Chapter One

BAILEY

The plan was foolproof.

A cozy Christmas at home, a bottle of spiced wine, my comfiest socks, and a marathon of holiday rom-coms. I’d even splurged on the wine, the kind with notes of cinnamon and nutmeg that made you feel like you were drinking pure holiday cheer. After the year I’d had—late nights at the office, working weekends, and countless personal sacrifices, including my last relationship—this break was supposed to be my one gift to myself.

Figaro, my ginger cat, had his tiny plaid Christmas bowtie ready to wear. I’d gone as far as buying a miniature Christmas tree for him to swat at while I buried myself in the ultimate marathon of cliché romance plots. My schedule was set, cookies baking in the oven, holiday candles burning, and no one, not even the Wicked Witch—aka my boss, Marjorie Sterling—could ruin it.

Or so I thought.

When I stepped into Marjorie’s office that morning, the first thing I noticed was the tension in her expression. Her sharp blue eyes darted up from the papers on her sleek white desk, and without so much as a “Good morning,” she said the words that always made my stomach drop.

“Bailey. Close the door.”

I froze for half a second, my grip tightening on the coffee cup in my hand. Nothing good ever came after that tone of voice. Slowly, I clicked the door shut and turned to face her, mentally bracing for the bad news.

Her office, as always, looked more like an exhibit at a modern art museum than a workspace. The sleek white desk, the abstract painting on the wall, even the faint scent of pine from the candle on her shelf—it all screamed minimalistic perfection. It made me acutely aware of the smudge of ink on my cuff and the fact that my coffee was lukewarm.

“Sit,” she ordered, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

I perched on the edge of the chair, the nerves in my stomach twisting tighter with every second of silence. She pushed a manila folder across the desk toward me, the weight of it oddly ominous.

“This just came in,” she began, folding her hands neatly. “A property dispute. Complicated, messy, and high-profile. If handled well, it could make you stand out when partnership decisions are finalized next quarter.”

Partnership.

The word lingered in the air like the promise of salvation. I’d been working toward that goal for so long, it almost felt like a mirage—a destination on the horizon I was never quite close enough to reach.

“What’s the case?” I asked cautiously, reaching for the folder.

Marjorie leaned back slightly, her expression giving nothing away. “The property is an old Victorian mansion in Wintervale, Montana. It was owned by a man named Cyrus Barrington, who passed away without a will. Now it’s in foreclosure, and the town is in an uproar about what should be done with it.”

I opened the folder, the photos inside making me pause. The mansion was the kind of place you’d expect to see on the cover of a Gothic novel. Its wraparound porch sagged like it was carrying the weight of a century’s worth of ghosts, and the turret rising above the snow looked like it had seen better days.

Marjorie continued. “Your client, Miss Edna Twinkleberry, claims to be a distant relative of Barrington. She wants to preserve the mansion and turn it into a… cat sanctuary.”

I blinked, certain I’d misheard her. “A what?”

“A year-round, holiday-themed cat sanctuary,” she clarified, her crimson-lined lips twitching slightly as though daring me to laugh.

I stared at her, then at the mansion in the photos. The two images—one of a crumbling historic property and the other of festive cats in Santa hats—did not compute.

“And the opposing party?”

Marjorie’s smirk widened, and I knew what was coming before she said the words.

“Theodore Snowcroft, a member of Wintervale’s governing board. He wants to sell the property to a commercial developer, claiming it’s the best way to boost the town’s economy. He’s of course retained the developer’s preferred law firm,” she added, her tone almost amused.

“We’ve been up against big names before, so I trust you’ll know how to handle them. This case is messy, but if you resolve it favorably, the other partners here at Smart, Sterling, Weston, and Endicott will take notice.”

I closed the folder, my fingers tightening around its edges. The mansion, the cat sanctuary, some remote small town in the middle of nowhere—it all felt like a twisted Christmas joke. But the promise of partnership glimmered like a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps Santa would finally make my Christmas wish come true this year.

“When do I leave?” I asked, my voice sounding a whole lot steadier than I felt.

Leaving Seattle felt like peeling away a layer of my own identity. The city’s constant noise and chaos had become so ingrained in my daily life that I didn’t realize how oppressive it was until I crossed the state line.

The familiar soundscape of honking horns and hurried footsteps gave way to the soft hum of my car tires against asphalt. Buildings disappeared and were replaced by snow-covered fields stretching endlessly toward the horizon. There was something both freeing and unsettling about it—like I was untethered, drifting toward a way of life I didn’t recognize.

As the scenery shifted, so did the air. It became sharper, fresher, carrying the faintest scent of pine and woodsmoke. I rolled down my window to let it wash over me, the icy breeze biting at my cheeks. For the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe deeply.

