Mathéo Boucher: A Christmas Deal

Nine years earlier… “Straighten your shoulders, Mathéo,” Mother scolded, her French wrapping around me as sharply as the edge in her tone. I did exactly as she told me to, squaring my shoulders and pulling my spine straighter, as though an invisible string had been fastened to the crown of my head and tugged upward. The suit jacket I wore fit perfectly, tailored within an inch of its life, hugging every line of my body as if it had been poured onto me. I could feel the structure of it across my shoulders, the slight resistance when I moved, the way the fabric skimmed over muscle that hadn’t been there a few years earlier. Somewhere along the way, my body had finished filling out—broadening, hardening—giving the suit something to cling to instead of simply hanging from my frame. “Let him enjoy himself, mon trésor,” Father murmured, at least having the decency to keep his voice lower than Mother’s. “He does nothing but enjoy himself,” she snapped back. “He’s been gallivanting around New York for the past three months, and now it’s time for him to collect himself and choose a bride.” “Mother,” I whispered, my jaw tightening as I noticed more than one head turn in our direction. “Many people here know French, and you’re not exactly being quiet.” She responded by straightening as well, lifting her chin and surveying the room with a cool, unimpressed gaze. Her eyes moved deliberately from one group of socialites to the next, as if daring any of them to comment. The Winter Auction—this year hosted by Ava Kim—had drawn in everyone who mattered, and a good number of people who desperately wanted to. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble floors, the hum of conversation punctuated by the soft clink of champagne flutes and the rustle of silk gowns. None of it seemed to faze her. Anja Mathéo was a force of nature. At fifty-nine, she still carried herself with the commanding presence of someone used to absolute authority. A retired Michelin-starred chef who had once worked in some of the most prestigious kitchens in Paris, she had traded stainless steel counters and blistering heat for charity galas and social dominance after meeting Antón Boucher. She may not have ruled a kitchen in years, but she ruled the Upper East Side with an iron fist, and everyone—including me—knew it. “He is twenty-eight years old, ma chérie,” Father said calmly, his hand moving in slow, soothing strokes along Mother’s back. “I was thirty-three before I fell in love.” I exhaled through my nose and let my gaze drift across the room, scanning faces I’d seen a hundred times before. Women in gowns worth more than some people made in a year laughed too loudly, leaned too close, smiled with practiced precision. Not a single one of them held my interest. None of them wanted a conversation—real conversation, anyway—and the few who tried only wanted to talk about themselves. Vacations, parties, appearances. Nothing that lingered. Nothing that mattered. Mother’s fixation on my marital status had very little to do with romance and everything to do with damage control. Getting Stefan to do anything remotely responsible had proven to be a losing battle. He was supposed to take over the business after Father, the natural successor by birth order, but ever since college, he had been nothing but trouble. When he dropped out of Harvard, Mother had threatened to disown him entirely, telling him he had one last chance to get his act together or she wouldn’t call him her son anymore. I knew she hoped marriage would do for me what discipline hadn’t done for Stefan—force me to settle, to commit, to grow up in her eyes. Even though I was fully grown. I had finished my business degree. I had completed my internships at Boucher Group. I had sat through board meetings, strategy sessions, and presentations that made my skin itch. I simply didn’t care. The work didn’t interest me, the corporate world felt suffocating, and the idea of spending my life behind polished conference tables made my chest tighten. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. “I do not care about love, Antón,” Mother hissed, her sharp gaze cutting over me again, automatically making me straighten even more. “I care about legacy. And a woman would help you get grandchildren—grandchildren who might actually take an interest in the company.” Father chuckled softly, shaking his head. “If my boys don’t have any interest, they don’t have any interest. They’ll be shareholders, and Gabriel will take over the company once he’s ready.” Mother scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical disdain. She had never been a fan of my cousin Gabriel. According to her, he had lived a silver-spoon life—a ridiculous accusation, considering all of us had. The difference was that Gabriel had done something with it. He had built businesses of his own, proven himself capable, competent, and ambitious. In Mother’s eyes, that somehow made him worse. “You shouldn’t have to give up your legacy to someone other than your own sons,” she seethed, her fingers tightening around my forearm. “See, Mathéo,” she said, nodding toward Amber Nightwall, the youngest of the Nightwall heirs, “Amber didn’t bring an escort tonight. Perhaps you should ask her to dance.” I resisted the urge to grimace. I had already danced with Abigail Nightwall earlier that year. The experience had left my feet sore, and my patience frayed. The conversation had been mind-numbing—thirty uninterrupted minutes about Bora Bora, luxury spas, and people whose names meant nothing to me. Afterward, I had escorted her to the bar and watched as she downed three tequila shots before I’d even managed to order a drink for myself. “I wasn’t interested in her sister,” I said flatly. “Why should I be interested in Amber?” Before Mother could push further, my attention caught on a familiar sight near the entrance. Lydia Conner had just walked in with her family. Brian and Julie Conner looked polished as always, effortlessly elegant, the kind of people who didn’t need to try to command respect. Lydia walked between them, composed and polite, and I felt an unexpected sense of relief at the sight of her. I genuinely enjoyed their company, which was more than I could say for most families in this room. “I see Miss Conner,” I said, gently pulling my arm from Mother’s grasp. “Perhaps she would like to dance instead.” Lydia might have only been sixteen, but I’d danced with her countless times during Mrs. Cornwell’s classes. She was light on her feet, attentive, and—most importantly—pleasant to talk to. Dancing with her would at least occupy me for a few minutes without the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders. “You will not,” Mother said, her grip on my arm