Page 241 of Rush

“You act like she’s your sister,” Philippa said, pouting, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go back home,” she whined, throwing herself into her pillow to cry.

“Elena, go shower,” my mother snapped, her voice no-nonsense. I knew that was my cue to go.

Part of me felt bad for Philippa. But another part of me was loyal to Riley. Where Philippa lived a life of luxury—doted on and given everything her heart desired—Riley had nothing. And she deserved everything.

Eventually, Riley returned with her brothers, and we sat down to an incredible Christmas dinner. The air was thick with the scent of grilled seafood and sunscreen, laughter echoing off the veranda—even if Philippa pouted through most of it.

I caught myself watching her between bites, remembering a time when we were closer. It felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe she just felt like an outsider here—surrounded by sand instead of city lights, by people who didn’t know what it meant to have everything handed to them.

And I understood. Because that was exactly how I felt when I was in New York with them.

The townhouse glowsas the fireplace roars, the tree looks a little too big for the room, festive music softly humming playingthroughout. Everything smells like pine, cinnamon, orange peel, and something vaguely French.

Carole greets us with a warm hug—which is new for me.

“Oh, look at the two of you,” she remarks, eyeing our ridiculous sweaters. She holds us at arm’s length—her touch warm.

Mortimer laughs, shaking his head. “Merry Christmas to my girls,” he says, to both Riley and me.

“Aww, Monty, are you going to adopt me? Do I get a fat trust fund too?” Riley winks.

He chuckles—actually chuckles.

It’s a sweet moment. Seeing Riley crack his façade, she could do it to anyone with ease.

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

He nods back but it’s not as stiff as it usually is, I almost want to hug him, but I don’t. Instead, I loop my arm through Riley’s as we head toward the main dining room for second breakfast.

The table is overflowing—glazed ham, cheesy scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, toast slathered with jam, cinnamon rolls that smell like childhood. I can’t stop smiling. Everything feels warm and cozy.

“How’s work at the gallery?” Mortimer asks Riley as we sit down.

“It’s great,” she says, reaching for a slice of melon. “I’m working on commissions for Andrew’s aunt, and I scored some serious brownie points for landing the Pollocks—so they’re training me up to be an assistant curator.”

“Oh, she’sthrilled,” Andrew adds. “Now I think my mom wants some pieces too!”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind a piece for my office,” Philippa adds.

“That’s wonderful, dear,” Carole says, smiling. “I would love to see your work sometime.”

“Thanks guys. I appreciate the support.” Riley beams.

“And Elena?” Mortimer turns to me looking right at me. “Anything else lined up for the rest of the year?”

“Just some studio time. Working on a few new tracks for the next album, the tour offered much…inspiration,” I say, buttering a piece of toast.

“How’s that going?” Andrew asks.

“It’s good,” I say, and I mean it. “I feel a lot of pressure to do better, you know—after the nominations.”

“I’m sure you’llriseto the occasion,” Philippa says, winking.

“Thanks, Pip.”

And for a second, everything feels right. I’m full in every sense—food, love, potential. I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m just here. In this moment.

Once breakfast was done, we settle into the living area. Philippa and Andrew curl up on one end of the couch, looking blissful and well-rested. Philippa looks less green than she has in days and throws me a knowing look. I was vibrating with anticipation—they plan to share the news today.