The Holiday
When two sisters with a terrible taste in men (or is it?) decide to swap houses for the holidays, they don't expect to fall in love.
But guess what?
They do.
Pairings: Elucien, Feysand, background Jassa
Word Count: 8.5k
Warnings: A bit of spice ;)
Notes: This was written for my FAVOURITE @vulpes-fennec for the @acotargiftexchange! I hope you enjoy this fic inspired by the iconic movie "The Holiday" (my god was Jude Law hot in this one). Thank you so much to the amazing mods for organising this event. Merry Christmas everyone!
Read on AO3
Elain Archeron adored Christmas. The bright, golden lights shimmering from every corner of New York City, the sound of song and laughter on the streets, the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls filling her small bakery as she pulled them out of the oven.
Truly, there was nothing quite like it.
She wished her sisters were with her, though. Yes, they each had their own lives now, yet Elain couldn’t help but miss the old days—when there wasn’t a thing in life they had to worry about but the continuous presence of Feyre’s bright paint on her and Nesta’s clothes, paint that had somehow managed to find its way onto the fabric despite their younger sister’s adamant protests and rather theatric displays of shock and confusion.
Elain sighed. This Christmas would mark two years since she had last seen Feyre. There would be the wedding in spring, of course—but April was months away, and Elain had nearly gone insane last year when Nesta cancelled last minute and Feyre made it clear she was not coming. It had been a miserable holiday, and Elain shuddered at the prospect of ever having to spend it in solitude again. New York, while certainly beautiful at Christmastime, had a cruel way of sometimes making her feel lonelier than ever.
She supposed she had Greysen, now. As for Nesta…
Her phone vibrated in the small pocket of her apron, and Elain wiped the cinnamon off her hands, the fragrant streaks of the spice staining the cream white fabric.
Are you busy? Nesta’s name appeared above the message.
I’m about to open the shop, Elain typed her reply. I was just thinking about you. How come you’re awake? It was nearing six in the morning in Los Angeles, and while Nesta had always been an early bird, getting up before the sunrise seemed almost too dreadful to accept.
Working on a case, or, more specifically, this dickhead of a prosecutor. If he thinks I’m going to let my client go for the shit deal, he’s got another thing coming.
Elain smiled. I almost feel bad for the poor guy.
Well, you shouldn’t, Nesta answered. Anyway. Got a minute?
Sparing a quick glance at the clock hanging above the large coffee menu, Elain asked. What’s up?
It was unlikely for Nesta to devote so much of her time to a conversation, let alone a text exchange, and frankly, Elain was getting worried.
The reply arrived in an instant. Feyre left her fiancé last night.
Elain’s eyes widened, and without thinking, she dialled Nesta’s number.
“You know I hate talking over the phone,” her sister said in a manner of greeting.
“Well, you hate texting too, and there are way too many questions in my head for my fingers to catch up anyway, so deal with it,” Elain said. “What happened? How do you even know?”
A brief pause. “She texted me for legal advice. Apparently, the asshole wants to keep the house.”
Elain’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t Feyre buy it under her name?”
Nesta sighed. “Don’t even get me started.”
Neither of them had ever had the chance to meet Tamlin, and from what she was hearing, Elain decided it had perhaps been for the best. “Do you know why she left him?”
“I don’t,” Nesta said. “Feyre didn’t tell me. She only asked me this one thing and when I asked her more questions, she just left me on read.”
Elain chewed on her bottom lip, mulling over the words before she spoke again. “Maybe I should call her. Or text, at the very least.”
Another sigh. “I don’t know, Elain. She seemed like she could use some privacy.”
“Surely we can’t leave her to deal with this alone?”
“I don’t know,” Nesta repeated, papers rustling in the background. Elain winced at the sound, the unpleasant pitch scratching at her ear. “I need to get back to work now, Elain. Let me know what you decide do,” her sister added, and then the call was over.
Elain suppressed the urge to scoff, though her focus was quickly reoriented to the time again as she spotted a noticeable queue gathering outside. Whatever she decided to do, she would deal with it later. First—work.
With a smile on her face, Elain opened the door.
***
Elain had been dating Greysen for six months, though she felt as though they’d been together at least five years. Only a short walk away, he was always there to offer his company, in whatever way she’d need him. Greysen was so…familiar.
This year would mark their first Christmas together, and though Elain had no expectations, it was only natural for her to have hopes.
She wouldn’t mind a proposal. A proposal meant stability in her hectic world, a source of comfort in a trying time. If Greysen asked, she would say yes. She would. Happily.
With that thought in mind, Elain placed her keys on the counter, her other hand grabbing the carefully wrapped cinnamon rolls she’d put aside earlier this morning.
“Will you be able to close up tonight?” she asked Nuala. “I have to drop these off at the office.”
The office. She liked that world. It made her feel as though she was part of Greysen’s world—his other world, one that did not revolve around her. If she was being honest, she knew very little about her boyfriend’s professional life—he worked in investments, he’d told her as much, though he’d also added the “details would bore her.” And so, Elain remained blissfully oblivious.
At the very least, paying him a surprise visit would mean she got to see him in a suit. Greysen looked good in suits.
“Sure,” Nuala’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. “Are we still on for Saturday?”
