THE BILLIONAIRES CHRISTMAS CONTRACTS

❄ · ❄ · ❄ At 9:42 on a Saturday night, in front of eight hundred people and a string quartet, Vittorio Marchetti sold his daughter, and he did it with a toast. Elodie Marchetti had been smiling for three hours, and her face had begun to file a complaint. Now it filed a second one. The ballroom of the Drake glittered around her like the inside of a jewelry box. Eight hundred guests moved between the ice sculptures, every one of them holding a glass and an opinion. The Marchetti Foundation Winter Gala had started thirty years ago as a folding table and forty guests, her mother's idea, paper snowflakes taped to a church-basement ceiling. Now men paid fifty thousand dollars for a seat, mostly to be photographed near a name that meant chocolate. “Cara.” Her father's voice came through the speakers, warm and rounded, the voice he used when he wanted a room to love him. Vittorio Marchetti stood at the head table with his glass raised and his silver hair catching the chandelier light. “A toast, if you will indulge an old man.” “My daughter has worked herself thin for this company,” he said. “She has given it her weekends, her holidays, her twenties. And so, tonight, I am pleased to tell you that in the new year Marchetti will join hands with Voss Provisions, a partnership between two families who understand tradition.” Polite applause rolled across the ballroom. At the next table a man with sandy blond hair and an excellent suit lifted his glass toward her, like a buyer approving a horse. Anders Voss. Thirty-six, handsome as a catalog, heir to a company that had been circling hers for two years like a patient shark. “And I am delighted to say,” her father went on, “that my Elodie will sit at the head of the new board, once our family is…” He paused, and let the room lean in. “…settled.” There it was. Not a proposal. A transaction wearing a tuxedo. Last week, in his study, he had been gentler about it. He had poured her espresso and said the word gently, the way you say a diagnosis. A company is a family, cara, and a family needs a table. The voting shares were in his trust and would stay there until he decided otherwise. If she wanted the chair on January second, she would bring someone to the table by Christmas. If not, Voss's man would take the chair, and Marchetti would become a name on a box owned by people who thought caramel was a cost center. Elodie set down her glass very carefully, the way you put down something you might otherwise throw, and walked out of the ballroom without running. Running would have been noticed. The terrace beyond the coat check was empty, cold, and blessedly dark. Chicago spread below the railing in a long scatter of lights, and the wind came off the lake with real teeth. She pressed her bare shoulders against the stone pillar and breathed in until her ribs ached. “Your father is selling you,” said a voice from the shadows. She nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Eavesdropping is a poor look on anyone.” “I was here first.” Julian Hale stepped out from behind the second pillar, one hand in his pocket, the other holding half a salted-caramel truffle. A Marchetti truffle. He looked at it as if it had personally disappointed him, and then ate the rest. She knew him the way you know weather. Hale Meridian, ships and ports and a thousand quiet miles of ocean, built by his grandfather and now by him. The financial papers called him the Iceberg. They had met twice. Both times he had corrected her arithmetic, and both times he had been right, which was worse. “These are too sweet,” he said. “They're supposed to be.” “Hm.” He ate nothing else, but he did not leave, and that was strange. Men like Julian Hale left rooms the moment they were finished with them. He stood with the lake wind lifting his dark hair, and she noticed, against her will, that he looked tired in a way money does not fix. “I have a problem,” he said, “and you have a problem. They are the same problem.” “I'm not in the mood for a merger.” “It isn't a merger. It's a contract.” He drew a card from his inside pocket and held it out. Cream paper, a law firm's name, a handwritten line of numbers. “My grandmother Odalys holds the deciding vote in the Hale family trust. The trust has a clause my grandfather wrote in a mood. By Christmas Eve, at Hollin Hall, I present a fiancée to the family or the company is split among my cousins, who would sell it to the highest bidder before the new year's champagne went flat.” Elodie stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be engaged to you.” “I want you to do it better than I could do it alone. Thirty-one days, December first through the thirty-first. Hollin Hall, Vermont, for the last twelve. Separate bedrooms, written in. No one touches anyone unless an audience is present, and even then only as much as an audience requires. In January we part quietly, citing differences. Your father, hearing that you were seriously engaged at Christmas, hands you the chair. His clause is met. Mine is met.” The wind pushed a strand of hair across her mouth. She tucked it away with a hand that was not quite steady. “How do you know about my father's clause?” “Because it's the same clause.” His mouth moved, a ghost of something that was nearly dry humor. “Fathers and grandmothers. They find the same hammer for every nail.” She laughed. She could not help it, a short, startled sound that came out of her like steam from a kettle. For the first time all night, her smile was real, and she saw him notice it, saw something flicker across his face and be put away, very fast. “That's the most romantic proposal I've ever received,” she said. “It's not a proposal. It's terms and conditions.” He pushed the card an inch closer. “It's six pages. I wrote it on the plane.” “You wrote a love contract on a plane.” “I wrote a contract about not needing love,” said Julian. “It's a different document.” She should have walked away. She had known him for nine minutes in total, and in those nine minutes he had insulted her chocolate, overheard her family's humiliation, and tried to hire her like a contractor. But through the glass doors she could see her father at the head table, his hand resting on Anders Voss's shoulder, laughing at something. Her father's laugh. The one she had spent her life trying to earn. And she thought about the paper snowflakes, and her mother's hands, and the three hundred and twelve shops that smelled like her childhood, and she thought: nothing rises on its own. Elodie took the card. “If I read this,” she said, “and I hate it?” “Then you tell me which parts, and I will either fix them or defend them.” Julian was already turning toward the door, and he said the next thing without looking back, so quietly the wind nearly took it. “Though I would like it known that I haven't asked anyone else.” He went inside. The glass doors sighed shut behind him. She stood alone with the lake and the lights and a card still warm from his pocket. Then she took out her phone and typed, to a law firm she had never heard of, at ten o'clock at night: