End Game

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Aurora

The holidays at the Westbrook estate had always been more performance than celebration. The tree in the foyer stood tall and perfect, its branches trimmed by professionals to match the house's red-and-gold palette. The dining table glittered with fine china and crystal, and the centerpieces probably cost more than my tuition.

From the outside, it was breathtaking—magazine-worthy.

From the inside, it felt like a cage.

I stood in the polished living room, watching my parents glide from guest to guest with their flawless smiles. My father, Governor Duncan Westbrook, could've been mid-campaign rally with the way he shook hands and told stories about his glory days. My mother, pearls gleaming under the chandelier, laughed at all the right beats, her voice practiced, her posture impeccable.

Everything sparkled—except me.

Conversations floated around me, all of them laced with bragging rights disguised as small talk: Ivy League admissions, Aspen chalets, corporate mergers. Waitstaff offered trays of hors d'oeuvres I had no appetite for. This wasn't Christmas. It was theatre.

And all I could think about was Nate's house.

The smell of lasagna in the oven. The warmth of mismatched string lights. The way Kelly had flour dusted through her hair, Hannah with frosting smudged across her cheek, both of them laughing as Aurora—the outsider—was instantly folded into the chaos. Nate's moms had bickered playfully over pasta sauce while Lucas cracked jokes that made Nate laugh until his face turned red.

That was Christmas. Messy, loud, imperfect. Real.

The contrast was blinding.

Here, laughter was clipped and polite, nothing more than another cue in the script. Every move calculated, every glance weighed against reputation. Love wasn't unconditional; it was transactional, handed out like a reward when you played your part well enough to uphold the Westbrook name.

Nate's family wasn't perfect. They spilled things, argued, forgot rolls for dinner. But their love wasn't tied to appearances. It was steady. Generous. Honest.

My parents' affection felt like currency. One misstep, and you were cut off. I knew that better than anyone.

I thought of Nate's moms hugging me goodbye, Karen whispering, "Come back anytime, sweetheart. You're family now."

Family. The word felt foreign here.

My father's voice boomed across the room as he launched into one of his college tales, exaggerated for effect. My mother's laugh followed, bright but hollow, like glass about to crack.

I glanced down at my designer gown, the fabric heavy against my skin. My whole life, I'd been dressed up and paraded around like part of the décor. But after being with Nate's family, after seeing what love could actually look like, I couldn't unsee it. I couldn't unknow it.

I wanted to be back in that small kitchen, cookies cooling on the counter, Nate's laugh shaking the table, warmth wrapping around me like a blanket I never wanted to let go of.

The thought of returning to Nate filled me with a longing so fierce it hurt. But reality had a sharp edge: my parents would never accept him.

Tears stung at the corners of my eyes; I blinked them back.

The difference between my family and Nate's wasn't only money or manners. It was the way love lived in the rooms. Nate's house had warmth that wasn't curated for a camera. My parents' world was polished and transactional—affection doled out as reward for compliance. After tasting something real, I wasn't sure how much longer I could survive inside this performance.