Elain nodded. “Of course. I’m so excited to meet your sister”
Nuala smiled tentatively. She hadn’t been working at Elain’s bakery for too long, though in that time, the two of them had managed to build a close bond. Elain enjoyed her company, quiet and with an aura of peace. Nuala blended in perfectly with Elain’s little corner of the world. “She can’t wait, either,” the woman said.
“I still can’t believe you have a twin.” Elain shook her head. “Does it make it any easier?”
The corner of Nuala’s mouth twitched. “Twins or not, sisters are always a pain.”
Elain sighed. “Tell me about it.”
“I’ll see you Saturday.”
***
Greysen’s office was only ten minutes away.
Their pastry drop-off had an unspoken routine—the concierge would let Elain in, she’d then take the elevator to the fifteenth floor to be greeted by the secretary. From then, depending on whether Greysen was in a meeting or not, Elain would either leave the food at the reception or deliver it personally—with a little extra treat that was hardly appropriate for a serious office. She didn’t care. She’d shaved her legs last night and she wouldn’t let her new lotion go to waste.
Silence greeted her as she entered the office, the distant ringing of the phone breaking it occasionally with a high-pitched, irritating beep.
It was unusual for it to be this empty, but Greysen was definitely out there somewhere—he’d sent her a text earlier in the morning, after all, wishing her a great day and not to wait for him with dinner. He’d be working late again and there was no need for Elain to hang around her apartment with a cold meal.
A few cinnamon rolls would make a nice gesture, though. Greysen would know she was thinking about him and his wellbeing without imposing her presence on him too much. And so, Elain circled around the reception and walked straight into her boyfriend’s office.
She did not expect to find him half naked with the secretary bent over his desk.
For a moment, Elain said nothing, the pastries crushed on the floor somewhere by her feet.
Their eyes met, and Greysen open his mouth.
“We’re done,” Elain told him, proud to have kept her voice steady enough not to reveal the slight tremble of her jaw. She tore her eyes away from the sight and turned on her feet.
“Elain!” Greysen’s voice called behind her.
She did not grace him with an answer. In a few short steps, she walked out of the room, shutting the door with a loud bang.
And then, she was gone.
***
Elain had gotten so used to staying at Greysen’s apartment that her own home felt like a stranger’s. Too dark and too empty, the space only accompanied by the sound of sirens that had usually accompanied the New York City landscape.
She set the cinnamon rolls on the counter, promising herself not to look at them until the next morning. She would deal with them—with him—later. Right now, Feyre needed her—or at least, she hoped she did. Elain could not bear spending the evening on the couch by herself, with nothing better to do but dwell in the events of the day.
Pulling her phone out of her purse, Elain sat at the small desk in the corner and typed in her sister’s name.
Hey. I know it’s late, but I want you to know I’m here if you need someone to talk to.
It was nearing midnight in London, though Elain had a feeling Feyre wouldn’t be sleeping. Breakup or not, she had always been more nocturnal, opting to paint under the pale moonlight. Her painting of the night sky over New York still hung over Elain’s dresser.
Her phone beeped a minute later. I’m awake.
Elain held her breath, staring at the notification until the screen turned blurry. What, exactly, do you say to someone who was just about to be married?
I heard what happened.
Pathetic.
The phone beeped again. Nesta?
She’s worried about you, Elain replied. We both are.
She could practically feel Feyre’s loud sigh, as if her sister was standing right beside her. I hate men.
Elain almost laughed. I’m right there with you.
Feyre’s message came only a few seconds later. Did something happen?
Elain fought the urge to bang her head against the table. She cursed herself for being so selfish—Feyre’s situation was much worse than her own, and yet, Elain somehow managed to direct the topic to herself. It’s nothing. Really.
Like Feyre would ever buy that.
Sure enough, her sister’s name appeared on the screen, the loud buzzing of the phone on her desk breaking the dreadful silence. Elain closed her eyes, letting out a deep breath before answering.
“It’s really nothing, Feyre.”
“I don’t care,” Feyre’s voice, a tinge distorted by the static, came through the speaker. “If it’s two men we’re shit-talking tonight, so be it. It might make me feel better, actually.”
“Alright,” Elain said, then grimaced as her own voice echoed through the call. “God, your service must be terrible.”
“I live in the middle of nowhere, Elain,” Feyre said. “I’m standing on a dining room chair just to try and catch some signal.”
Elain chuckled. “How is it there?”
She knew Feyre had moved to the outskirts of London, thought that was about the extent of her knowledge. The only thing Feyre would ever send her—apart from the one singular photo of the Big Ben from when she’d taken a trip to the city—was the stuffed deer head hanging above her fireplace with the caption: “Gross.” Tamlin, it seemed, was a hunter—a hobby Feyre had not been particularly fond of.
“I feel like I’m going insane,” Feyre finally said. “It’s too…quiet.”
Elain sighed. “That sounds like a dream.”
She imagined a stone cottage, just on the outskirts of London, and in front of it, a small rose orchard, glistening under a thick layer of snow. The thought was so overwhelmingly serene that for a brief moment, Elain could almost feel the warmth of Feyre’s home hugging her skin.
“Well, it isn’t,” Feyre said. “I miss New York, you know. Everything seemed so simple there.”
If only that, Elain thought bitterly.
“You should come, you know,” Elain said. “It would be nice to spend Christmas with you. It’s been too long.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. “I take it Greysen is out of the picture,” Feyre finally guessed.
