I’d prefer to keep the family out of it, but I have no choice given she’s permanently bundled up in that barbarian’s penthouse. I haven’t been able to hack the cameras, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s doing to her in there.
What she’s letting him do to her in there.
I’ll take pleasure in cleaning every trace of his touch—with my tongue.
Avery will know true pleasure when she surrenders to me, but first, she’ll have to be punished.
With three days to go, the house smells of pine, cinnamon, and expectation. For years, Avery has rebuffed every overture—declining invitations with practiced politeness, sending gifts that speak of obligation rather than sentiment, constructing elaborate professional alibis. But this year, she accepted.
Father believes it’s forgiveness.
I recognise it for what it truly is: inevitability.
She’s coming because our trajectories were always meant to converge. The universe has a fundamental tendency toward order, toward completion. She feels it pulling at the edges of her consciousness—this inexorable gravity between us—even if she hasn’t yet developed the vocabulary to articulate it.
The black calla lilies were never merely flowers. They were semaphores, elegant in their simplicity. A sophisticated mind understands the power of symbols, how they bypass the rational and speak directly to the subconscious. Each lily was a brushstroke in a portrait she’s beginning to recognise.
I adjust my Brioni tie with meticulous attention, examining my reflection. Appearances matter. Beneath the cashmere sweater, my shirt and tie remain impeccable—like the contingency plans layered beneath my apparent acquiescence.
Beckett will accompany her, naturally. With his private militia and their unimaginative protocols. His security measures are impressive but predictable—the fatal flaw of men who mistake violence for intelligence.
The compound is already prepared, precisely measured and waiting in the Baccarat crystal decanter that was my grandfather’s prized possession. One drink. Just enough to disrupt Beckett’s influence, to extract her from his evil manipulations.
I observe my expression in the mirror—composed, refined, nothing like the hesitant smiles she once dismissed with casual obtuseness. This is the countenance of a man who understands that patience is not merely a virtue, but a weapon when properly deployed.
Soon, Avery will understand as well. That everything—the lilies, the messages, the calculated pursuit—has been an elaborate prelude to the inevitable. Our convergence.
This Christmas, she’s finally coming home to where she belongs.
It’s time.
