Chapter Five

Rhys’s POV

I stood at the top of the main staircase, hands in my pockets, looking down into the foyer. The marble floors gleamed under the chandelier’s soft glow. The Christmas tree was already up, because Mirabel would complain if it wasn’t, towered in the corner, lights twinkling in slow, programmed patterns. Boxes of ornaments sat open on the floor, waiting for her to arrive and finish the job. She always insisted on doing it herself, saying the tree didn’t feel right unless she hung the crooked star at the top.

I descended slowly, my footsteps echoing. The house had been built for a family—it had wide halls, multiple living rooms, a kitchen big enough for staff and chaos—but for years it had mostly held echoes. Mine and Mirabel’s laughter when she came home. And the quiet creak of floorboards when I walked alone at night.

The chef and head of staff—Maria—had arrived earlier to prep. I could smell cinnamon and butter drifting from the kitchen. She poked her head out as I passed.

“Mr. Connell. The tarts are cooling. I made extra batches—your daughter’s friend likes cinnamon, yes?”

I nodded. “She does. Thank you, Maria. Make sure the guest room has fresh flowers. And please, tell someone to keep extra blankets there. Mirabel said her friend gets cold easily.”

Maria smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “Already done. And the library’s stocked, with new releases on the romance shelf, just in case.”

I gave a small huff that might have passed for a laugh. “Good thinking.”

She disappeared back into the kitchen, and I continued down the hall to the library.

The double doors opened silently. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, rolling ladders in place, and leather armchairs arranged by the fireplace. The room smelled of aged paper and polished wood. I flicked on the lamps—soft amber light spilled across the spines.

Mirabel had told me her friend was a reader. “Like, obsessively,” she’d said. “She’ll probably spend the whole holiday in here if you let her.”

I walked the aisles slowly, trailing my fingers over the books. Classics. Thrillers. A whole section of contemporary romance—Mirabel’s doing, mostly. She’d started collecting them in high school, said they were “escapist but smart.” I’d never read them. Too many happy endings. Too much hope wrapped in pretty words.

I pulled one down at random. Dark cover, brooding man in a suit, and title written in gold foil: Claimed by the Billionaire. I snorted softly, then slid it back.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked, and it was Hayes.

Hayes: Zanzibar paperwork signed. The deal's closing tomorrow. Mark’s company tried one last pushback, but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle. You good?

I typed back: Good. Keep an eye on him. He’s not done, you know him.

Hayes: Always do. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. You said Mirabel’s bringing company, right?

Me: Yes. Her best friend from school.

Hayes: About time you had more than ghosts in that house.

I chuckled, but didn’t reply.

I slipped the phone away and crossed to the window. The backyard stretched out—pool covered for the season, lights strung along the pergola, the garden dormant but still beautiful in its winter sleep. I could already picture Mirabel out there, dragging her friend into the cold for “one quick dip” before the heater kicked in properly. Laughing. Splashing. Filling the silence.

The thought eased something tight in my chest.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d been looking forward to her coming home until the text arrived. Two weeks. No board meetings. No late-night calls from Asia. Just my daughter, her friend, and the house finally feeling lived-in again.

I turned back to the shelves, pulled down a first-edition copy of Pride and Prejudice—one of Elena’s favorites. The spine was worn from her hands. I opened it gently, and traced the inscription inside in her handwriting; To my Rhys, who makes every day feel like a happy ending. —E

The grief hit like it always did—sudden, dull, familiar. I closed the book, and set it back carefully.

Twenty-five years. Mirabel had never known her mother, only the stories I told and the photos we kept. She never complained, never asked why I hadn’t remarried. But I saw it sometimes—the way she watched me when she thought I wasn’t looking, like she was waiting for me to break, or heal, or do something other than exist in this careful half-life.

I didn’t know how to explain that moving on felt like betrayal. That every woman who’d come after Elena had felt like a placeholder. Polite. Attractive. Forgettable.

I told myself it was better that way. A clean break. A perfect, contained fantasy. No complications. No risk of hurting Mirabel.

But some nights, when the house was too quiet, I let the memory play out in full. The way Elena had always been excited to have me back home after a long day at work, her laughter, her long luscious hair, and her soothing voice.

I shook my head, and stepped away from the shelves.

“Enough.” I cautioned myself.

I walked back to the foyer, checked the thermostat—it was sixty-eight degrees, warm enough for guests. I checked the guest room myself: fresh linens, a small stack of towels, a vase of white lilies on the dresser. A basket of books on the nightstand—new releases, a mix of genres. Maria’s touch again, she’d done well by giving her colleagues the right instructions on what to do.

I turned off the light and closed the door.

Downstairs, I poured a glass of scotch, and carried it to the study. The fire was already lit, so I sat in the leather armchair, and stared into the flames.

I began the count down to their arrival in my head. We have three days left.