Elain’s jaw clenched. “It’s probably for the best.”
She flinched as her phone buzzed again, displaying Greysen’s name, a small heart emoji still next to it. She’d delete it later. “Speak of the devil. He’s calling me right now.”
“Do not answer,” Feyre instructed. “I made that mistake already, and believe me, whatever they have to say, it won’t change a thing.”
Elain ran her hand through the long waves of her hair. “I hate it here.”
Her sister huffed a laugh. “I know how you feel. I…I wish I could get away sometimes. If only for a bit.”
The thought came so suddenly Elain might have swayed off her chair. “We could switch,” she said absently, her mind running through the logistics of the idea.
“What?”
“We could switch places,” Elain repeated. It felt as though someone had turned on the light in her brain. “Think about it. You move into my place, and I move into yours. It’s brilliant.”
Feyre’s tone indicated she thought the exact opposite. “Elain, I can’t just move out of England.”
“It would only be for Christmas. We could both get the escape we need, and you’d have the chance to see the city again.”
“Elain, I can’t,” Feyre insisted. “I have an exhibition on New Year’s Eve, its this big name London gallery. It has to go perfectly. I have to work.”
“Exhibition?” It wasn’t that Feyre was not talented—she was, truly— but the last Elain had heard of Feyre’s work, she’d still been struggling to find an audience.
“Someone—an anonymous patron, I think—has found my art online and arranged the exhibit. All expenses paid. I have to work,” she repeated.
Elain was growing more desperate with each second. “You could work here,” she pleaded. “I have enough space for you to work on your art and enjoy the city in the meantime. We’d switch back before New Year’s Eve.”
Feyre did not sound fully convinced. “I don’t know…”
“Please, Feyre. For both our sake’s.”
Elain held her breath as she waited for an answer.
“Alright,” Feyre agreed.
Elain squealed, and Feyre laughed in the background. “God, I hate it when you make that sound,” her sister said.
“Thank you, Feyre. You won’t regret this.”
“I’ll call you in the morning to discuss the details. I feel like I need to sleep after this, and my legs are getting sore from standing on the chair.”
Elain laughed again, and the two said their goodbyes. Releasing a long breath of relief, Elain opened her contacts and searched for another name.
Nuala, please don’t hate me, she typed onto her screen. But I’m going to have to reschedule.
***
The moment she stepped out of the cab, Elain decided to take back every single word she cursed London Heathrow with.
Yes, the airport had been busy—an understatement, really—but she’d go through pushing through the crowds for two hours straight all over again if it meant not having to walk a mile in the cold snow. In heels.
What dark, sadistic forced had prompted her to wear heels for a ten hour journey, she’d never know. Well, she did know, actually. She had just started reading a book about an airport meet cute and thought, well, if it happened to her, who says it won’t happen to me?
It didn’t.
Just like Feyre had said, her sister truly did live in the middle of nowhere. The driver stopped at what seemed like the middle of a forest, the path in front of them too narrow for the car to fit in. Elain had almost cried when he told her to walk the rest of the way on foot, cocking his head to the side with an apologetic “sorry, love.”
The good news was that she was almost there and Feyre had a fireplace. She’d curl up in front of it, finish her book, and then go straight into bed to fight off her jet lag. There were four days left until Christmas Day—she had time to figure everything else out.
A few extremely wet steps later, Elain reached her destination.
Rosebud Cottage was a dream come true.
It looked as though it had been pulled straight out of Elain’s memory—the snow-clad orchard out front, the cobblestone pathway leading up to the red front door. Feyre, it seemed, had hung up a wreath to greet her, and Elain smiled at the thoughtful gesture. Doing her best not to slip on the icy stones, Elain pulled the keys from underneath the doormat, taking a mental note to school her sister on burglars and responsibility—though, she supposed, no one would actually bother to go this far for a robbery, no matter how many riches the house contained within.
Having fought with the door lock for about a minute (why do British people do everything the other way around?), Elain finally walked in.
The journey had been worth it.
Though it wasn’t much bigger than her own studio apartment, the house radiated warmth.
A fluffy couch gathered around the old English fireplace with two armchairs of red velvet on each side, making up a cozy living room that connected to the small kitchen. With cabinets of a light green and wooden countertops, it called out Elain’s name louder than any kitchen she’d ever stepped into. Abandoning her suitcase by the door, she moved to explore the pantry, her tiredness long forgotten in favour of the inviting prospect of baking fresh bread in such a beautiful space.
How disappointing it was to find art supplies there instead.
It was then that she truly began noticing Feyre’s presence in the house. The kitchen cabinets, immaculate at first sight, had paint splattered on them in the most peculiar places. The bookcase, standing proudly in the back, full of art history books and manuals. The violet handprint on the balustrade, surely from when Feyre had decided to take a break from painting upstairs and had clearly forgotten to wash her hands.
Her gaze moved back to the fireplace, and Elain’s brows furrowed. She reached for her phone, opening the conversation between her and her sister. The last text was from Feyre, announcing her arrival at Elain’s place about two hours ago.
Where’s the deer? Elain asked.
The reply came almost immediately. I buried it.
Elain laughed.
***
Feyre Archeron was finally home.
