The Shattered Illusion
The bitter December wind whipped off the Boston Harbor, stinging my cheeks as I stepped out of my SUV. I adjusted the silk scarf around my neck—a gift from Nathan last year, Hermès, probably purchased with my own money though I hadn’t known it then—and looked up at the sprawling brick estate in Beacon Hill. It was glowing with thousands of twinkling fairy lights strung across every window and doorway, looking like a postcard for “The Perfect American Family Christmas.”
I loved this house.
Or rather, I loved what I thought it represented. To an orphan who lost her parents in a tragic car accident at eighteen—their Mercedes crushed by a semi on the Mass Pike during a January ice storm—this place had become my fortress, my safe harbor in a world that had suddenly become terrifyingly uncertain. My husband, Nathan Harris, was my rock.
At least, that’s what I’d believed for seven years. My godparents, Arthur and Eleanor Whitmore, who had managed my parents’ estate and raised me through college, were my moral compass, my connection to the parents I’d lost too young. I walked toward the heavy oak doors, clutching a vintage bottle of Bordeaux I’d picked up at a wine auction specifically for tonight, eager to surprise them all by arriving an hour early to the annual pre-Christmas family gathering.
I didn’t ring the bell. I had a key. I was family.
As I stepped into the marble-floored foyer, the scent of pine needles from the massive Christmas tree and expensive catering filled the air—the distinctive smell of passed hors d’oeuvres from Harvest, the catering company that charged a thousand dollars just to show up. I could hear the clink of crystal champagne flutes and the low hum of laughter coming from the formal parlor. I took a step toward the doorway, intending to jump in with a cheerful “Surprise!
I’m early!”—but a voice stopped me cold. It was Arthur’s voice. Deep, authoritative, the voice that had told me everything would be okay at my parents’ funeral.
The voice I’d trusted without question for over a decade. And it was currently filled with a terrifying kind of pride. “A toast!” Arthur shouted, his voice carrying that particular boom of a man used to commanding attention.
“To the future of the Harris legacy! To Nathan and the lovely Olivia!”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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