CHAPTER THREE
972 Words
Nina
Morning crept into the villa quietly, pale winter light slipping through tall curtains and settling on polished floors. Nina had been awake long before it arrived.
She lay still, listening.
The house breathed differently at dawn. No laughter, no sharp voices, no clatter of shoes. Just the low hum of heating pipes, the distant creak of wood adjusting to cold, and beneath it all, the steady pounding of her own heart—too loud, too aware.
She swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed and pressed her feet to the rug, grounding herself.
It’s just a job, she told herself, pulling on her sweater. Just Christmas.
But the word Ethan lingered like smoke in her chest.
Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive. A cook moved between counters, pans hissing softly. The scent of cinnamon and butter filled the air. Nina paused at the doorway, suddenly uncertain of where she belonged.
“You must be the caregiver,” the cook said without looking up. “Coffee’s there. Help yourself.”
Nina murmured thanks and poured a cup, wrapping her hands around the warmth. Steam rose, fogging her glasses briefly. She welcomed the blur.
The children appeared one by one, sleepy and rumpled, dragging blankets and stuffed animals behind them. They clustered around her instinctively, as if she were a magnet.
“Did you sleep here all night?” the youngest asked.
“Yes,” Nina said, smiling. “Just like you.”
“Good,” he said, climbing onto the chair beside her. “You can help me with my buttons.”
She did.
Breakfast was noisy and chaotic, syrup smeared on cheeks, arguments over who sat where. Nina moved among them, wiping spills, tying shoelaces, laughing when laughter came easily.
She did not look toward the doorway.
But she felt him before she saw him.
Ethan entered quietly, dressed simply, sleeves rolled up. He paused when he saw her, just long enough to betray himself, then continued toward the coffee machine.
“Good morning,” he said to the children.
They answered enthusiastically, talking over one another.
“Mr. Ethan, look!”
“Mr. Ethan, she said the tree gets grumpy!”
“Mr. Ethan, can we go sledding?”
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him—and glanced at Nina. Their eyes met briefly. Something unspoken passed between them, quick and fragile.
Clara entered moments later, immaculate even at breakfast. Her gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. It lingered on Nina for half a beat too long.
“Ethan,” she said, “Father wants to go over the schedule later. Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
She kissed his cheek, more performance than affection, then turned to Nina.
“They keeping you busy?” Clara asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” Clara said. “Children need structure. Don’t get too attached.”
The words landed with intent.
Nina nodded, eyes lowered.
Later, bundled in coats and scarves, the children spilled into the snow-covered yard, shrieking with delight. Nina followed, boots sinking into white powder. She helped them build lopsided snowmen, hands numb, laughter escaping her before she could stop it.
Ethan watched from the edge of the yard, hands in his pockets.
When the children raced off toward the sledding hill, he stepped closer.
“They like you,” he said.
She kept packing snow into a crooked sphere. “Children like anyone who listens.”
“I wasn’t very good at that,” he replied quietly.
Her hands stilled.
“Why did you leave?” she asked, the question sharp with years of waiting.
He swallowed. “I thought I had to.”
She looked up at him then, eyes bright and steady. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I know.”
The wind cut between them, cold and unforgiving.
“Clara says she saved you,” Nina said.
His jaw tightened. “She likes to say that.”
“Did she?”
He met her gaze, something raw flickering there. “She gave me a life that looks impressive from the outside.”
The children called for her, voices urgent.
“I should go,” Nina said.
He nodded, stepping back. “Of course.”
She turned away, heart aching with things she could not afford to feel.
That evening, the house glowed with candlelight. Music drifted through the halls. Guests arrived, laughter polished and bright. Nina moved quietly through it all, an observer at the edges.
From across the room, she saw Clara watching Ethan—always watching. Saw the way his shoulders tightened beneath her gaze.
Later, when the children were asleep and the villa settled once more, Nina stepped out onto the balcony for air.
Snowflakes brushed her cheeks. The world beyond the lights felt vast and forgiving.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
“I thought I might find you here,” Ethan said.
She did not turn. “You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them, filled with breath and memory.
“I never forgot you,” he said finally.
Her chest tightened. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know,” he said again.
She faced him then, tears bright in her eyes but unshed. “You left me with promises, Ethan. Don’t come back now with regrets.”
“I didn’t come back,” he said softly. “You did.”
The truth of it settled heavy between them.
Inside, a clock chimed the hour.
Nina wrapped her arms around herself, cold seeping deep.
“Nothing has changed,” she said.
Ethan looked at her, snow catching in his hair, longing written plainly across his face.
“Everything has,” he replied.
And Nina feared—more than anything—that he was right.
- Writer
