myself to picture him anywhere near my life again. I had never imagined he would simply… be here. In my childhood home. In that room. In that seat.

He was the last person I expected to see tonight.

“Ah, Eloise, you’re here,” Father said, rising to his feet, his professional smile settling onto his face like armor. “Gin martini with a twist, as usual?”

For a moment, my mind went blank—caught somewhere between past and present, between who I had been and who I was supposed to be now. Then the familiar instincts kicked in, the practiced responses resurfacing, pulling me out of the haze Ashton’s presence had thrown me into.

You’re a Hayden, act like it.

Smile in place, shoulders back, voice graceful.

You matter—but not more than your reputation.

The mantra slid into place as easily as muscle memory. I had been trained for moments like this. Conditioned to perform calm even when my pulse thudded too loud in my ears.

“Thank you, Father,” I said, forcing the smile and smoothing calm into my tone, even though it felt like it didn’t quite belong to me.

I tore my gaze away from Ashton before it could linger—before it could betray me—and turned toward my mother instead. She rose to greet me, her smile perfectly shaped, polished for display. But I noticed the tightness around her eyes, the faint strain she hadn’t been able to erase in time. A warning bell chimed softly in my chest. Had Father blindsided her as well?

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mother,” I said, stepping into her embrace. We wrapped our arms around each other, pressed a kiss to each other’s cheeks, the gesture familiar and rehearsed.

“Thank you for coming, Eloise,” she replied, giving me a small squeeze before letting go again—supportive, restrained, as everything in our family tended to be.

As my father busied himself at the bar, making my drink, I realized there was no escape. No way to delay the inevitable. I had no choice but to go greet my ex-boyfriend. It was only then that the detail hit me fully—Leah was sitting right next to him, her smile wider than I had ever seen it, her body angled subtly toward his.

Something tight curled low in my stomach.

“Ashton,” I said, and he rose to his feet to greet me as well. “It has been a while. I hope you’re doing well.”

A while was a grotesque understatement. I hadn’t seen him since we graduated high school—since he’d left and taken my broken heart with him back to England. Back to the life everyone always knew he was meant for. Cambridge. A business degree. His father’s company. A future that had been laid out as cleanly as my own—except he would never inherit it, not with an older brother standing ahead of him.

I reached out my hand to shake his, a polite gesture meant to keep distance intact.

I saw the smirk before I felt anything else. That glint in his eyes yanked me backward in time, turning me once more into that insecure, too-loud teenager I had spent years trying to bury. Instead of shaking my hand, he caught it and pulled me in, hauling me into his arms without hesitation. His embrace folded around me, confident and familiar, and his scent flooded my senses before I could brace for it.

“It’s good to see you, too, darling,” he whispered.

The nickname curled around me like a memory I didn’t want resurrected. I didn’t need reminders of our past—of how sweet he had been, of how intoxicating it had all felt, of how convinced I’d been that we were real. I needed space. Distance. Control.

But my body betrayed me anyway.

My arms came up around him, responding before my mind could intervene. My eyes slid shut, and I inhaled deeply, dragging in that familiar scent. Clean. Crisp. Like laundry detergent and something undeniably him. Ashton had always smelled like order, like polish, like the kind of man I once believed I needed more than anything else.

When he finally pulled back, it felt like oxygen rushed back into my lungs. Like my brain reclaimed ownership of my body, piece by piece.

“Ellie,” Leah said brightly, standing and opening her arms to me.

“Lele,” I replied, returning her smile and giving her a soft hug.

Leah and I had grown up under the same roof, but our lives had unfolded along very different paths. As the oldest, expectations had settled on my shoulders early and never truly lifted. Leah had been granted freedom instead—space to explore, to want things without justification. She’d gone to Italy, studied art abroad, and convinced our father to buy her a gallery she could run.

My future had been mapped out with ruthless precision. Harvard Business School. Strategic internships. Creative courses allowed only because Father deemed me useful—because I had a “great eye for fashion,” as my mother liked to say.

I didn’t mind my role. I filled it well. I checked the boxes. I did what was required of me.

But somewhere along the way, it created distance between Leah and me. We had been inseparable until the weight of expectations began to press down on me, turning us into adversaries instead—like dog and cat. When she returned from Italy, I made a conscious decision. I would rather lay our differences to rest and be the sister she deserved.

“I have exciting news,” she gushed, releasing me.

“Leah, let Eloise settle in first,” Mother said gently, gesturing for me to sit beside her on the couch.

“It is exciting news,” Father confirmed, handing me my drink as I took my seat. “And I’m sure Eloise will be excited for her sister.”

“Of course I will be,” I said, pasting on my smile as Leah and Ashton sat back down—close. So close that the fine hairs at the back of my neck lifted.

Leah turned toward him, her smile radiant, and he met her gaze with a subtle nod. His hand settled on her thigh, squeezing lightly, grounding her.

The same way he used to ground me.

Then she turned back to me, practically vibrating with joy, and raised her hand. The gold band caught the light—but it was the stone that stole the breath from my chest, enormous and impossible to ignore.

“Ashton and I are engaged!”