Christmas dinner is a performance—pretending the food tastes better than it does, pretending the company is welcome, pretending family isn't just another word for people you're stuck with.
Catherine has transformed the Bennett dining room into a holiday magazine spread.
Crystal glasses catch candlelight like frozen tears waiting to fall. Cloth napkins fold into elaborate shapes that probably have names I'll never learn. The extended table groans under enough food to feed a small army, and we sit around it like soldiers waiting for someone to fire the first shot.
"The turkey is absolutely divine, Patricia." Catherine's voice carries that particular brightness reserved for women performing civility.
Mrs. Bennett's smile doesn't reach her eyes as she accepts the compliment with measured grace.
"Richard's mother's recipe, actually. We've been using it for generations in this family."
The subtle emphasis on this family lands exactly where she intended it to land. I reach for my water glass just to have an excuse to move my trembling hands.
The bracelet slides cool against my wrist, silver catching candlelight. Caleb's gaze drops to the metal circling my arm, and his expression softens imperceptibly.
Mia sits to my left, her presence a gift I didn't know I needed until she showed up.
"Catherine insisted I come," she'd whispered at the door earlier. "Something about moral support."
Catherine, bless her observant heart, had noticed more than I gave her credit for.
Caleb occupies the chair to my right, close enough that I feel heat radiating from his body. Every nerve ending on that side of me hums with awareness, skin prickling pleasantly. His presence feels like standing near a fireplace in winter—dangerous and warm and necessary.
Across the table, Lucas sits beside his mother with a bruise still fading along his jaw.
My stomach clenches at the sight of him, nausea rising thick in my throat. He hasn't looked at me once since we sat down for this elaborate holiday charade. His eyes stay fixed on his plate, on his glass, on anywhere that isn't my face.
Good. Keep those eyes down where they belong, you absolute monster.
Caleb, by contrast, hasn't looked anywhere else since I walked through the front door. The adults chat around us like everything is perfectly normal and fine and not at all insane.
How can they not see Lucas for what he is beneath that practiced, charming smile? How can they sit here passing gravy boats while a predator carves turkey across from me?
The blindness infuriates me more than the forced proximity ever could manage to do.
"The market's been volatile, but we're positioned well for Q1," my father says to Mr. Bennett. The rich aroma of gravy steam rises between them as dishes pass from hand to hand.
Richard Bennett nods sagely, swirling wine in his crystal glass. "Diversification is key in uncertain times, William. Our firms could learn much from collaboration."
The business talk feels rehearsed, lines from a script neither man wrote but both perform flawlessly. I push roasted potatoes around my plate, their buttery scent turning my stomach.
"Serena, dear, you've barely touched your food." Mrs. Bennett's voice drips with concern so sweet it could rot teeth.
The weight of everyone's attention presses against my skin like something physical.
"Just saving room for dessert," I manage through a smile that makes my face ache.
Mia's foot presses against mine under the table in silent solidarity and shared suspicion.
"The ham is excellent," Caleb says, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Everyone turns to look at him with varying degrees of surprise at his voluntary participation.
"Thank you, Caleb." Mrs. Bennett's response carries frost beneath its politeness. "I'm glad someone appreciates the effort."
Catherine clears her throat and launches into a story about her volunteer work at the hospital. I watch the adults perform their careful dance of diplomacy and barely concealed hostility.
Mr. Bennett's jaw tightens whenever Catherine speaks, like her existence personally offends him. Mrs. Bennett shoots icy smiles across the table that could freeze champagne mid-pour. My father laughs too loudly at jokes that aren't funny, the sound grating against my ears.
"More wine, anyone?" Richard asks, already reaching for the bottle.
The glug of liquid filling glasses marks time passing. Plates are cleared with efficient hands, and the evening crawls toward dessert.
The chocolate torte arrives on a silver platter, its dark surface gleaming under the chandelier. Rich cocoa hits my nose, almost overwhelming. The server places slices before each of us with reverence usually reserved for religious offerings.
My father's fingers drift to his watch. Twist. Release. Twist again. Three times in under a minute—the same nervous tic he had the night he told me Mom's cancer had spread. Catherine's hand slides over his forearm, her wedding rings throwing tiny prisms across the tablecloth like scattered warnings.
Across from them, Mr. Bennett's palm covers his wife's in perfect synchronization. The gesture is too smooth, too rehearsed. They've practiced this moment, I realize. Choreographed it like a scene in a play where I don't know my lines.
The chandelier above us seems to drop lower. The walls lean inward by inches. Every breath I pull feels borrowed, rationed, like the room has decided there's only so much oxygen left and I'm no longer entitled to my share.
Mia's eyebrow quirks. What's happening?
I wish I knew.
Mr. Bennett sets down his dessert fork with deliberate precision, the soft clink echoing.
"Before we continue, Patricia and I have some news to share with everyone tonight."
My stomach drops. William smiles nervously, his fingers finally still against the white tablecloth. Catherine beams with the particular glow of someone convinced good news is imminent.
"Our families have become quite close over these past months." Richard's politician voice fills the room. "Given recent events, we've discussed ways to strengthen that bond permanently."
My hand finds Caleb's under the table, fingers intertwining with desperate urgency. His grip tightens immediately, his palm rough and warm against mine.
Mrs. Bennett's voice takes over, sugar-sweet and terrifying.
"A more formal arrangement, really. A union that would benefit everyone involved substantially."
"A merger," my father adds.
The word lands with the weight of a death sentence. I cannot breathe. Cannot think. Can only squeeze Caleb's hand until my knuckles ache.
Lucas finally looks at me, and his expression holds triumph poorly disguised as reluctant acceptance. The candlelight catches something dark in his eyes, something hungry.
He knew. He sat there all evening playing his part perfectly.
Caleb's hand has gone rigid in mine, every muscle locked against the explosion building inside him. I can feel violence coiling beneath his skin, rage building behind careful silence.
"Isn't this wonderful news?" Mrs. Bennett prompts into the stretching silence.
My father nods, pleased with himself. "The families united properly at last. Elizabeth would have been so happy for you."
My mother's name in his mouth, used to justify this cage they're building around me. The torte's sweetness turns bitter on my tongue.
Catherine leans forward, her eyes finding mine with warmth that makes this so much worse.
"We think it would be wonderful," she says gently, reaching across to touch my free hand. Her fingers are warm against my frozen skin. "When you're both ready, after college—"
She pauses, and the silence stretches like something about to snap.
"—for Serena and Lucas to marry."