Chapter Text
The relentless Los Angeles sunshine fought a losing battle against the holiday cheer aggressively plastered inside the coffee shop. The scent of dark, bitter espresso and peppermint syrup hung thick in the air, clashing oddly with the faint, fake smell of pine from the few, brightly lit Christmas decorations. An instrumental version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” played softly over the speakers, a cheerful soundtrack to Ava Silva’s current pragmatic cynicism.
Ava Silva, dressed in a smart professional pantsuit, sat at a small, wobbly table. She used the wait for her order to study a thick, elegant wedding invitation. It was for her best friend, Camila. The card read: “You are invited to Camila and Todd’s wedding.”
Camila and Todd. A legitimate, un-tabloid-worthy happy ending. Good for her.
A minute later, the barista called out, “Ava Silva?”
Ava rose and walked to the counter. The barista slid a brown paper bag and a holiday-themed to-go cup toward her. “I have your decaf soy vanilla latte and a gluten-free bagel,” the barista said.
“Thank you,” Ava replied, reaching for the items.
A familiar, irritating voice right behind her drawled, “And thank you.” Before Ava could register the movement, her meticulously chosen, guilt-free breakfast was gone.
“That is my breakfast, Michael,” Ava scoffed, turning sharply to face her colleague.
Michael, a tabloid photographer whose large camera strap cut diagonally across his chest like a badge of dishonor, shrugged. “Yeah? Well, here's your dinner, baby.” He motioned to a large, suspiciously full envelope tucked under his arm.
Intrigued, Ava took the envelope. “Ooh, thank you."
Michael took a long sip of her coffee and grimaced, shaking his head. “Yech. Decaf. What's the point of that?”
Ava’s gaze dropped to the expensive, bright blue running shoes peeking out beneath his jeans. “Nice shoes,” she observed.
“Hey, that Chalamet kid can run. I gotta keep up,” Michael explained with a weary grin.
As they walked out of the coffee shop and entered the sterile, air-conditioned lobby of a large office building, Michael nodded toward the package in her hand. “Aren't you gonna check 'em out?”
Ava held the envelope up to her head, eyes closed, pretending to receive a psychic signal. “Photos of a married actor cheating, hmm?”
“Come on, you know that true love is a myth,” Michael pressed, nudging her shoulder. “You've been single long enough. Shouldn't be, though. I like your hair like this.”
Michael reached out and touched Ava’s brown, shoulder-length hair without invitation. She immediately recoiled, stepping back and shaking him off.
Boundaries, Michael. Always crossing boundaries.
“Give it up, Michael. I'd like to think that true love is only a myth for the rich and famous, which is why we have these lovely photos of—”
She pulled the stack of glossy, high-resolution pictures from the envelope and looked at the top one. “Wow,” she breathed.
“Yeah. Look at it this way,” Michael said, rotating the photo ninety degrees in her hand to reveal a clearer angle of the indiscretion.
“Wow!” Ava gasped, staring at the evidence, pulling it closer, then pushing it away, genuinely shocked at the clarity of the betrayal captured on film.
Michael’s cell phone chimed, its intrusive ringtone yanking him back to his next hustle. He checked the text. “Ooh, Rosalia’s eating sushi. I gotta go. But next time get me a double espresso and a cheese Danish."
****
Ava stood just outside the dressing room of the bridal shop, a delicate white veil pinned haphazardly to her hair. She turned to watch her best friend struggle with the main attraction: a massive, intimidating white gown.
“Brace yourself,” Camila called out from behind the heavy, rustling folds of fabric.
“Oh, Camila. You look...” Ava started, searching for a kind word that wouldn't be a lie.
Camila, catching her own reflection in the oversized mirror, groaned, hands braced on the massive skirt. “Like meringue exploded.”
Ava gave a sympathetic shrug. The dress, an inherited family heirloom, was certainly... substantial.
“I'm a giant powder puff!” Camila lamented, starting to twist her hands in stress.
“You know, we'll fix it. It’s okay. Okay,” Ava soothed, stepping forward to help fluff and straighten the voluminous bottom of the dress.
Camila took a deep, fortifying breath, trying to regain her determination. “So all the women in Todd's family wear it, and I'm gonna wear it. It's a love tradition.”
She abruptly switched subjects, pulling the veil from Ava’s head and putting it on her own. “Todd’s cousin Adriel has been asking about you. He's very… handsome."
“He's orange,” Ava stated flatly.
“Yeah. Actors have to spray tan. It’s part of the job. What about Carl?” Camila countered.
“Uh, he's 4'10", and besides, I'm married to my job,” Ava said, her tone shutting down the conversation.
Married to the job – it’s safer. It doesn't break your heart or make you look like a fool on a magazine cover.
Camila sighed, a gust of air heavy with friendly frustration. “I don't understand why you still work for that gossip rag."
Ava gave a tired sigh of her own. “Because the bills don't pay themselves."
“I'm serious, Ava. You’re Phi Beta Kappa. From Stanford,” Camila insisted.
“Well, I happen to be good at it. Besides, finding a prestigious job with a journalism degree is about as difficult as finding a decent guy in L.A.,” Ava reasoned, folding her arms. The argument was old, familiar, and always ended the same way.
“Cynic,” Camila teased, but her eyes held genuine concern.
“Realist,” Ava corrected.
Suddenly, Camila’s mood shifted, her eyes widening in authentic, immediate panic as she spotted a dark mark low on the front of the skirt. “Smudge!”
“No, no, no! No, no, no smudge!” Ava cried, scrambling forward to adjust the heavy fabric to hide the tiny blot of reality from view.
“I see it! I see it!” Camila insisted, her voice tight with stress.
They quickly worked together to remove the cumbersome dress and hurried to an employee to show her the stain.
“We'll have it out by tomorrow afternoon,” the dress shop employee promised.
Camila’s stress returned full force, palpable in the way her voice rose. “Tomorrow afternoon Todd and I are meeting the florist for last-minute changes,” she told Ava.
“Okay, don’t stress. The ceremony's not tomorrow,” Ava said, gently placing a hand on her friend's shoulder.
“Don't stress? I have every moment of next week planned until I land in Hawaii and someone hands me a little drink with an umbrella in it. I do not have time to pick up this dress again!”
“Okay, Bridezilla, I love you. I will pick up this dress for you tomorrow after the gym, and I will keep it totally safe,” Ava assured her, the promise sincere and a counterpoint to her earlier cold pragmatism.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Ava confirmed.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Camila laughed, relief flooding her face as she hugged Ava tightly.
Ava thought of Camila’s fierce determination to honor this "tradition" and wondered about the pressure of legacy. She was a realist, married to her job, a proud cynic. Camila was an idealist, but Ava loved her for it.
****
The atmosphere in the Crispy! Gossip Magazine office hummed with the electric static of deadlines and desperation. Ava laughed as she and her assistant Chanel walked through the bustling workspace, past rows of cubicles without a single holiday decoration. Ava had just finished showing her the damning, glossy photos from Michael.
“Wow! My illusions — they're shattered,” Chanel breathed, rotating the image in her hands as Ava had instructed, catching the light on the infidelity.
“Wait till you cover your first boy band,” Ava joked. She took the photo back, tapping it against her palm. “They sin, we report. It’s the circle of celeb life, and we can’t feel bad for them.” She paused, giving Chanel a look of practiced cynicism. “Believe me, I’ve worked here long enough to know these folks don’t deserve our sympathy.”
A staffer walked past, nodding at Ava. “Hey, Ava. Good one on ‘Beach Bodies Gone Bad’.”
“Hey, thanks, Randall,” Ava chuckled, basking in the fleeting praise.
Suddenly, the polished oak door of the corner office burst open. Their editor, Francesco Duretti, stood framed in the doorway. His voice, amplified by stress, cut through the office buzz: “Ava! Mary! In my office, pronto! ”
Ava’s stomach twisted. She muttered to Chanel, masking her anxiety with annoyance, “Mary? Why is he calling for Shotgun Mary?”
The sight of Mary’s smug face is enough to ruin my week. I swear, if she tries to scoop me again...
Chanel leaned in to whisper a response, but Ava was already through the door, taking a seat beside her rival.
The air in the editor's office was thicker and colder, a tension that always existed between her and Mary, now physically compressed. Duretti started without preamble, explaining that William Foster had bolted for a rival publication. The launch of Crispy! Gossip Online, the lifeline of their dying print magazine, was now a high-stakes, internal competition.
“We need a story for the launch,” Duretti stressed, his eyes dark with urgency. “So, let’s talk about the Talbots.”
Mary’s face was a mask of calculated blankness. “Talbots?”
“West Coast Kennedys,” Ava supplied instantly, meeting Mary’s eyes with a quick, predatory glance. The game was on.
They rattled off the facts like synchronized newscasters. “Senator John Francis Talbot was gonna make a run for the presidency, but… ” Ava began.
“...died of a heart attack before his plans got off the ground,” Mary finished.
They covered Suzanne, the philanthropic widow, and the two heirs, Beatrice and JC.
“Most of the gossip the past few years has been about JC,” Mary observed.
“Though Beatrice Talbot did have that big breakup with a socialite,” Ava countered, her voice edged with a competitive glint.
“Sinead Crimson,” Mary confirmed, not missing a beat. “Over a year ago. But nobody seems to know what really happened there.”
Ava scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Beatrice wanted to play the field, and her ex got in the way.”
Duretti finally leaned back, delivering the real hook. “The Talbots are gonna be at their Big Bear estate next week for Christmas, first one since the Senator’s death. Rumor has it one of the Talbot siblings has bought an expensive engagement ring.”
Ava's pulse spiked. An engagement ring. A story that writes itself.
“Well, it has to be Beatrice. JC hasn’t had the same girlfriend for two consecutive seconds,” Ava reasoned.
“That’s what I want you to find out. And anything else along the way,” Duretti told both of them, his voice dropping low. “Whoever gets there first.”
Ava’s eyes lit up, her ambition overriding all caution. “Sounds like a challenge.”
“It is,” Duretti confirmed, pointing a stiff finger between them. “You two are my best reporters. Whoever gets this story gets to run the new Crispy! Gossip Online.”
Later that afternoon, Ava was hunched over her glowing laptop in the cramped, airless space of her cubicle, scrolling through old articles and photos of Beatrice Talbot. She smiled at a particularly striking shot. “Hello, beautiful,” she murmured under her breath. Ava was trying to figure out who Beatrice’s current love interest could be, while analyzing Beatrice’s ex, Sinead Crimson, on a magazine cover – After the Breakup: What Now?
Her gaze shot up, a jolt of panic going through her. Mary’s cubicle was a silent, empty square of beige. She walked quickly to Chanel’s desk. “Hey, Chanel, have you seen Mary? ”
“She didn’t come back after lunch today,” Chanel replied.
Ava sighed, a knot tightening in her stomach. Mary was always one step ahead. “Could you find out where she is? I have some errands to run.”
After a brutal gym session, Ava drove to the bridal shop. She picked up Camila’s massive wedding dress, carefully stowing the garment bag into the trunk of her car. Just as she started to close the lid, her phone vibrated. It was Chanel.
“Don’t freak, but Suzanne Talbot arrived at Big Bear yesterday,” Chanel rushed out.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen till next week,” Ava hissed, her voice rising in frustration.
“That’s not all. Mary is already there.”
Ava slammed the trunk lid shut with a dramatic, metallic thud. “What? Mary is gonna get my story!”
“What are you gonna do?”
What I always do — improvise. Survive.
“The only thing I can.”
