Snow was coming down in fat, lazy flakes trickling down from the white sky. Kids were dragging trunks into black cars, hugging each other goodbye in that performative “see you in January, darling” way. All velvety, Cartier-y, and topped off with pitches only legacy kids can achieve.

So yeah, Christmas break. Everyone else bailed out by lunch. Convoys of SUVs and chauffeurs swarming the courtyard like we’re in some dystopian Hunger Games reaping, but instead of kids dying it’s just oligarch offspring heading to ski chalets.

And then there’s Braelie.

Little quiet girl—suitcase parked by the fountain, scarf up to her nose with mittens three sizes too big for her hands, all bundled up and waiting with that face—that hopeful, glowing, Christmas-market face—like the car’s about to roll up any second.

I’d been watching her from the Peterhall balcony—don’t ask me why, I couldn’t even tell you. Something about how happy she looked, chin tucked down, boots tapping against the concrete, made me… itchy.

She kept checking her phone. Kept perking up whenever headlights turned the corner. Hours and nothing. I thought freaks were pessimistic. Not her apparently, she’s as hopeful as a lamb being brought up autumn. Even when it’s spring and we’re past the cusp of slaughtering season.

Meanwhile, I had Conner FaceTiming me from Geneva, trying to convince me to ditch Naples and hit the Alps instead—“bro, ski bunnies, chalet DJs, the whole thing.” But all I could see was her, freezing her ass off in the courtyard with nobody coming.

So I did what any self-respecting, egomaniac golden boy would do: I tell my driver, “Put her bag in with mine,” and before she can protest I’ve already got her mittened hand in mine, dragging her into the SUV.

She’s blinking at me like I’ve just abducted her. Which, fair.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Naples,” I said, deadpan, settling into the leather seat. “Ever spent Christmas there? It’s magical, babe.”

“Hell no. I’m supposed to be going home.”

I don’t state the obvious. That the phantom car to nowhere is, in fact, nowhere to be seen. I’m not that cruel (to her). Instead, I grin and lean back, pretending I planned this whole kidnapping thing.

“When we get married,” I say, “we’ll spend every Christmas together anyway. Might as well establish traditions now. Like where the stockings go. And who eats who under the mistletoe.”

She smacked my arm so hard the driver glanced up in the rearview, and I bit down a laugh.

The drive was long—Scandinavian tundra fading into city lights, then airports, then Italy unfolding like a painting. I kept her talking the whole time because silence makes me itch. Offered to detour in Milan. “Christmas shopping spree. Maybe hit La Perla for some festive lingerie, make it a very merry Christmas-for me, at least.”

She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out the back of her head. But the corners of her mouth tips.

“Fine. Verona then?“

By the time we pulled up to the gates of my Naples holiday estate, it was past midnight. Snow here was softer, streets glowing with fairy lights strung between balconies. While my Bond layer loomed over in its grand glory. The air was saltier and lemony.

I wait for Braelie to call me spoiled, ostentatious, whatever. But she doesn’t. She just… stares. Reverently, like she’s stepped inside a snow globe.

Inside, it’s warm. Fireplaces lit. Smells like pine and spiced wine, though no one’s here. No staff, no family. Just us.

She notices. But doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t prod at the silence where my parents should be. Instead, she drifts to the table where the stockings lay. Ones mine. The other…

Braelie.

I paid extra to have it done just like mine in a few hours.

She lifts it, turns to me with this small, unguarded smile. Walks to the fireplace, sets it right next to a snow-angel globe she picks up and shakes like it’s hers now. please take it, baby.

“I want mine here,” she decides.

And fuck me—something in my chest does this weird skip.

“Wherever you want, Braelie.”