The private jet had landed two hours ahead of schedule.

Benjamin sat in the back of the armored SUV, staring out at the white Aspen pines.

I watched his reflection in the glass, his jaw tight with a fatigue that had nothing to do with travel.

“They think I am in Tokyo until tomorrow, Elena,” he said.

His voice was barely louder than the hum of the heater.

“You deserve to be home with your daughters for Christmas,” I replied.

I had promised Claire, before she died, that I would watch over them.

But Vanessa had spent the last year keeping me at arm’s length.

As the SUV rounded the final bend of the mountain road, the Caldwell estate came into view.

It was a massive structure of stone and glass, perched on the edge of the snowy ridge.

But it did not look like a quiet family home on Christmas Eve.

Dozens of luxury sports cars blocked the heated driveway.

The tall glass windows pulsed with red and purple strobe lights.

Even through the thick doors of the SUV, we could hear the heavy thud of electronic music.

Benjamin frowned, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It looks like a party,” I said, my chest tightening.

He did not wait for his driver to open the door.

Benjamin stepped out into the freezing wind, his black wool coat flapping around his knees.

I followed him closely, my boots crunching on the packed snow.

We walked past a group of laughing people in expensive winter gear holding champagne flutes.

None of them seemed to recognize the owner of the house.

Benjamin pushed the heavy oak front doors open.

The warmth of the entryway hit us, thick with the smell of expensive perfume, gin, and sweat.

Caterers in black vests carried trays of caviar through a crowd of wealthy guests.

In the center of the living room, Vanessa stood on a low table, laughing as she poured champagne down a pyramid of crystal glasses.

She looked beautiful in her silk emerald dress, her blonde hair perfectly styled.

She did not see us.