The house wears midnight better than I do.
Light spills from every window of the cliffside mansion, turning the glass into a collage of reflections—sequins, crystal, white teeth, the flash of a camera catching someone’s perfectly arched laugh. Speakers hidden in the crown molding pour out jazz remixes of holiday standards, the bass threading under the chatter like another heartbeat. The air tastes like champagne and smoked salmon, layered with the faint sting of sea salt that sneaks in every time a door opens to the terrace.
At the far end of the ballroom, Evelyn is holding court.
She stands beneath a massive arrangement of white orchids and spruce branches, a glass of vintage champagne in hand, her gown a sleek column of midnight blue that makes her diamond bracelet flash like a warning light. Guests orbit her in concentric circles, each one trying to edge closer to the warmth of her attention. I watch her laugh at something a hospital board member says, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve, the Mercer crest embroidered at the cuff of his jacket.
“Look at this,” Daniel murmurs beside me, leaning in so his breath brushes my ear. “They all showed up. Even the Finnegans. Remember how they used to boycott New Year’s because of the boat parade traffic?”
I follow his gaze toward the French doors, where Mr. and Mrs. Finnegan stand with a cluster of yacht-club friends, drinks in hand. Beyond them, the harbor glows with strings of lights topping masts, remnants of the Mercer Foundation’s Light the Harbor parade. Everyone in town knows who stands on which deck; tonight, the hierarchy continues indoors, etched in where people stand in relation to Evelyn.
“Guess the waitlist moved fast enough for them this year,” I say.
Daniel chuckles, missing the edge in my voice. “You’re getting good at the local jokes.”
I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles race upward. My bruised ribs complain under the fitted bodice of my dress, a deep ache every time I breathe. I keep my other hand carefully away from the banister whenever I pass the staircase, fingers curling instead around the stem of crystal.
“Mrs. Mercer,” a woman in silver sequins trills as she glides past us toward Evelyn. “This is spectacular. You outdo yourself every year.”
“You’re too kind,” Evelyn replies, warmth turned up just enough to toast the compliment. “We wanted to end the year with gratitude. For community, for health, for the work the foundation’s been able to do. Harbor Glen is such a special place.”
The words float across the room like perfume, landing on people’s skin and making them glow. Gratitude. Community. Health. None of them hear the missing words: sealed records, falsified certificates, babies who never made it to donor plaques.
I sip my champagne to hide the taste in my mouth.
A waiter passes with a tray of canapés, the scent of truffle and warm pastry threading through the room. I shake my head when he offers, stomach cramped. The smell of charred wood from the outdoor fire pits seeps in whenever the terrace doors open, mixing with cold air and a faint hint of hospital disinfectant drifting up from the hill. Harbor Glen’s whole ecosystem is here—salt, woodsmoke, antiseptic, and money.
“You okay?” Daniel asks quietly.
“Fine,” I say. “Just pacing myself.”
His hand settles on the small of my back, fingers pressing lightly, guiding me away from the crowd. “Come on,” he says. “I want to show you something.”
I let him steer me along the edge of the dance floor, past couples swaying under the chandelier and a group of younger guests taking selfies with the harbor behind them. The Mercer crest gleams on every cocktail napkin, stylized waves stamped in silver. Even the ice bucket holding the champagne bears the logo, icy water beading on the curves.
Daniel pushes open a side door leading to one of the smaller sitting rooms, quieter and dimmer than the ballroom. A gas fireplace on the far wall flickers behind glass, throwing soft light on velvet armchairs and a low table stacked with art books no one has ever opened.
He closes the door behind us, muting the party to a low hum.
“Classic move,” I say, perching on the arm of a chair because sitting fully feels like giving up ground. “The hero pulls the heroine away from the ball.”
“You say that like I have a script,” he replies, smiling nervously. “Which, okay, fair. Mom definitely has a script. I’m more improv.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What are you improvising?”
He takes a breath, raking a hand through his hair, messing up the careful part his barber gave him. “I wanted a second with you before midnight. Without her. Without everyone.”
The fire pops softly, a manufactured imitation of real wood. My phone rests like a stone in my clutch, a silent third party in the room.
“Hannah,” he says, and my name comes out that soft way he used to say it when we were still sharing tiny apartments and cheap wine. “I know this winter hasn’t been… easy.”
“That’s one word.”
“I know I’ve been defensive,” he continues, ignoring the edge again. “About my family. About Mom. About Lydia. I know I haven’t always listened the way you needed me to.”
I force my fingers to unclench from around the champagne flute, setting it carefully on the table. “Daniel—”
“Let me finish,” he says quickly. “Please.”
