Chapter 3 - The Snow-Globe Illusion in Boulder
Deep in the foothills of Boulder, Patricia Reynolds’s house was a shrine to suburban middle-class pretension. Decorated with oversized wreaths, expensive imported glass ornaments, and a massive Fraser fir tree that smelled faintly of pine and debt, the living room was designed to look like a holiday catalog spread.
Marcus stood by the fireplace, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive wool sweater, glancing at his watch every two minutes.
“He’s like a kid on Christmas Eve,” his mother, Patricia, said, walking in with a platter of deviled eggs. She beamed at her son with that blind, toxic adoration that had enabled every selfish choice Marcus had ever made. “Ashley is upstairs touching up her makeup. She looks so radiant, Marcus. She’ll make a wonderful wife. Not like that ungrateful girl you were stuck with years ago. What was her name again? Keira?”
“Kesha, Mom,” Marcus corrected, though a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “And she’s coming. I can’t wait for her to see this house, to see the ring, to see how well I’ve done without her dragging me down.”
“It’s cruel, darling,” Patricia giggled, her eyes sparkling with malicious delight. “I love it.”
Just then, Ashley walked down the stairs. The red dress clung to her curves, and her blonde hair fell in soft, perfect waves around her shoulders. She looked down at Marcus with total adoration, a bright, innocent smile lighting up her face.
“Marcus, do you hear that?” Ashley asked, pausing midway down the staircase.
A low, deep thrumming sound vibrated through the crisp mountain air outside, rattling the double-paned living room windows. It didn't sound like a car. It sounded like a mechanical beast descending from the clouds.
Marcus frowned, walking over to the large front window and pulling back the heavy velvet curtain.
A sleek, black-and-silver charter helicopter was descending rapidly out of the gray winter sky, kicking up a blinding cloud of fresh powder right in the middle of Patricia’s manicured front lawn. The wind whipped the pine trees sideways, and the roar of the turbine shook the walls of the house.
Marcus’s jaw dropped. A helicopter? In his mother's suburban cul-de-sac?
“What the hell…” Marcus muttered, pressing his face against the glass.
Behind him, Patricia dropped her tray of deviled eggs. The plate shattered on the hardwood floor, sending yellow and white pieces flying across the room.
“Is that… is someone crashing a party?” Patricia shrieked, hurrying to the window.
Ashley pushed past them, her eyes wide with shock as she stared out at the landing aircraft. “Marcus, who is that? Who rents a helicopter to come to a family Christmas?”
The heavy side hatch of the aircraft slid open with a metallic click. A pair of polished leather boots stepped down onto the pristine snow, followed by the hem of a heavy white cashmere designer coat that cost more than Marcus’s monthly rent.
When Kesha Monroe stepped out into the winter light, she didn't look like a woman who had been discarded. She looked like an empress claiming a conquered province. Her hair was swept into an elegant chignon, large diamond studs caught the pale sunlight, and her posture was completely unyielding.
Marcus stared through the glass, his breath catching in his throat. His brain short-circuited. It was Kesha—older, sharper, infinitely more breathtaking than the girl he had abandoned, but undeniably her.
May you like
But it was what happened next that turned his blood to ice water.
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