She wasn’t usually the crying type, though upon seeing the New York City skyline, she had to admit her chest had swelled a little bit. It had been too long.
Unpacking took her ages, and by the time she was finally done, it was already late and dark outside. She quickly did the math, and, by London standards, it was already way past midnight for her—one last bag to go, Feyre promised herself, and she would go to bed.
A grimace twisted her features as she realised she’d have to wake up early in the morning to open up Elain’s bakery—the only favour Elain had asked her of, really, so she couldn’t be as bitter about it as she perhaps would have wanted. Her sister’s friend, Nuala, would arrive an hour later to take over. Then, Feyre would be free to explore.
Her face lit up at the realisation that the last bag contained her art supplies—along with the newest brushes that had managed to arrive the day before she was due to leave for New York. She made way to set up her painting station by the window, hoping to get some daylight the next day, short as it was during winter. Setting the bag down carefully, she looked out the window and up to the stars.
Feyre’s breath caught in her chest.
She picked up a brush and began painting.
***
The bakery had only been open for five minutes when the small bell at the door announced the arrival of a customer.
In the back, hands covered in four she’d accidentally spilled, Feyre quickly wiped it off on her jeans, immediately cursing herself for her foolishness. She had most definitely left white handprints on her ass.
“Just a minute!” she shouted, wiping her hands frantically on her (also black) shirt this time before realising she was absolutely making it worse.
With a sigh, she ran a hand through her hair, the powder falling into the strands and onto the floor.
“Shit!,” she swore, finally managing to grab hold of a kitchen towel, hanging—of course—on the wall right beside her.
“You alright there?” a rich voice, definitely British and definitely male, reached her from the front of the shop.
Opting not to look at the small mirror in the corner, Feyre gave up on any attempts to sort herself out, and made her way out.
“Sorry, I…” she began before her gaze finally met his.
Standing before her was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
Tall and wearing an all-black suit—who wore suits at eight thirty in the morning?—he had an air of confidence around him, hands resting nonchalantly in his pockets. A briefcase hung over a broad, muscular chest, and Feyre had never hated shirts more than in that exact moment. The man was ridiculously good-looking—but his eyes…
His eyes had captivated her.
So deeply blue they seemed almost violet, shining with curiosity as they measured her in full.
“What happened back there?” he asked, and damn him, he had a nice voice.
Forcing on a shred of composure, Feyre crossed her arms. “Running a bakery isn’t as easy as you’d think, you know.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I’m sure. Except I know this isn’t your bakery, and Elain isn’t here."
Feyre’s brows knotted. “You know Elain?”
“You could say I’m somewhat of a regular.”
“Oh?”
“I always stop here for a coffee before work,” he explained.
“Right. Let me guess, all black, no sugar?” Feyre guessed.
He smirked. “Only if you insist.”
If it came from anyone else, she might have rolled her eyes. But this man…it was unfair, really. “Takeaway?” she asked instead.
“Yes. Large, please,” he added. “I’ve got a long day ahead.”
Feyre got started on the coffee, though her gaze remained locked on the sight before her. “And what is it that you do?”
Why the hell would she even ask?
The man smiled broadly now, a self-satisfied smirk that told her he thoroughly enjoyed her personal questions. “Investments.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That could mean anything.”
“Perhaps I could tell you more,” he said. “Over a cup of coffee.”
Placing a lid on top, Feyre handed him the cup. “Here. Is that cup good enough?”
His smile turned feline. “Clever,” he praised.
“I’m Feyre,” she said before she could stop herself.
His fingers brushed her own as he took the coffee from her hand. “Rhysand."
***
Elain spent her second day in England completely and utterly bored.
She’d woken up to sixteen missed calls from Greysen, and immediately decided she needed to distract herself. It turned out there weren’t many distractions in the small village Feyre lived in.
She’d gone to the supermarket around lunchtime, having finished her book right after breakfast. Baking supplies, mostly—she had to entertain herself somehow. And so, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon with her hands full in dough, making a point not to use cinnamon in any of her inventions.
Hours later, it was nearing midnight, the house smelled like bread, and Elain had no idea what to do.
Why am I even here?
It was a stupid idea to come. What did she think she would get here? Peace and quiet? It had only been a day, and she already had enough of that. Silence, as it turned out, did not do anything for a raging mind.
Greysen had left her a couple of voicemails, but Elain hadn’t listened to any of them. Time, she decided. She needed time to process this.
Still, it would have been nice to have someone to process it with.
Maybe she didn’t belong here. Maybe the life she’d had in New York was the best the world had to offer her. Maybe escaping hadn’t been the right option. Maybe…maybe Greysen deserved a second chance.
Elain unlocked her phone and entered Greysen’s number.
A loud bang on the door almost knocked it out her hands.
Wrapping the blanket tighter around her, Elain got up from the couch and made her way to open the door.
She was greeted with the sight of a very drunk man.
Bright, russet eyes narrowed on her a bit absently. “You’re not Feyre,” he noted.
Elain lifted a brow. “A keen observation.” The man snorted. “Who are you?” she asked.
The man leaned over in a mocking bow. “Apologies, my lady. My name is Lucien.”
Despite herself, the corners of Elain’s mouth twitched. “That tells me nothing, you know.”
He sighed in resignation. “It hurts that she never mentioned me, you know.”
“An honest mistake, I’m sure.”
