1
ADDIE
There are seven Christmas trees in Elliot’s Upper East Side condo. Ridiculous, right? Elliot loved the holidays with the glee of a child, and every year, his favorite day was the day the decorators arrived to transform the six thousand square foot interior into a winter paradise.
Two years after his death, I still can’t make myself call and cancel the service. Each year on the Monday after Thanksgiving, the crew has shown up like clockwork with their truck of Christmas magic and transformed my home into a winter wonderland. When Elliot was alive, we would leave as soon as they arrived and spend all day wondering what shape the Russian designer’s creativity would take. The first year we lived together, we returned home to find that Yulia had suspended giant golden cages from the ceiling, each glittering with lights, glass balls, and silver tinsel. Elliot, who was the love of my life and my dominant, was immensely amused by the concept. “What do you think, Addie?” he’d teased me. “Shall I strip you naked and put you in one of the cages? Shall I throw a party and invite our friends to see the most beautiful decoration of them all? Do you want to be displayed, love?”
Those memories still have the ability to overwhelm me. I swallow the lump in my throat and make myself take a deep breath. Elliot is gone, and that’s just the way things are. He sheltered and protected me, and his love wrapped me in a warm cocoon. Except the metaphor is backward. I used to be a butterfly when Elliot was alive—laughing, pretty, and happy. When Elliot died, when his son Reed sued me, alleging that I was a gold-digger who dug her greedy claws into his beloved father’s heart, when the people I considered friends edged away from me, I became someone else. Someone stronger, someone colder. A piece of the fabled Snow Queen’s mirror lodged itself in me, and I wrapped myself in barbed wire to protect my heart.
This year, my condo looks like a snow globe. Yulia has outdone herself. There’s tinsel everywhere—the Russian designer loves the stuff and uses it every year. Crystal icicles drop from the ceilings. White trees draped in silver garlands soar to meet them. I don’t recognize my home.
I don’t recognize myself either. When I look in the mirror, a stranger with tired eyes gazes back at me. I’m thirty-one. I feel eighty.
The intercom buzzes. I cross Elliot’s office and pick it up. “Good evening, Ms. Byard,” Lewis at the front desk says. “You have a visitor.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s Xavier Leforte.”
I should have known. I was supposed to meet Xavier for lunch last week, but I didn’t feel up to it and canceled. I’ve ignored his messages since then. My friend might pretend to be a cool, controlled, ruthless billionaire, but secretly, he’s a world-class worrier.
“Thank you, Lewis. Please send him up.”
Xavier hasa bottle in his hands. “I brought you an early Christmas present,” he announces, holding it up.
“I’m not in the mood for champagne,” I reply, stepping aside so he can come in.
“Good thing it’s not champagne then,” he says cheerfully, entering the condo and looking around the winter wonderland with a raised eyebrow. “It’s a bottle of port.” His eyes flicker to me. “It's serious and moody and, quite frankly, depressing.”
“Much like myself?”
A smile whispers at the edge of his mouth. “I wasn't going to say it, Addie. That wouldn't be polite.”
“Politeness above all things,” I say dryly. “Do you want something to drink? I was just going to make myself a cup of tea.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Come on then.”
I lead the way into the kitchen, Xavier at my heels. “Where's Martha?” he asks.
“I gave her the month off.”
His gray eyes rake over me. “So it's just you here, then.”
I avoid replying, instead filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove. While it’s heating, I toss a handful of leaves into a teapot and arrange some cookies on a plate. The kettle starts to whistle as I reach into a cabinet for a serving tray. I pour the boiling water over the oolong and transfer cups and saucers onto the tray. The ritual feels surreal. When was the last time I had people over? When was the last time I shared my food and drink with anyone? I can’t remember.
“Let’s take this to the study.” The condo has five bedrooms, two home offices, and our playroom—the room I haven’t been able to enter—and the space is wasted on me. The only place I spend time in is the study. “There’s a fire going there.”
“Sure.”
We settle in front of the fireplace. I pour tea into two cups and hand one to Xavier. “You've been avoiding me, Addie.”
“Don't take it personally. I've been avoiding everyone.”
“Why?”
Why?“Isn't it obvious?” I burst out. “Reed called me a gold digger. Every gossip magazine in New York plastered my picture on their covers. I had to read months of nasty, mean-spirited speculation about my relationship with Elliott. The age gap, the fact that I used to work for him—it was all tabloid fodder, Xavier.” My face feels hot, and the scalding tea doesn’t help. “And you know what the worst thing was? People I considered friends disappeared. People that Elliott and I had over for dinner in this very condo. Susanna Remoaldi talked to Page Six. Dan Harmon, who managed Elliot’s assets for years, wouldn't return my calls. When Reed contested Elliot’s will, everyone lined up behind him, and I was hung out to dry.”