tightening as she pulled me back, refusing to let me step away. “Lydia Conner is no match for you. She’s dying to become the heir to her father’s business, not a mother to your future children.” A slow sigh slipped past my lips, the kind born from long practice. I knew that tone well. Once Mother set her mind on something, resistance was nothing more than a brief inconvenience. There was nowhere to run from her expectations, no clever maneuver that would loosen her hold—not here, not in front of half of Manhattan’s elite. “Perhaps I shouldn’t spend my entire evening dancing with young women just to determine whether they’re suitable wives,” I whispered, keeping my voice low, my French careful and controlled. “Perhaps I might simply want to have a good time, Mother.” Even as I spoke, I was acutely aware of what I was doing—lecturing my mother, in our native tongue, in the middle of a formal gathering where everyone important was present. It was reckless, bordering on disrespectful, but frustration had a way of loosening my restraint. I could feel her preparing a response, her posture stiffening, the familiar fire building behind her eyes. But then something shifted. Our attention—hers, Father’s, and mine—was drawn to the double doors at the far end of the room, where a sudden ripple of movement and sound broke through the steady hum of conversation. Heads turned. Whispers fluttered through the crowd like sparks catching dry air. A young woman squealed, the sound high and unrestrained. I didn’t know her name, but I recognized her immediately as a Darlington—Christof Darlington’s daughter. Her family supplied most of the Upper East Side with champagne, their name practically synonymous with luxury and excess. Her great-grandfather had purchased a vineyard in the south of France nearly a century ago, and since then, Darling Champagne had become the most exclusive—and frankly, the best—champagne money could buy. “You actually came!” she cried, hurrying toward the entrance, her excitement so uncontained that her father shot her a sharp, disapproving look from behind. I followed her path with my eyes, watching as she breezed past Tobias and Henrietta Hayden without so much as a glance, clearly aiming for someone standing just beyond them. My brows knit together, curiosity sharpening into focus. The Haydens never brought anyone to these events. Everyone knew they had two daughters. Everyone also knew Tobias Hayden would never allow a woman to run his company. In a world obsessed with lineage and optics, it had long been whispered that Henrietta’s inability to produce a son had complicated matters considerably. Tobias, ever the strategist, had been forced to consider alternatives—chief among them, securing an influential son-in-law. Yet despite all the speculation, despite the endless gossip that followed them like a shadow, the Hayden daughters were never seen. Not at auctions. Not at galas. Not anywhere they could be evaluated, judged, or—more importantly—approached. My mother let out a soft chuckle beside me, drawing my attention back to her. When I looked down, her brown eyes were gleaming with something far too close to delight. “Haven’t you heard, Mathéo?” she asked, clearly savoring the moment—and not kindly. “Heard what?” I replied, leaning closer despite myself. If there was one thing I indulged in without guilt, it was gossip. I rarely involved myself in it, which made listening to it all the more entertaining. “The eldest Hayden daughter has been dumped,” Mother said lightly. Too lightly. “Apparently, she’d been dating a British boy from her school. Over a year together, and he’s now made it very clear—to everyone—that she wasn’t good enough for him.” I straightened, rolling my eyes as I did. Everything Mother said about the Haydens needed to be filtered carefully. There was some kind of feud there, ancient and sharp-edged, though even Father didn’t seem to know its origin. “I’m sure it was mutual,” Father interjected gently, his hand returning to Mother’s back in an effort to steer her away from the subject—and from me. “How old is she?” I asked, my gaze drifting back toward the entrance. “Eighteen,” Mother replied dismissively. That should have been the end of it. A detail filed away, another name added to the long list of people I would never truly meet. But when I looked again, Tobias and Henrietta had already disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by conversation and champagne. Left near the doors was Amber Nightwall and the Darlington daughter—yet they was no longer the center of my attention. The woman standing with her was. She was dressed in soft pink, the color delicate and understated, yet it drew the eye effortlessly. The fabric skimmed her slender frame, moving with her as though it had been designed solely for her body. Her skin was pale, almost luminous beneath the lights, and her hair— Her hair was a wildfire. Fiery red curls framed her face in complete defiance of control, creating a halo of color that made her impossible to miss. It was the kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention but demanded it all the same. And yet, it wasn’t her appearance alone that held me frozen in place. It was her smile. There was something about it—something open, unguarded. When she smiled at Amber, her entire face lit up, as though warmth radiated outward from her. I watched the way her eyes followed Amber’s movements, how attentive she was, how fully present. She didn’t scan the room. She didn’t preen or pose or check who was watching. She was utterly engrossed in the conversation, as if nothing else existed beyond the two of them. I felt it then. A strange, unfamiliar sensation was settling deep in my chest, as though something inside me had clicked into place. “You want to dance, ma chérie?” Father asked nearby. I barely registered the words. “One dance won’t hurt,” Mother replied, already moving toward the dance floor. Then Father’s hand landed heavily on my shoulder, grounding me just enough to tear my eyes away from her—if only briefly. “Don’t let your mother see you looking at her like that,” he murmured, his voice low, conspiratorial. “And besides, my son… Haydens and Bouchers do not mix.” And just like that, they were gone. I stood there alone, surrounded by noise and light and movement, feeling as though the ground beneath me had shifted. As if the axis of my world had tilted without warning. She felt unreal. Like something conjured from my imagination and placed directly in my path. As though every moment leading up to this one had been nothing more than preparation. It didn’t matter what my mother believed. It didn’t matter what my father warned. That woman—this angel, this diamond—would be mine. Even if it was the last thing I ever did.