Merry Christmas
1726 Words
Adrian watched the city from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, the skyline glowing with the warmth of holiday lights.
Everywhere he looked, there were reminders of Christmas — giant ornaments hanging from streetlamps, ice-rink advertisements, banners screaming joy and love.
Words that meant nothing.
He used to love Christmas once. Before he learned that the season was just another performance for the Kane family.
His mother’s diamond-bright smile that hid her misery. His father’s perfectly wrapped lies.The “picture-perfect marriage” that was nothing more than an ongoing PR campaign.
People believed love was magic. A miracle.Adrian knew better: love was leverage.
His phone buzzed on the desk behind him.
Upcoming Event: Kane Family Christmas Fundraiser — December 10
A bitter sound slipped from his throat. That was the one event he could never escape. Cameras. Paparazzi. His father’s arm around his mother like a choke chain. Reporters asking questions they already had the answers to.
This year, though… it would be different.Elena Hartley would stand beside him.
He glanced at the closed contract folder on his desk. She had signed. She was his.
And the real work began now.
David knocked softly and poked his head in.
“Ms. Hartley is in the conference lounge. She’s ready to go over the schedule.”
Adrian nodded once, smoothing his tie as he left the window behind.
Elena was waiting for him, scrolling through her phone, tension in her posture but fire in her eyes. As soon as he stepped closer, she shoved her phone into her purse like she’d been caught plotting.
“Alright,” she said, crossing her legs. “Let’s see what I’ve sold my soul for.”
Adrian opened the folder and slid a printed itinerary toward her.
“Public appearances,” he said. “We start immediately. Photos. Sponsorship outings. Charity involvement. My company’s Christmas commercial shoot, the gala on the 10th, and—”
She frowned and pointed at one line.‘Hand-holding required for public relationship optics.’
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” He leaned back, calm. “Optics matter.”
“And what if I don’t want your hand anywhere near me?” she fired back.
He almost smiled. “Then consider it part of your performance.”
She muttered something under her breath — definitely an insult — but kept reading.
Mistletoe Moments — Scheduled Interaction
Her eyes snapped up. “Mistletoe?”
“Holiday gimmicks,” he replied coolly. “People love them.”
“And this ‘no-touch clause’?” she asked, tapping a section with her nail.
“That is for private settings,” he corrected. “We keep our distance unless cameras are watching.”
She pushed the paper away with a smug little shrug. “I don’t need to be close to you anyway.”
Adrian moved to stand beside her, reaching for a different document and accidentally brushed his hand against hers.
The contact was brief. But electric.
Elena froze. He did too. Then she quickly pulled her hand back, cheeks unexpectedly warm. “I thought you said no touching.”
“That—” Adrian cleared his throat. “—was an accident.”
Her lips curved. “Of course it was.”
He needed to redirect. Fast.
“There’s one last detail we need to discuss.”
Elena frowned. “And what is that?”
“You’ll be moving into my penthouse,” he said plainly.
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You and I are meant to be in a committed relationship. It has to look real. Living apart isn’t believable.”
“That wasn’t in the contract,” she snapped.
“It falls under public rebranding requirements,” he replied without a blink. “People don’t find love in separate apartments, Ms. Hartley. They live together. They spend nights under the same roof. My investors must believe this relationship is real.”
Elena crossed her arms tightly. “I have a home. A life. A business to run.”
“And you can run it from anywhere.” Adrian stood, buttoning his jacket. “My driver will pick you up from your place tonight.”
He stopped by the door, turning to look at her briefly. “You don't need to bring much things, I am wealthy enough to provide whatever you need.” he walked out leaving Elena annoyed by his arrogance.
***
The black SUV rolled to a smooth stop, and Elena stared up through the tinted window at the towering building before her.
Of course Adrian Kane lived in the kind of skyscraper that brushed the winter clouds.
The entrance alone screamed money. White marble steps wrapped in frosted greenery led up to revolving glass doors framed with gold ribbon.
A twenty-foot nutcracker soldier stood guard beside a glittering sign that read: Kane Residences — Private Access Only.
She swallowed hard. She didn’t belong here.
The driver walked around and opened the door for her. The cold December wind slapped her cheeks, it was the kind of cold that belonged to penthouse owners, not people like her chewing through last month’s rent.
She stepped out, hugging herself as she looked up again.