The mountains appeared on the horizon about halfway through the drive, their jagged peaks shrouded in mist. I couldn’t help but marvel at the way the sun glinted off the snow-capped summits, turning them into something almost otherworldly.

I’d programmed a holiday playlist to keep me company, but even Mariah Carey couldn’t drown out the swirl of thoughts in my head. Marjorie’s words replayed like a broken record: This case is messy, but if you resolve it favorably, the partners will notice.

The partners.

It was the goal I’d worked toward for years, sacrificing sleep, weekends, and a social life to prove I belonged in their exclusive circle. But spending my holidays working on a ridiculous case like this one definitely wasn’t how I envisioned making a name for myself in the legal field.

Still, the opportunity wasn’t something I could afford to pass up. If this case was my ticket, I’d take it, no matter how absurd it seemed.

By the time I reached Wintervale, the late afternoon sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the village.

The sight of it took my breath away.

Wintervale looked like a scene plucked straight from a Christmas card. Main Street was lined with charming shops in the traditional Bavarian style of architecture, resembling full-size gingerbread houses with their windows frosted over and framed with evergreen garlands and colorful wreaths. Twinkling lights stretched overhead, crisscrossing the street like a canopy of stars.

In the town square, a massive Christmas tree stood proudly, its thick branches dripping with ornaments and golden ribbons. Rosy-cheeked children bundled up in outerwear in a rainbow of colors darted around it like gum drops, their laughter ringing out as they dragged sleds through the snow. Couples strolled hand-in-hand through the park around the perimeter, and the streetlamps had even been adorned with bright red bows.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be one of the people who lived here—where home was actually a community of friends and people took time to honor traditions.

But I wasn’t here for joy. I was here to work, and that was exactly what I was going to do. Setting my teeth, I vowed that by New Year, Miss Twinkleberry would be the proud owner of Winterhaven’s first cat sanctuary.

The Wintervale Ski Resort came into view as I followed the winding road out of the village. It was perched at the edge of town, nestled snugly against the backdrop of the mountains.

The building was stunning—constructed from stone and wood that blended seamlessly with the snowy landscape. Twinkling lights outlined the roofline, and massive wreaths adorned the double doors at the entrance. It exuded an air of rustic elegance, as though it had been designed to charm even the most hardened city-dweller.

I pulled into the circular driveway, parking my car behind a sleek black SUV that practically screamed “wealthy vacationer.”

Inside, the lobby was even more impressive. Polished wooden beams stretched high above, framing a massive stone fireplace that crackled with warmth. A towering Christmas tree stood in the center of the room, its golden ornaments gleaming in the firelight.

The scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweet—cookies, maybe? —filled the air, making it impossible not to feel a pang of holiday nostalgia.

The receptionist, whose nametag pin read Claire, greeted me with a smile that seemed too genuine to be real. “Welcome to the Wintervale Resort, Ms. Pace,” she said, sliding a keycard across the desk. “Your room has a stunning view of the slopes. If there’s anything you need, please let us know.”

Her cheerful demeanor almost made me feel guilty for not sharing her enthusiasm. Almost.

“Thanks,” I said, forcing a polite smile as I took the key.

When I reached my room, I paused in front of the window, which offered an unobstructed view of the mountains. Their peaks were dusted with fresh snow, and the ski slopes below were alive with activity as late-night skiers carved graceful paths through the pristine powder.

The room itself was cozy but luxurious. The bed, draped with a soft plaid blanket, looked impossibly inviting. A small seating area by the window featured a gas fireplace, its flames dancing gently behind the glass.

I took a deep breath before turning my back to pull out my laptop.

The next morning, I stood outside Mistletoe & Mochas , a small café on Main Street, sipping a steaming coffee that smelled like Christmas in a cup. The snow glistened under the pale sunlight, and the air carried the sharp, crisp scent of pine. My turtleneck sweater and wool scarf did little to fight off the chill, but I found myself smiling in spite of it. Wintervale was charming, no doubt about it.

But the charm promptly evaporated the moment I reached Barrington Manor.

The mansion loomed ahead, its deteriorating state a glaring eyesore in a town that otherwise looked like a Snow Globe come to life. A wrought iron gate stood at the edge of the property, and even from the car I could see its black paint flaking off in patches. Beyond it, a snow-covered driveway wound through overgrown hedges and leafless trees. The house itself was massive, with a turret rising above the roofline like the crown of a forgotten kingdom.

I parked my car at the gate and hesitated, taking in the scene.

The grandeur of the house was evident however, even beneath its years of neglect. Intricate woodwork, sagging with age and lack of upkeep, adorned the porch. The original white paint was cracked and peeling, revealing the gray wood beneath, and several windows were either broken or missing entirely. Dark green tendrils of ivy climbed the walls, twisting like veins across the faded exterior.

I frowned. This was either a project for an ambitious dreamer—or a lunatic.

