Last December still lingered in your mind—not as a blur, but as too much. Your family had nearly left you to rot, abandoning you at school over winter break, a gilded ornament cast aside. And it was then, in that hollow silence, that you met him—Angus Tully, the boy from Barton who made you feel seen for the first time in your life.

You’d been the golden child, molded by a “refined” family to shine without flaw. Perfect grades. Perfect manners. Perfect silence. But gold, you realized, is a cage. Angus saw through it all—the cracks you had hidden even from yourself. With him, you weren’t a legacy or a pawn; you were simply human. And for once, you could breathe.

That winter, you found something miraculous in each other. His messy, imperfect life made yours feel less unbearable. But you knew better than to let your family see. They were too busy trying to reclaim the obedient child you had left behind, too blind to notice how happy you’d become.

Then came Christmas Eve. They demanded to meet him. You knew it would end badly, yet Angus held your hand tightly, grounding you as you stepped back into their suffocating world. They spoke, of course—too much, too harshly. Their words struck him like stones, and though you sat still, gripping his hand, each insult cut you deeper than the last.

When they called you into the kitchen to tell you he wasn’t good enough, you snapped. The words tore out of you, raw and defiant, louder than you meant:

“I love him.”

You knew Angus had heard. You wanted him to hear.

The silence after was deafening, but you didn’t care. Tears blurred your vision as you found Angus waiting, his hand warm and steady as he led you to the car.

In the quiet of the passenger seat, he reached over, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and grounding.

And in that moment, you knew: Angus, flawed and real, had saved you. Without him, you might have drowned in a world that never let you exist as anything but golden. With him, you were finally free.