“We’re friends. She moved in here shortly after I did.”
Elain angled her head. “I see.”
The man looked at her expectantly. “And you are…?”
“Oh, sorry,” she straightened a little bit. “I’m Elain. Feyre’s older sister.”
His face lit up straight away. “Of course you are. You look similar, you know. Well, under certain angles…”
A laugh escaped her this time, and Elain asked. “Why are you here, Lucien?”
Lucien leaned on the doorframe with another deep sigh. “I’m so sorry, Elain, Feyre told me she was going back to New York for a bit, but it completely slipped my mind. She lets me crash on the couch here every now and then.”
“Oh,” Elain said before the realisation hit her. “Oh. Well, I…”
“No, no, it’s all good. It’s my bad, honestly,” Lucien explained. “I’ll be on my way.”
“No, wait, I…” Elain hesitated. She couldn’t leave him out in the cold, could she? There was no doubt in her mind that Lucien was not in the right state to walk home by himself. “I suppose you could stay. I don’t mind, really.”
Lucien waved a hand. “I don’t want to be an imposition,” he insisted, swaying on his feet a little.
Elain laughed again. “Just come in.”
Lucien offered her a lazy smile. “How could I say no to a lady like this?”
And damn him, Elain blushed.
***
Lucien passed out on the couch the second he stepped over the doorway, and Elain had decided it was best to just leave him there.
Now, in the morning, she made her way back down as she heard a noise coming from the kitchen—a clear sign her unexpected guest was awake and searching for a hangover cure.
The first thing she noticed was a flash of long, red hair. And then, Lucien turned to face her. “Good morning,” he greeted, a tentative smile playing on his handsome features.
Shit. She did not remember him looking this good last night.
“Hi,” she said, straightening the sleeves of her sweater. Of course now that he was sober, she had to wear one of her uglier, Christmas themed ones that she just so happened to also sleep in. Great first impression, really.
“I made you some tea,” Lucien said, sliding a steaming cup towards her. “Milk?”
“Oh,” Elain reached out in surprise. “Thank you. For the tea, I mean. No milk, please.”
Lucien chuckled, the sound deep and honeyed. “I suppose you haven’t been in England long enough.”
Elain’s gaze narrowed. “Alright. I’ll have a little bit.”
“That’s more like it,” Lucien grinned. “Listen, I’m so sorry about last night. Again, thank you for letting me stay here.”
“It’s no problem,” Elain said. “But I should warn you, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow and Feyre’s not getting back until a few days later, so the house will stay locked until she’s back.”
Lucien’s brows furrowed. “Christmas Day? Feyre said you’d be leaving after that.”
“Yes, well…” Elain sighed. “This place isn’t what I thought it would be. Actually, that’s not fair. I just…don’t think I belong here.”
Lucien sipped his own tea, considering. “How’s that?”
“It’s too, uh…” Lonely. “Quiet.”
He smiled at that. “If you’re looking for chaos, you’ve come to the right place.” He set the cup down on the counter. “A couple of my friends and I are meeting up at the local pub tonight. It’s sort of a tradition we do before Christmas Eve. You’re welcome to join us, and I promise I’ll go to my own house afterwards.”
Elain laughed. Something about this man was so…different. Despite having just met her, Lucien seemed so at ease—so comfortable in her presence. As if he actually enjoyed it.
Her suitcase was already half packed—maybe she deserved a small sendoff. At least she wouldn’t spend the last few nights of her trip blankly staring into the fireplace. And so, Elain smiled at him again. “I’ll think about it.”
***
As promised, Rhysand showed up the next morning.
Feyre didn’t have to open the bakery this time—though, as she told Nuala, she didn’t mind doing it again. And so, at 8:30 a.m. sharp and flour-free, Feyre was ready to find out more about this mysterious stranger.
Rhysand, it seemed, adored teasing her as much as he adored the personal questions. She’d made the mistake of telling him she was an artist, getting herself trapped in a promise of one day drawing a portrait of the prick himself.
“You need to see the Met before you leave,” Rhys, as he insisted on being called, told her. “I’d be more than happy to show you, if you’re not too busy.”
Feyre could only laugh. “I’m a New Yorker and an artist. I’ve been to the Met,” she said, making a point to sound terribly offended. “And that wasn’t as smooth as you think it was, you know.”
Rhys placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “You wound me.”
Her eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Is this how you get women to go out with you, Rhysand? By inflicting pity?”
Impressed, his violet eyes twinkled. “Cruel thing.”
Choosing to ignore the heat rising through her at his words, Feyre shrugged. “You just seem like the type.”
Rhys’s lips twitched. “The type?”
“You know the one. Always with a compliment at hand, calling every woman he meets darling or…something.”
“I didn’t know you were so eager for a nickname, Feyre,” Rhys purred.
“Oh, shut up,” she rolled her eyes, though a smile played in the corner of her mouth.
“I still do think you should see the Met,” he continued. “After all, it has been a while since you last visited, has it not? I’d bet your knowledge has grown somewhat rusty. And I’m not just talking about the Met.”
“Okay, now I’m officially offended,” Feyre crossed her arms. “You’re British and you think you think you know New York better than me?”
