“Mister! Hey mister! You want some hot chocolate?!” the younger one asks me.

“No,” I reply grumpily, picking up my pace.

I swear her eyes well with tears on the spot. I make it only two steps further before exhaling a heavy sigh, turning back, and withdrawing a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet to stuff into a plastic cup that up until now was only filled with loose change.

“Hey! THANKS!”

I plan to spend Christmas Day chained to my desk. It’s out of necessity, really. This is an incredibly busy season for GHV. The fourth quarter out earns all the others, and it’s also when there are the most fires to put out. Even Alexander seems to be focused on work, a rarity for him.

Beyond that, nothing has changed regarding my betrothal to Lainey.

My father hired a wedding planner after the engagement party I didn’t attend, but I blocked her email address, and when she made another one, I blocked that one too. If the wedding is moving forward, I know nothing about it.

I received a chiding phone call from Papa recently. The moment I answered, he started to berate me in rapid-fire French. Ingrat. Imbécile. Impulsif.

“You make a mockery of her by cavorting all over town with different women.”

Her being Lainey.

“I don’t care if you keep lovers, but you’ll act as if I raised you properly. You’ll behave and show the Davenports more respect than this.”

He assumed his tirade would convince me to fall in line, but I hung up and called Miranda to tell her there was a dinner I thought we should attend. Never mind where; it didn’t matter as long as it felt like a big Fuck you to my father.

All the while, through the turmoil of the holidays and my fighting with my father, I develop a habit I’ve come to rely on, a secret I admit to no one save for my driver, and him only because he’s directly involved. Tuesdays and Thursdays, in the afternoons, if I’m between meetings or otherwise free, I tell him to head to Morgan’s, and when we arrive, he parks in front of the gallery and keeps the Range Rover idling. I don’t plan to get out, and he knows that.

Instead, I sit and peer through the floor-to-ceiling windows, searching for Lainey. I don’t always get lucky, but occasionally I do. Once, she stood right near the front door, talking to an older woman. I didn’t know who she was—an artist, a collector, a dealer—but they were speaking passionately about something, and Lainey’s expressive smile felt almost palpable through the glass. I would have sat there the whole afternoon had my schedule allowed it.

Another time, I caught her as she was leaving for the day, bundled up in thick layers so that I could barely see her face. I looked up to the sky, troubled by the heavy clouds and the promise of more snow. The sidewalks were already covered with a few inches.