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Great. Another mental image I have to keep out of my head.

“Sounds good.” I stand up after her and walk down the stairs to my office, with only a mild ache in my balls.

The first thing that catches my attention when I check my email is a message from Elena's lawyer. Subject line: Settlement - Follow Up.

I click on it with the same enthusiasm I’d bring to a root canal.

The gist is simple enough. Elena remains unsatisfied with the settlement offer, believes the division of assets is inequitable, and insists that direct negotiation between the parties would resolve matters more efficiently than continuing through counsel. She feels “personally slighted” by my refusal to engage with her directly. The January seventh hearing is referenced as a deadline of sorts. Either we reach an agreement by then, or we proceed to what her lawyer euphemistically describes as “a more formal resolution process.”

Two years of this. The lake house was mine before I met Elena. I bought it, renovated it, and lived here alone for three years before she ever set foot in the place. Our marriage lasted six months before she left me and abandoned her daughter, and now she wants more money because the previous settlements I have offered—which were, frankly, generous—didn’t feel like enough.

I forward the email to my attorney with a short note: See below. He’s as used to these messages as I am. There’s no need to say anything further.

Elena. In some ways she was a terrible mistake, but I could never regret what we had because she brought Sophie into my life.

Her daughter. The one whose thighs I can’t look at without getting hard.

I sigh and drag my fingers through my hair. Elena used to be the clear bad guy. Now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s me.

The roads are clear enough that the Range Rover handles the main highway without complaint. Sophie sits in the passenger seat with her notebook open on her lap, pen tapping against the page as she reviews her list, and I try not to think about the words I saw written in there.

The town appears ahead of us, nestled in the curve of the valley, Main Street lined with old brick storefronts and Victorian lampposts wrapped in garlands of evergreen. Every shop window is lit. The snow on the sidewalks has been shoveled into neat, slushy piles, and pedestrians move between them in heavy coats and boots, shopping bags swinging from mittened hands.

“God, it’s festive,” Sophie says, rolling down her window despite the cold. The wind catches a few strands of her dark hair, and she laughs as she pushes them out of her eyes. I allow myself a brief look and smile. I love seeing her like this.

We park in the municipal lot behind the bookshop and walk back to Main Street. It’s cold, but the sun is out. Sophie takes pictures as we walk down the street—a toy shop with a mechanical Santa waving in the window, a tiny trailer draped with lights surrounded by Christmas trees for sale, a boutique where the mannequins are wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and antler headbands.

“Look at that,” she says, pointing. “We should get matching ones.”

“I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Our first stop is the bookshop. Sophie spends ten minutes browsing the shelves before choosing a bright, graphic book with colored pages from the “Trending on #BookTok” section. Next, she drags me into a gift shop filled with scented candles, handmade soaps, and Christmas ornaments. The kind of store that sells decorative objects that serve no clear purpose. She picks out a ceramic mug for a friend and a small box of chocolates for one of her professors.

At the counter, Sophie hands over her purchases while I inspect a display of tiny glass Christmas trees. One of them costs forty-eight dollars.

“Does it do anything?” I ask the woman behind the register.

She blinks. “It’s an ornament.”

“So, no.”

Sophie grabs my sleeve and steers me toward the door before I can ask any more questions.

The sidewalks are crowded. A woman in a red coat nearly walks into me because she’s too busy admiring a display of hand-knit scarves in a window. A group of carolers has set up outside the bank, singing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” Sophie stops to listen for a minute.

“Come on,” I say gently. “One more stop.”

The specialty food shop is at the end of Main Street, in a narrow storefront with leaded glass windows and a door that jingles when you push it open. The warmth hits immediately—woodstove heat, mixed with the smell of spices and sugar and fresh bread. The shelves are crowded with imported chocolates, artisanal jams, and olive oils in dark glass bottles.

Sophie wanders toward a display of Christmas sweets while I browse the shelves, adding some imported chocolates and a jar of fancy mustard to my cart. I stop at the coffee selection and pick up a bag of Ethiopian beans.

I hear her before I see her. A gasp, followed by a whispered “Oh my God.”

I turn. She’s standing in front of a display at the back of the store, both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide.

“Vince. Vince, come here.”

I walk over, coffee beans still in hand, and look at what she’s looking at.