Those eyes sparkled again. “I’ll tell you what, Feyre darling,” Rhys began, and Feyre’s stomach fluttered at the name. Once again, she chose to ignore it. “I’ll make you a bargain: we find out who knows the city best—if I win, I get to take you out on a date.”
Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “And if I win?”
“Remember that portrait you promised?” Feyre nodded. “Well,” Rhysand winked, “I do nudes too.”
***
Jurian and Vassa were probably the funniest people Elan had ever met.
They had met at university and had remained together ever since. Elain had never seen two people share such strong bond—in the six months she’d dated him, Elain had never laughed with Greysen as much as Vassa had with Jurian in one night. And aside from all their teasing and jokes, Elain didn’t miss the way Jurian’s arm wrapped around his girlfriend, the way her head rested lightly on his shoulder when Elain and Lucien had gone up to the bar to order more drinks.
“They look really good together,” Elain sighed.
“They do,” Lucien agreed. “Though I must admit, I do not particularly enjoy the third wheeling.” Elain laughed, and Lucien answered with a smile of his own. “What I mean is—it’s nice to have you here.”
“I am having a lot of fun,” Elain admitted.
“Do you…” he hesitated, his russet eyes searching for hers. Elain angled her head, questioning, and Lucien cleared his throat. “If you don’t have any plans tomorrow, I’d love to show you more of this place. Maybe you’ll like it enough to come visit us again.”
Elain smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
***
Lucien had taken her to the gardens.
Elain had never seen anything more beautiful—who would have thought there would be a small castle in a hidden place like this. The gardens were nothing short of spectacular, with the greenhouses hosting plants of all kinds and bright, exotic colours she had never even seen on pictures.
“Feyre mentioned you like to garden,” Lucien explained, a pleased smile lighting up his features at every small gasp escaping her. “I thought this would be a great place for you to see.”
“It’s breathtaking,” Elain sighed, leaning over a particularly vibrant flower.
Quiet fell for a brief moment before Lucien spoke again. “It is.”
Turning back to him, Elain offered a small smile. “I’d like to see more, if we can.”
With a nod, Lucien extended a gloved hand. “Of course.”
Elain took it, and they walked out to the glistening snow.
***
It had only taken them minutes to get into a snowball fight, and only after both their hair was practically wet, Elain had finally decided it was time for a glass of wine.
The restaurant inside the castle had been lovely—cozy and candlelit, with the sound of Christmas carols coming faintly through the speakers. Once they had dried off, their body warmth stimulated by the rich, red liquid, the conversation could finally begin.
“I never thought Christmas Eve could look like this,” Elain mused.
Lucien’s brows rose in question. “Good or bad?”
“Definitely good.”
He smiled at that. “How do you usually spend Christmas Eve?”
Elain’s face fell a bit. “Well, the past few years have been somewhat chaotic. My sisters had all moved all over the world, and I…stayed. I was meant to spend this year with my, I guess ex-boyfriend now.”
“Oh.”
“We broke up just over a week ago,” Elain explained. “He…ah…I caught him with his secretary.”
Something flashed in Lucien’s eyes, and for a moment, Elain wondered if he would say anything—if there was anything he could say, really.
“I wish I could say I was sorry,” he began, and Elain’s brows shot up in surprise. “But any man that was lucky enough to have you and didn’t appreciate it was never really worth it in the first place.”
Elain swallowed hard. “No?”
“No,” Lucien agreed. “He never deserved your light. Your kindness. Your beauty.” Their gazes met, hot an fiery and unyielding. “He never deserved you.”
***
This time, they stumbled into Elain’s cottage together, clothes falling on the living room floor one by one until there was not a layer of fabric left.
Damn him, Lucien was even more magnificent than she imagined. With his strong arms, a broad, sculpted chest, and brown skin gleaming in firelight, he looked like a god materialised right in front of her. If her cheeks had not been already flushed, she might have gone more red than the couch he’d laid her on.
She could feel the race of his heart against her body, her own chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he lowered himself further.
Elain’s eyes widened. Greysen had never…
“Lucien,” Elain breathed, and he stilled immediately, his stare meeting her own. “You don’t have to…”
Lucien laughed quietly, the sound dark and smooth against her skin. “Have to?” he asked. “Elain, if I don’t get to taste you right now, I’m going to go insane.”
The words ran the core between her thighs molten, and Elain allowed herself one last coherent thought before nodding her permission.
Lucien wasted no time.
Before she knew it, his tongue reduced her to a whimpering mess, desire twisting in her stomach as he licked and sucked with an abandon that only told her he enjoyed it as much as she did. Elain chased that feeling, rocking her hips into his face, so close she was certain she’d explode any second.
A gasp tore from her lips as Lucien’s fingers grazed her entrance, then slid in with ease the moment his mouth closed over her clit.
Release slammed into her without warning, her whole body trembling at the white-hot pleasure shooting down every nerve. It felt so good.
His pace slowed down as he coaxed her through the orgasm, his hands laying heavily on her hips now, and Elain released a trembling breath.
Lucien’s mouth made its way up her stomach, leaving soft, wet kissed on what seemed like every inch of her skin, and Elain moaned his name again, her voice straining with pleasure.
His breath was hot on her neck as Lucien placed one final kiss below the shell of her ear. “Ready for more?”
***
Feyre, of course, had lost the bet. Embarrassing, really, but if she was being completely honest with herself, she did not mind at all.