I bite back the instinct to interrupt. He steps closer, hands hanging at his sides, like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.
“I hate that you’ve been scared in this house,” he says. “With the car, with the stairs—”
“Those weren’t weather patterns and old carpets,” I say.
He flinches. “I’m not saying they were. I just… I don’t know what happened. I know you’ve had a lot thrown at you. This trust document thing, that investigator calling you, your mom’s history with the hospital. It’s a lot.”
“It’s not a ‘thing,’” I say. “It’s evidence.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But tonight is New Year’s Eve.” He tries a small smile. “Remember? Fresh starts? Resolutions? All that?”
I can feel the flicker inside me, the one that still wants the easy version: champagne kisses at midnight, whispered promises to travel more, be kinder, go to therapy together. The version where the Mercers are flawed but essentially decent, and I’m just stressed.
“What are you asking me for?” I say.
“A truce,” he says. “For tonight. For this year, really.” He takes another breath. “I want us to choose each other again. To stop letting… speculation and outsiders come between us.”
“Outsiders,” I repeat.
“Hannah,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You married into a complicated family. I know that. But we do a lot of good. You see what the foundation does for the hospital, for the town. Scholarships, NICU expansions, mental health clinics—”
“Do you think good deeds cancel out whatever else they’ve done?” I ask. “Is that how it works for you? For them?”
His jaw tightens. “I think,” he says slowly, “that families make mistakes. Big ones. And sometimes holding onto them forever doesn’t heal anyone. It just keeps everyone bleeding.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I ask. “Keeping everyone bleeding?”
“I think you’re hurting,” he says, eyes searching mine. “And I think people like Riley are good at taking hurt and… bending it. Turning it into a weapon.”
Riley’s name hangs between us, sharp as broken glass.
“You mean people like your sister?” I say quietly. “Or whatever she is to you.”
He flinches again, shoulders hunching. “We don’t even know that’s true,” he says. “You said yourself the tests aren’t back. We have half-stories, Hannah. Conspiracy theories and burned papers and your mom’s fuzzy memories from twenty years ago. I’m not saying ignore it forever. I’m just asking you to stop letting it eat our entire marriage.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
“Then I’m afraid,” he says, voice suddenly raw. “Afraid I’ll lose you. Afraid you’ll lose yourself in all of this.”
The longing hits me then, hard and fast. I can see, for one blinding second, the life we almost had: small apartment, maybe a dog, New Year’s Eve on a couch instead of a cliff. No donor walls, no second daughter trust, no Lydia-shaped hole swallowing all the light.
He reaches for my hand. “Can we have a fresh start?” he asks. “New year, new… us? We can go to couples therapy, we can set boundaries with my mom. I’ll talk to her about backing off. We’ll deal with the scary stuff, but not like this. Not with you sneaking around and me finding out about it in pieces.”
“So your resolution is that I stop sneaking and accept your family’s story until we have ‘better’ evidence,” I say.
“My resolution,” he says carefully, “is that we stop assuming the worst of each other. That we stop acting like enemies.”
We both know he means that I stop acting like an enemy of his mother.
The fire hisses softly behind the glass. On the other side of the door, someone starts a countdown to eleven o’clock, voices stretching the numbers into a sing-song chant. We still have an hour to go.
“I miss you,” he says. “The you who laughed with my cousins over board games, who loved the harbor lights, who said she was excited to build traditions here.”
I remember that woman too. She walked into this house thinking the Mercer crest meant safety. She took pictures of the Light the Harbor parade because she thought philanthropy plus boats was charming.
“I’m still here,” I say. “But I know more now.”
“And I’m asking,” he says, squeezing my hand, “for the chance to catch up. Without Riley Shaw and her files dictating every move we make.”
My phone vibrates once in my clutch, a phantom buzz that might be nothing. My skin prickles.
“You want me to choose you,” I say. “Over her. Over this.”
“I want you to choose us,” he says. “Over destroying everything.”
The word hangs there. Destroying. Not exposing. Not correcting. Destroying.
I gently pull my hand back. “What if the only way to have an ‘us’ is to pretend the rest isn’t real?” I ask. “Is that really what you’re offering?”
His shoulders sag, frustration and hurt warring in his eyes. “I’m offering to fight for us,” he says. “I just don’t want the fight to be with my mother in the middle of a town that worships her donor wall.”
A beat passes where I can almost hear my own heart ticking.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
He exhales, a mix of relief and disappointment. “Okay. I’ll take that for now.”
A knock on the door interrupts us. A staff member pokes her head in. “Ten minutes to the fireworks, Mr. Mercer,” she says. “Your mother asked if you’d be on the terrace for the toast.”
“We’ll be right there,” he replies.