Lights spiraled up the building like a giant champagne glass dressed for Christmas.
Inside, the lobby was pure winter fantasy. Crystal snowflake chandeliers dangled from the ceiling.
The floors were polished enough to reflect the enormous Christmas tree in the center — covered in white roses, glass icicles, and gold lights.
Her one-bedroom apartment had a plastic mini tree she bought at a discount store.
A staff member approached — young, polished, wearing an earpiece.
“Ms. Hartley?” he asked.
She nodded.
“This way, please. Mr. Kane is expecting you.”
They entered a private elevator with velvet walls, soft music, no buttons. The staff used a card, then touched a hidden screen. The doors closed soundlessly.
Elena pressed herself back, staring as numbers climbed. Fifty… sixty… seventy… Penthouse.
Her stomach twisted.
The doors opened into a world she had only ever seen in magazines.
Wide windows revealed the entire city glittering under Christmas lights. The air smelled like cedar and expensive candles. A massive stone fireplace glowed beneath a wreath the size of her bed.
And at the center of it all… a Christmas tree reaching toward the ceiling, decorated with hand-blown ornaments that looked like they cost more than her studio’s monthly rent.
This wasn’t a home. This was wealth showing off.
“Your room,” the staff member said, guiding her down a hallway that belonged in a luxury hotel.
The door opened automatically.
Elena froze.
It wasn’t just a bedroom — it was a suite. A queen-size bed dressed in navy silk faced a wall-to-wall window with a view of snow-dusted rooftops below.
A chandelier hung above a plush white rug. A second door revealed a bathroom large enough to host a small party — marble tub, gold fixtures, steam shower.
Her entire apartment could fit into this room twice.
Before she could say something, there was a soft chime from the earpiece in his ear.
“Mr. Kane requests your presence in the living room,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Elena took one last look at the room, too grand, too perfect, then followed him back down the hallway.
Adrian stood near the window like some aloof prince of the city, hands in his pockets, suit tailored to arrogance. The skyline glowed behind him, lights flickering like applause.
He glanced over his shoulder when she entered.
“So,” he said with a hint of amusement, “what do you think of your accommodations?”
Elena forced a short laugh, folding her arms. “Nice. A little bigger than my place… you know, just a tiny bit. Only about the size of my entire building.”
“Good,” he replied calmly, as if genuinely relieved. “You’re here to play the role. The environment must reflect that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, wouldn’t want anyone to think your fiancée has a normal life.”
His lips curved — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Exactly.”
Then he nodded once toward the hallway.
Within seconds, staff arrived like summoned magic. Three stylists, arms full of garment bags and velvet cases. A woman wheeling a rack of shimmering dresses. A man carrying boxes stamped with designer names Elena couldn’t pronounce.
Her heart dropped.
“What is all this?”
“For you,” Adrian said. “Your current… wardrobe isn’t suitable for public photographs.”
The words hit like a slap.
Her chest tightened. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”
“They’re fine,” he corrected, as if the word offended him. “But not exceptional. Not for my partner.”
His gaze swept over her slowly — deliberately — from the curve of her hips to the soft fullness of her thighs… the cinch of her waist… her freckled skin… her brunette curls.
“You’re…” he paused, finding the word, “not exactly the usual standard.”
Elena’s nails dug into her palm. “You mean I’m not a stick-thin runway model?”
His lips gave the faintest curl. “Exactly.”
Her pride flared, but she stood taller. “I never wanted to be your type anyway.”
Adrian’s jaw flexed — a small c***k in his control. “Good,” he said, voice tight. “Because you’re not mine.”
The tension between them burned hotter than any Christmas fireplace.
One of the stylists cleared her throat nervously. “Mr. Kane, shall we begin fittings?”
Adrian straightened, regaining his icy composure. “Yes. Make sure Ms. Hartley looks the part. We have a schedule to keep.”
“What schedule?” Elena asked sharply.
He stepped closer until she had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze.
“There’s a gala tomorrow night. Midnight December Charity Ball.” His voice softened, but only so the threat landed sharper. “Our first public appearance as a couple.”
Her stomach dipped — fear, panic, and something molten she refused to acknowledge.
“Merry Christmas, Ms. Hartley,” he murmured.
And in that moment, Elena understood:Christmas in Adrian Kane’s world was going to be hell.
- Writer