Rhys, it seemed, had not made any plans on Christmas Eve, and so the two of them had scheduled their date for the evening.
She’d expected a grand gesture from Rhys, something in the manner of a lavish candlelit dinner, maybe at the Plaza. He seemed like the type.
Instead, she’d arrived at the rooftop of Rhysand’s building to find nothing but a fluffy blanket, two candles, and a basket with what she suspected were carefully selected snacks.
“What’s this?” Feyre asked quietly, taking a step closer.
Rhys turned to her then, looking even better somehow, with a shirt of black satin loose and unbuttoned under his coat and dark hair ruffled by the wintry breeze. His gaze landed on her, and in what felt like hours, he took her all in. “A picnic,” he finally said, those violet eyes meeting hers at last. “You look beautiful.”
Feyre smiled. “I’ve never been on a rooftop picnic before,” she said. “I would’ve thought of Central Park first,” she added, teasing.
Rhys sighed theatrically, extending out a hand. “See, you even suggesting that only tells me I am a fair winner of our bargain.”
Feyre took his hand, and they both made themselves comfortable. “I’ll bet you secretly wish you lost, though. You did seem very excited about the nude portraits.”
Rhysand hummed appreciatively. “Quite right. I’ll tell you what—if it makes you happier, Feyre darling, I’d be more than happy to offer up my body for artistic research.”
Feyre shook her head, laughing once more. “You’re unbelievable.”
At that, his grin faded into a gentle smile, and slowly, he reached out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “So are you,” Rhys said quietly.
The air suddenly became tight between their bodies, and Feyre looked out to the city skyline. “So, why the rooftop?” she asked again.
His eyes never left her for a second. “Another thing about New York, Feyre darling,” Rhys said. “It looks most beautiful at night.”
Feyre turned to him at that, something warm spreading through her body and tingling at her eyes. She let herself drown in those pools of violet, leaning in closer until their eyes closed and she felt the soft brush of his mouth on hers.
She didn’t remember how they ended up in his bed, their legs tangled between the sheets. She only remembered the stars shining above them, and feeling the happiest she’d ever been.
***
Elain’s phone buzzed in the middle of the night, and she was too soon ripped from her sleep to look at the caller ID before answering.
“Hello?”
“Elain?”
She shot up the bed in an instant. “Greysen.”
“Elain, I’ve been trying to reach you for over a week. Please, talk to me.”
“I…” she shot a quick glance at Lucien, his naked form peaceful beside her. “Give me a minute.”
Hands trembling, she slid into her robe, and quietly made her way downstairs. Somehow, in their nightly activities, her and Lucien had eventually found their way to her bed.
Propping down on the arm of the couch, Elain took a deep breath. “What do you want, Greysen?”
“Elain,” his voice sounded at the end of the line. “I was an idiot. I am begging you to forgive me.”
“I’m afraid it is too late for apologies, Greysen.”
“I know you’re in England. Please come back to me,” he pleaded. “I miss you. I need you. We need each other.”
“I…”
“We belong together, Elain, and you know it.”
Another, deep breath.
Somewhere upstairs was a man who, in only three days, had treated her better than Greysen ever had in the entire time they’d known each other. Who had made her feel whole again. A man who had shown her what true affection felt like.
And so, Elain said her final goodbye. “I’m not sure that we do, Greysen.”
Then, she hung up the phone.
Back in the bedroom, Lucien stirred, a strand of red hair falling over his face. Elain smiled, gently pulling it away to tuck behind his ear. Something sparkled in her chest, a feeling she’d never felt but wanted to hold on to forever.
And then, the realisation had kicked in.
Elain had caught feelings for Lucien. Lucien, who, in those three days, had managed to capture her heart forever. Lucien, who, after tomorrow, she’d probably never see again.
Elain would not let her heart break again. Not like this.
And so, she began packing.
***
When she came downstairs in the morning, Lucien was already in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a plate full of chocolate biscuits waiting for her on the counter.
The sight brought tears to her eyes.
“Elain?” Lucien asked, stepping in closer and taking her into his arms. “What’s wrong?
“I have to go,” she whispered. “I have to go, Lucien.”
His brows furrowed in confusion. “Go where?”
Elain shook her head. “I need to make it for my flight.”
Lucien stepped back, something like panic flashing through his eyes. “Elain…”
“I can’t stay here,” she denied him before he got the chance to say anything.
“A few more days,” Lucien pleaded. “Leave before New Year’s, like you originally planned to do.”
“I can’t stay here, Lucien” she repeated. “My heart won’t handle it if I stay.”
“Elain,” he begged.
She took his face into her hands, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “Merry Christmas,” she told him.
Then, she left.
***
Rhys had already been awake by the time Feyre opened her eyes.
His thumb brushed her cheek, and she sighed in delight before reality came crashing in. “I have to go now, Rhys.”
“What’s the rush?” he asked, his voice roughened by sleep. The sound sent her heart fluttering all over again.
“I have to pack,” she explained. “My flight back to London is tomorrow.”
“Stay,” Rhys only said.
Feyre chuckled. “I wish I could, but I need to do the final touch-ups on one of my paintings as well. I need it to dry off before I leave.”
“You could stay longer,” Rhys protested. “The exhibition isn’t until New Year’s Eve.”
“I know that, but…” she frowned, mulling over his words.
