Which Mistletoe?

Five: Starting the Chase

Andrei's POV

The apartment still smells like her.

Five months, and everything still clings to her—her perfume on the throw blanket, her vanilla lip balm in the bathroom drawer, the stupid mug with the chipped handle she insisted on keeping. Even my office still has her handwriting on a sticky note she left on my monitor:

“Eat lunch. Real lunch, not coffee.”

I should’ve thrown it away.

I couldn’t.

I exhaled hard and leaned my forehead against the window. The city glittered below—white lights strung along the high-rises, decorations everywhere, people moving with bags of gifts and coffees and laughter. It all looked… festive. Warm.

But not for me.

This week—this exact week—was when we usually dragged out the tree from storage. Or when *she* did, because I always pretended to be “supervising” just to watch her hum along to whatever Christmas playlist she made that year. She would always get glitter on her cheeks, and I’d brush it away with my thumb.

Now?

The only festive thing in my place is a gingerbread-scented candle she bought last year. Unlit. Like the rest of this place.

I tried calling her the moment I realized how badly I messed up. But she disconnected her number. Went to her condo—sold. Asked her friends—no one knew anything, or they weren’t telling me. I even checked the stupid cafés she used to love.

Nothing.

But there’s one place I know she’d run to when everything is too much.

One place she always called *“home-home.”*

Her little holiday town.

And even in trying to win her back, I’ve still been working endless hours. Still drowning myself in meetings and contracts and mergers. Still living exactly the way she begged me not to.

She was right.

I’m forgetting what matters.

I glanced over at the stack of reports waiting on my desk. Then at the calendar filled with red-lined schedules. My chest tightened.

“No,” I muttered to myself. “Not this time.”

I grabbed my phone and called my COO.

He answered immediately. “Sir? We have the board meeting in—”

“I’m taking a month off,” I said.

The silence on the other end was almost comedic.

“S–Sir?”

“You heard me. A month. Maybe more.”

“But the contracts—”

“Handle them. You’re capable. That’s why I hired you.”

“But you’ve never taken more than two days off in four years.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

And before he could argue, I hung up.

For the first time in what felt like forever, my shoulders felt lighter.

I grabbed a duffel bag, shoved clothes into it—didn’t even bother to fold them properly—then grabbed my coat and keys. The elevator ride felt endless, like the universe wanted to ask me if I was sure. If chasing her after everything was worth it.

But the answer was easy.

Yes.

I slid into my car and drove straight through the night, the city disappearing behind me in a blur of lights. Hours later, buildings faded into open roads, then forests, then snow-dusted rooftops.

By the time I saw the wooden "Welcome to Northwood Hills” sign—the town she grew up in—my heart was beating so hard it almost hurt.

Her town looked like something out of a postcard. Holiday lights everywhere, music drifting through the chilly air, wreaths on every lamp post.

Somewhere here… she was breathing the same winter air.

Somewhere here… she was living life without me.

Not for long.

I stepped out of the car, the cold biting my skin, and whispered to myself:

“I’m here, Elara. And I’m not leaving without you.”