For seventeen-year-old Anna, Christmas had always sparkled with cinnamon-scented memories—until Dad married Melanie. The woman perfected the art of backhanded compliments:
“That sweater makes you look… festive.”
“How generous of your father to spoil you again.”
But Anna bit her tongue. After losing Mom a decade ago, seeing Dad happy was worth enduring Melanie’s poison-dipped smiles.
One week before Christmas, Dad pressed a gold-foiled box into Anna’s hands. The velvet bow gleamed like fresh blood against the wrapping.
“Don’t open this until morning,” he murmured, his eyes oddly bright. “I’ll call when you do.”
The box weighed nothing yet everything. Anna placed it under the tree, unaware it was a trap—and Melanie was about to spring it.
Dawn crept through the curtains as Anna tiptoed downstairs—only to freeze at the sight of Melanie shredding the wrapping like a rabid animal.