Ava, still slick with sweat in her thin gym shorts and tank top, threw herself into the driver’s seat. She began the comical process of escaping the impossibly tight parallel parking spot, the tires squealing in protest. Her breath hissed out in rapid, pleading bursts. Squeal. Groan. Her desperate chant filled the closed space — “Not gonna get my story! ”
****
The frantic, glittering energy of Los Angeles was replaced by the deep, oppressive silence of the San Bernardino Mountains. Ava was racing up the winding roads toward Big Bear Lake, the car’s headlights slicing frantically through the thickening, swirling flakes of snow. The temperature had plummeted, and even with heater on, she shivered violently in her inadequate gym clothes.
She was still on the phone with Chanel, the connection sputtering and crackling like old radio static. “Are you sure you have the right address? All I see is snow.” Her voice sounded thin, edged with rising desperation.
“You should be getting close to the Talbot estate,” Chanel’s tinny voice replied through the static.
“Awesome.” Ava gripped the steering wheel tighter. The icy air, which had been a nuisance, was now becoming a true threat.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Just gotta get there. Just gotta beat Mary.
“Ava, did you by some chance pack anything before you dashed off in a competitive fury?” Chanel queried.
“I’ll buy something when I’m up there. Time is of the essence. Mary cannot win.”
“Uh-huh. And have you thought about where you’re gonna stay? It is the week before Christmas.”
The truth hit her like a block of ice. The inns would be booked, the rates astronomical. “Forgot about that,” Ava sighed, the adrenaline draining away.
“Dearest Boss Lady, whom I adore, this is not your clearest thought-out plan.”
“Ha! Can’t turn back now,” Ava insisted, but the signal was already breaking up, distorting Chanel’s voice into an electronic whine. “Chanel? Chanel? Hello!”
The call dropped, leaving a deafening silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic squeak of the wipers struggling against the accumulating snow. A moment later, she pulled up to a heavy, dark chain stretched across a gravel driveway. A sign, almost obscured by the snow, warned: “Private Property - No Trespassing”.
Ava cursed under her breath, and backed up too quickly to turn around. The rear tire slipped, bumping hard into a hidden snowbank. She stomped on the gas, revving the engine, but the tires spun uselessly, churning up a mix of gravel and wet snow that peppered the back window. The car was stuck fast.
“Whoo! Oh, it’s cold!” Ava grunted, getting out to push the car free. The frigid air was an immediate physical shock, stealing her breath. She pushed against the trunk, her gym shorts soaking up melted snow, turning the cold from a chilly sensation into a dull, deep ache that spread through her joints.
“Not working. Not working.” She gave up on the car and started jogging in tight circles, holding her useless phone up to the frigid night air, desperate for a bar of service. Nothing.
She returned to the driver’s seat, sinking down onto the cold leather. Her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. Then she noticed the gas gauge — the needle was flat against the "E." The engine made a spluttering, choking sound and died, plunging the interior into a tomb-like quiet.
“I will not panic,” she mumbled, immediately panicking, and already feeling the hot, tight squeeze of anxiety in her chest. Her eyes darted toward the trunk – the only known source of warmth.
She stumbled out, the cold biting through her trainers, and opened the trunk. The voluminous white garment bag, containing Camila’s heirloom wedding dress, felt like a lifeline. “I am so sorry, Bridezilla, but this is survival,” she whispered, unzipping the bag. “You will thank me when I am still a bridesmaid at the wedding.”
She pulled out the massive gown. The sheer weight and thickness of the silk and taffeta were instantly, wonderfully comforting. “Oh, you must love him,” she murmured, a strange mix of cynicism and awe. Shivering violently, she pulled the gown over her tank top and shorts. The heavy, layered fabric immediately created a pocket of insulating warmth.
Now encased in a ridiculous, oversized fortress of white, Ava stumbled toward the chained-off driveway, and the promise of help. She tripped hard over the chain, falling, and getting the white fabric immediately smeared with mud and wet snow. Scrambling up and forging a path through thick, thorny bushes and dense branches, she slipped on a patch of ice and tumbled, rolling helplessly down a steep embankment. The snow was a blinding, suffocating white, as she fell hard. The last sound she registered was the sharp, distinctive clatter of dropped firewood, before the world went dark.