Five years of marriage, and I had never once been allowed at my husband's family Christmas. Tonight, I found out why. Through the frosted window of the Blackwood estate, I watched another woman kiss him under the mistletoe. A little boy tugged his sleeve. "Daddy! Lift me up to the star!" And in my coat pocket, my fingers were still wrapped around a positive pregnancy test. That morning, I had been the happiest woman in Manhattan. Two pink lines. After three years of trying. After three years of Adrian kissing my forehead every time I cried in the bathroom and saying, "It'll happen, Nora. Keep taking your vitamins." I sat on the cold tile and laughed until I sobbed. Then I looked at the clock and remembered what day it was. Christmas Eve. The one night a year my husband belonged to someone else. "Blackwood Christmas is blood only," he told me our first December, straightening his tie in the mirror. "Grandmother's rule. Spouses earn a chair after ten years. It's archaic, I know. But she's ninety-one. I can't fight her on this." So I didn't fight either. Five Christmases, I ate alone. Five Christmases, I set one plate, watched old movies, and waited for a phone call that came later every year. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself it was love. But today I had news that couldn't wait until morning. And Adrian had left his late mother's cufflinks on the dresser. The ones he wore every Christmas Eve without fail. I held them in my palm and felt my heart race like a teenager's. The perfect excuse. I'd drive to Greenwich. I wouldn't go inside. I'd hand them to him at the door, whisper the news in his ear, and leave before his grandmother ever saw me. One secret moment. Just ours. The drive took an hour through thickening snow. The iron gates were closed, but the service entrance stood open for the caterers. I parked behind a florist's van and walked up the gravel path, heart hammering, the test buried in my pocket. Music drifted from the house. Laughter. The clink of crystal. I followed the light to a tall window at the side of the house and looked in. The dining room was enormous. A table long enough to seat forty. A tree that brushed the ceiling. Candles everywhere. And there was Adrian. Charcoal suit. Sleeves pushed up. Laughing in a way I had not heard him laugh in years. Beside him stood a woman in emerald silk. Vivian Cross. His executive assistant. I'd met her twice. The second time, she'd squeezed my hand and told me the Blackwood Christmas rule was "so charming, so old world." She was wearing his grandmother's pearls. A little boy ran across the room. Four years old, maybe. Dark curls. And when he turned toward the window, I saw his eyes. Storm gray. Heavy lashes. Adrian's eyes. "Daddy! The star!" My husband scooped him up without hesitation and lifted him high toward the top of the tree. The boy set the star in place. The whole room applauded. Vivian slid her arm around Adrian's waist, rose on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. Nobody gasped. Nobody looked away. At the head of the table, an old woman in black lace raised her glass. A photographer stepped forward. "Family portrait! Everyone in close!" They gathered. Adrian in the center. Vivian at his side. The boy on his hip. Flash. My family. Except I wasn't in it. The cufflinks slipped from my fingers and vanished into the snow. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel anything. Just the plastic edge of the pregnancy test cutting into my palm. Then a hand closed around my arm. I spun around. An older woman in a black housekeeper's uniform stood behind me, her face drained white. "Mrs. Blackwood," she whispered. "Oh, sweetheart. You were never supposed to see this."