Christmas with My Hidden Alpha

*Noelle* If there’s a patron saint of last‑minute crises, she’s definitely off shift tonight. I hurry down the Hôtel Étoile Royale’s staff corridor in heels, one arm full of emergency candles and gold ribbon, my bag thumping against my hip with every step. Upstairs a jazz trio murders “Silent Night.” The air here smells like chestnuts, bleach, and money. Christmas Eve in Paris: magic for everyone except the person holding it together. “Laurent!” Monsieur Duval’s voice snaps like a mousetrap as I pass the service elevator. “The east balcony lights are flickering. Fix it.” “On it,” I call back, not breaking stride. I shift the candles higher, letting my fingers brush the smooth corner of the wrapped box inside my bag. Two plane tickets to Barcelona, printed and tucked into a silver envelope. A vintage watch I hunted down in three separate flea markets. Three months of skipping takeout to afford it all. If tonight goes the way I’ve rehearsed in my head, I’ll hand Lucas the box on the balcony at midnight. He’ll kiss me, laugh, say, *Noelle, you didn’t have to.* We’ll spend New Year’s under the lights of the Gothic Quarter, and maybe—if the universe isn’t completely cruel—he’ll pull out a ring of his own. The corridor turns near the staff bathrooms. I’m halfway around the corner when Lucas’s laugh drifts out of the partly open storage‑room door. Deep, easy, familiar. I slow automatically. I’m about to knock when a softer giggle—high, breathy—joins him. Camille. I stop. “You know how she is,” Lucas is saying, voice pitched low in that conspiratorial way that used to make me feel special. “Saint Noelle. Always working. Always saving Christmas.” Their laughter overlaps. The words land heavier than they should. My cheeks heat. My fingers tighten around the candles until the plastic crinkles. I plan fairy tales for strangers and live on their scraps. I could keep walking. Pretend I didn’t hear. Add it to the quiet pile of things I swallow so other people can have a perfect night. Instead, I nudge the door open with my hip. The room smells like bleach and fake pine. Under a flickering fluorescent tube, between stacked tablecloths and a rack of chairs, Lucas has Camille pinned to the wall. His hands grip her hips. Her blouse hangs open. Their mouths are locked together. For a second, nobody moves. Then, the candles slip from my arms and hit the floor with a dull clatter. Camille jerks, shoving at his chest. Lucas turns, lips smeared with her lipstick, eyes wide. I see guilt flash across his face—real, sharp—and then it’s gone, shuttered behind annoyance. “Noelle,” he says. Flat. Not *I’m sorry*. Not *this isn’t what it looks like*. Just my name, like I’m an interruption. My chest goes tight. The air thickens. Somewhere, the fluorescent hums. I can hear my own heartbeat through it. “I was looking for you,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “For the toast.” Camille fumbles for her buttons, color flooding her cheeks. “Noelle, I—” “Don’t,” I say, lifting a hand without looking at her. “Please. Just… don’t.” Lucas smooths his shirt and hair like we’re about to step onto a stage. “You’re overreacting,” he says. “You always do it when you’re stressed. You’ve been on edge for weeks about this stupid gala.” “Stupid gala,” I repeat. “The one paying your bonus?” He flinches, then shrugs, as if that’s beneath him now. “What did you expect?” he says. “You’re never home. You sleep with your laptop. You care more about centerpieces than—” he waves a hand vaguely “—us.” “That’s my job,” I say. “It was our Christmas Eve.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make this about Christmas.” “About you being in a closet with Camille at my event?” I ask. A small, sharp laugh escapes me, too high and too loud. “What, did you trip and fall into her mouth?” Camille makes a small sound, mortified. Lucas sighs, the sound pure annoyance. “You’re impossible when you get like this,” he says. “I made a mistake, okay? We can fix it.” Inside, everything is shaking. My hands, my heartbeat, the little box digging into my side. But I’ve spent years training myself not to let the cracks show. “I’m not a broken centerpiece. You glue together before the guests notice,” I say quietly. “I’m done, Lucas.” His eyebrows shoot up. Camille’s eyes go wide. “Done?” he repeats, as if the concept is foreign. I crouch to pick up the scattered candles. The movement gives me a second to breathe, to pull my face back into something that isn’t a sob. “I have a gala to run,” I say. “You have… whatever this is. Merry Christmas.” I walk out before my voice can betray me. --- The ballroom blurs past in glittering fragments: chandeliers, champagne, a towering tree dripping with glass ornaments. Someone calls my name; Duval waves me over from a cluster of investors. I don’t stop. My heels click across marble, carrying me through the lobby, past the doorman’s polite confusion, and out the revolving door into the street. The night slams into me. Snow falls in soft sheets, frosting the sidewalk. The Eiffel Tower glows in the distance, twinkling like it’s laughing at me.