I Wish You A Merry Christmas

The house felt too quiet at five in the morning.

I moved through the darkened hallways of the Langford estate, my footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs that probably cost more than my entire year's salary. The weight of exhaustion pressed against my shoulders—I'd barely slept, my mind churning with worry about Jacob's upcoming surgery and the impossible situation I'd put myself in.

Christmas morning. My first as Mrs. Joseph Langford III.

The title still felt foreign, like a coat that didn't quite fit.

I reached the main hall where the enormous Christmas tree dominated the space, its branches heavy with ornaments that looked like they'd been passed down through generations. Each one probably had a story, a history I would never truly be part of. I'd spent yesterday afternoon carefully arranging presents beneath it—gifts I'd chosen based on Joseph's stilted suggestions about Milo's interests. A new telescope. Books about astronomy. A model rocket kit.

Things a mother should know without asking.

My hands trembled slightly as I arranged the hot cocoa service on the antique side table, the fine china clinking softly. I'd made Christmas cookies last night after everyone had gone to bed, shaping them into stars and trees, trying to create something warm and inviting in this mansion that felt more like a museum than a home.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times.

"You're up early."

I turned to find Joseph in the doorway, already dressed in slacks and a cardigan despite the hour. He looked tired—the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from more than just lack of sleep. His skin had that grayish tint I'd learned to recognize from my nursing training, the kind that meant his heart was struggling.

"I wanted everything to be ready," I said, forcing brightness into my voice. "For when Milo wakes up."

Joseph crossed to the sofa, lowering himself carefully. I noticed the way he pressed his hand briefly to his chest, a gesture he probably thought I hadn't seen. We sat together in the dim light, the tree's glow casting strange shadows across his elegant features.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For doing this. For... trying."

The words settled between us, heavy with everything we didn't say. This wasn't real. This marriage, this Christmas morning, this pretense of family—it was all a transaction. I was here because my brother needed to live, and Joseph was paying me to play a role.

But somewhere in the past two weeks, the lines had started to blur.

"Do you think he'll come down?" I asked, smoothing my hands over my jeans. I'd debated what to wear this morning—something festive felt too presumptuous, but pajamas seemed too intimate. I'd settled on casual, approachable. Unthreatening.

Joseph's silence was answer enough.

We waited. Seven o'clock became seven-thirty, became eight. I poured cocoa that grew cold. Joseph made small talk about the weather, the stock market, anything but the obvious tension hanging over us like a storm cloud. I responded automatically, my