“Miss Pace!”

The cheerful voice and sound of jingling bells startled me, and I turned to see a petite figure with wispy silver hair bounding down the driveway, waving at me enthusiastically. I’d wondered what type of woman would want to turn a dilapidated mansion into a rescue home for felines, and Edna Twinkleberry did not disappoint. I estimated her to be in her early to mid-60’s and wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t reach more than five feet wearing heels. She was pleasantly plump, with pink cheeks and a button nose, and clad in a neon-green sweater with embroidered cats wearing Santa hats attached with tiny silver bells—the source of the jingling sound. A green beret was perched on top of her head, and a pair of oversized, red-framed glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, her breath forming little puffs in the icy air.

I managed a polite smile. “Good morning, Miss Twinkleberry.”

“Edna will do, dear,” she said, grabbing my hand with surprising strength and leading me toward the house. “Isn’t it magnificent? Just look at it! A bit of paint, some new shingles, and voila—a treasure restored to its former glory!”

Her enthusiasm was endearing, even as I stared at the rotting steps and imagined the lawsuits waiting to happen. “It’s… certainly got potential.”

“Exactly!” she said, beaming as she bravely grabbed the cracked railing and marched up the porch. “I knew you’d see it. Come inside. There’s so much I want to show you.”

The moment I stepped inside, the scent hit me—a combination of mildew, dust, and something faintly metallic, and I felt my nose wrinkle reflexively in response. The entryway was vast, with a high ceiling and a grand staircase that had definitely seen better days. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs stretched between the chandelier and the crown molding like ghostly tinsel.

Edna was unfazed. “This is the foyer,” she announced, spreading her arms wide. “Picture it: garlands wrapped around the banister, a nine-foot Christmas tree sparkling in the corner, and cats lounging elegantly by the fire.”

I eyed the crumbling plaster and the warped floorboards. “It’s…quite the vision.”

She laughed, a warm, gravelly sound that echoed in the empty space. “Oh, I know it’s a bit rough around the edges, but that’s what makes it exciting! Come, let me show you the parlor.”

She practically skipped across the dusty floor, her bell-covered sweater jingling merrily as I followed.

The parlor was worse. The wallpaper hung in peeling strips, revealing the cracked plaster beneath, while a fireplace dominated one wall that had a mantel covered in grime. A once-grand chandelier dangled precariously from the ceiling, its crystals dulled by decades of neglect.

Edna clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

I hesitated, trying to find something positive to say. “It’s…unique.”

“Yes!” she crowed. “Unique is what we need for the sanctuary. Imagine it: cozy armchairs upholstered in red velvet, twinkling fairy lights strung across the room, and kitties curled up everywhere—happy, purring, and festive!”

I tried to picture it, but my mind stubbornly clung to the present reality of broken windows and a sagging ceiling. “Um, it’s certainly ambitious.”

Edna beamed and pulled a small notebook from her bag. It was covered in stickers—cats, of course—and filled with notes in looping handwriting. She flipped it open, showing me sketches of cat trees shaped like Christmas trees, paw-shaped cushions, and a detailed schedule for “cat adoption tea parties.”

“It’ll be magical,” she said, her voice softening. “This house deserves to be loved again. It’s been forgotten for too long.”

For a moment, I saw a flicker of vulnerability, realizing that she wasn’t just chasing a dream—she was holding onto something deeply personal.

“Why this house, Edna?” I asked gently.

She hesitated, her green eyes suddenly clouding. “Oh, I have my reasons,” she said, her tone evasive. “But that’s a story for another time. Now, let’s see the dining room!”

By the time I returned to the Wintervale Resort, my scarf was dusted with snow, and my boots were caked in mud. I dropped my bag by the door and flopped onto the bed, exhausted. My coffee from earlier had gone cold, but I sipped it anyway, savoring the faint taste of nutmeg.

The day had been… overwhelming. Edna’s passion was infectious, but the sheer scale of the project was daunting. As much as I admired her vision, the practical side of me couldn’t stop listing the obstacles: permits, funding, safety hazards. It was obvious she had no idea what she was getting into with the property.

I kicked off my boots and opened my laptop, ready to dig deeper into the case. As I scrolled through the files Marjorie had sent me, a familiar name jumped off the screen: Jacob Wilder.

My stomach dropped. It couldn’t be….

Jacob. The boy who had once promised me forever. The man who had left without so much as a backward glance. And now, apparently, the attorney representing the opposition.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. The idea of facing him again—of seeing those piercing blue eyes and that maddeningly confident smirk—made my chest tighten.

“This is going to be the worst Christmas of my life,” I muttered to myself, feeling like I’d just discovered a piece of coal in my stocking.

With a resigned sigh, I shut the laptop and curled up on the bed. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Wintervale in a quiet stillness. But inside, my thoughts were anything but quiet.