When she disappears, he looks at me, boyish hope flickering. “Walk out with me?”
I hesitate, then nod. For appearances, at least. For the version of me the town expects to see.
Back in the ballroom, the energy has shifted. People clutch their drinks tighter, voices louder, laughter a little edged. The band has moved into full-on party mode, the singer counting down minutes between songs. Evelyn stands near the open terrace doors, framed by golden light, greeting each guest as they step out like she’s blessing them into the new year.
“There you are,” she says when we approach, her gaze sweeping over us in a quick, assessing scan. “Everything all right?”
“Fine, Mom,” Daniel says. “Just needed a breather.”
Her eyes flick to me, pausing for half a heartbeat on my face. “Big nights can be overwhelming,” she says, tone sympathetic enough for anyone listening in. “Especially after… everything. I’m glad you have Daniel to steady you.”
The hand she lays on my forearm is cool, the pressure light. From the angle, no one else can see her fingers dig in, just for a second.
“Happy almost New Year,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m sure it’ll be a memorable one.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I intend to make sure of it.”
We step onto the terrace.
The cold hits first, a shock after the overheated ballroom. My breath puffs in small clouds, catching the glow from the string lights laced along the railing. Below us, the harbor stretches out, dotted with yachts and sailboats, their outlines still dressed in lights from the parade. The Sound looks like black glass, reflecting the first test sparks from the fireworks barge anchored offshore.
The air smells like salt and woodsmoke from the fire pits, with a faint underlying chemical tang from the hospital’s vents drifting across the water. Even on New Year’s Eve, the Mercer name moves between saving lives and rewriting them.
Guests cluster in small groups along the railing, their laughter rolling out over the dark water. Some raise phones, ready to record the fireworks for feeds that will later tag the Mercer estate, the Mercer Foundation, HarborGlenNYE.
“Thank you all for being here,” Evelyn calls out, lifting her glass. Conversations quiet obediently. “This year has reminded us of the fragility of life and the strength of community. Harbor Glen has weathered storms before, and the Mercers are honored to help light the way into a brighter future.”
A murmur of approval ripples through the crowd.
“To health,” she continues. “To family. To legacy. And to the children whose lives we are privileged to touch through our work.”
My skin crawls. Children whose lives we are privileged to touch. The phrasing fits both the NICU and the off-the-books adoption files.
Around me, glasses rise. Crystal clinks like tiny bells.
I lift mine halfway, lip curling around the rim but not drinking. Daniel’s shoulder brushes mine, his body pressed close for warmth and optics. To anyone watching, we look united.
“Ten,” someone shouts, looking at their watch.
The crowd picks up the count.
“Nine… eight…”
Everyone focuses on the sky, on the promise of light.
I focus on my clutch.
“Seven… six…”
I slip my phone out, screen lighting my face in a pale rectangle. Notifications stack along the top—party tags, a group text from my college friends, a random promotional email. No new ones from Riley.
I open our thread anyway.
“Five… four…”
The last message I sent her was about mailing the DNA kits, a simple “Done.” She responded with a thumbs-up and a “Buckle up.”
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
“Three…”
In the background, Evelyn’s voice blends into the chant, her tone bright and sure. She is making her own resolutions tonight—I can hear it in the way she says legacy, in the way she looks at the hospital lights across the water like they’re part of her body.
“Two…”
I think of Daniel’s face in the small sitting room, the way his voice shook when he said he was afraid of losing me. I think of my mother’s tremor over the phone, of Mrs. Donnelly’s fire, of Riley in the library turning my body into evidence.
“One…”
My thumbs move.
I type: I’m in. All the way.
Fireworks explode as I hit send, a blossom of white and gold that paints the harbor bright. The sound hits a second later, a deep boom that vibrates in my ribs. People cheer, hugging, kissing, champagne sloshing over the rims of their glasses.
My message whooshes out into the signal-saturated night, a tiny digital flare aimed at the only person who has offered me a way out that isn’t denial.
Daniel leans in to kiss me. I angle my face so his lips catch my cheek instead of my mouth. His surprise flashes through his eyes before he covers it with a smile for the crowd.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers.
“We’ll see,” I say.
On the hill, the hospital windows shine like a second constellation. On the terrace, Evelyn laughs with a donor whose name is etched in bronze on the foundation wall. In my hand, the phone screen goes dark again, message sent.
Fireworks keep blooming over the water, bursting and fading, leaving smoke that drifts slowly toward the shore.
Somewhere between the bangs and the cheers, I feel the quiet click inside me, like a lock turning.
This year will not belong to Evelyn Mercer.
Whatever the DNA says, whatever the cost, I’ve just made sure of it.