And then again.
And again.
Only then did Feyre realise she’d never told him about the exhibition.
He must have realised that, too, from the way his eyes widened and mouth opened with an empty explanation that would mean nothing to her.
“It was you,” Feyre accused.
“Feyre darling…”
“Do not call me that,” she ordered, and Rhysand fell silent. “You arranged for the exhibit, did you not?”
Silence.
“Rhysand,” she warned.
He sighed. “I did. But, Feyre…”
“I was shocked,” she began, “when I received that invitation from the gallery. Such a short notice, too, and so unusual. The day after my engagement fell apart. Did you know?”
“Yes.”
Silver began burning her eyes, but she continued. “You knew I was an artist from Elain, didn’t you? Did she tell you how miserable I was? How I spent two years in a foreign country trying to build a career and getting nowhere? Did my sister ask you to make me your little charity case?”
“Allow me to explain…”
“You knew who I was from the moment you met me,” she whispered. “And you said nothing.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to see you again.”
And with that, Feyre was gone.
***
This time, Elain actually did cry in the cab, though it had nothing to do with wearing heels in the snow.
The flight wasn’t for another few hours, and Elain decided if she was going to have her heart broken anyway, she might as well stop at the local bakery and treat herself.
Asking the driver to wait outside, Elain entered what seemed like the only shop opened on Christmas Day.
“Merry Christmas!” a lady greeted her at the register. “What can I get you?”
Elain sighed. “Anything for a broken heart?”
The lady smiled knowingly. “Not a cure, I’m afraid, but these freshly baked cinnamon rolls do make life a little sweeter.”
Elain went completely still. “What did you say?”
The woman raised her brows, confused. “Cinnamon rolls?”
Her heart thudded in her chest.
What the hell am I doing?
“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” Elain turned practically running out of the shop. “Merry Christmas!”
The cap sprinted through the streets until it reached the very familiar forest. “Sorry, love,” the driver began, “I’m afraid…”
“That’s okay,” Elain laughed. “I’ll run.”
And she did. Her socks were wet in an instant, but Elain did not care one bit as she finally reached the red front door.
She banged on it loudly until she was greeted by Lucien, his handsome face the perfect picture of shock.
Elain threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in until their lips collided in a kiss hot enough to warm the coldest winter. He hugged her tightly, whispering her name into her neck and running his fingers through her hair until he’d made sure she truly was real and standing before him.
Elain pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. “I’ll stay here,” she said at the same time Lucien declared “I’ll move to New York,” and they both broke out in laughter, Lucien bringing her closer for another kiss.
“We’ll figure it out,” Elain whispered.
Lucien nodded fiercely. “As long as we’re together.”
***
New Year’s Eve
The exhibition was going perfectly, but Feyre wasn’t happy at all.
There was one person missing—and she hated how much she missed him.
Her sister, at least, seemed to be enjoying herself. Lucien did, too—and she couldn’t be happier for either of them. Still, looking at that one painting of the New York City skyline…Feyre wanted nothing more but to go back. Even if it was simply to yell at him.
A light tap on the shoulder brought her back into reality. “Feyre,” Elain told her. “There’s someone here that wants to speak with you.”
If she had to deal with another critic tonight, she would have probably broken into tears. “Show me,” she asked her sister anyway.
Elain nodded, leading her to an empty hallway just a few meters away.
“Hello, Feyre darling.”
Feyre froze in her steps. “What are you doing here?” she asked, barely noting Elain quietly removing herself from the conversation.
“I only ask for a moment. Please,” Rhysand said, his violet eyes shining with a silent plea. “You can hate me forever, but allow me to explain.”
I could never hate you.
“Alright,” Feyre agreed, and Rhys released a breath.
“I knew who you were,” he began. “Elain loves talking about you, you and your other sister. I had been coming to the bakery for months now, and I knew you paint. It was one of the first things she told me about you.” He smiled. “She told me about the dresser you painted when you were kids. She told me you painted the night sky on yours.”
Feyre held her breath, her gaze remaining fixed on his face, the slight tremble of his jaw.
“You asked me what I invest in. Art,” he told her. “I buy and collect art. I have been for a while. And when Elain showed me your paintings, I…they took my breath away. I had never met you, but it felt as though your art told me enough. Like it spoke to my very soul, understood me.” He swallowed hard. “I knew we would probably never meet, but fell in love with your craft, Feyre, and all I wanted was to share it with the rest of the world. I didn’t do it for Elain, not even for you. Your talent needs to be seen. The way I feel seen through you.
“When Elain told me about the swap, I knew I had to see you—at least once, if only to tell you how incredible you are. I should have told you—I know I should have—but I fell for you so deeply I wanted you to see me—not as your anonymous patron, or even as Elain’s friend—but as me, the same way your art does. You have captivated me, my darling Feyre, and I am yours forever—if you’ll have me.”
The whole world felt as though it swept away from her feet, and Feyre could only utter one word.
“Rhysand,” she breathed, her lips finding his own.
Soft and gentle, their kiss caressed her heart and soul, their arms wrapped tight around each other and not letting go. In the background, fireworks exploded and people cheered, celebrating new love and beginnings.
For only a moment, Rhys pulled back and inch. “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”
She laughed, and with tears of happiness like stars in her eyes, Feyre kissed him again.
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