Twelve Nights with the Ruthless Billionaire: His Christmas Captive

I need two thousand dollars before midnight, and I’m standing in a dress that barely covers my ass no matter how many times I pull it down. Cold air slides up my thighs every time the doors open. I already paid three thousand this week, and if I don’t cover the rest, the people my mother owed before her death will start calling to threaten me. “This thing keeps riding up,” I grumble to my best friend, dragging the hem down again. “It’s basically underwear.” Maya balances a tray of champagne glasses in one hand. Her dress is tight too, but she looks comfortable. Tonight we’re working at some Manhattan Christmas gala through a staffing agency that thinks short skirts increase tips. “Lisa, it’s called a mini dress. Stop fighting it and do your job,” she says. I hurry forward when a couple drops their coats on the counter. The woman barely looks at me. Her gown brushes the floor as she turns away. Her husband’s eyes drop to my chest and stay there a second too long before he looks back up. I shift the coats higher on my arms and focus on the tags so I don’t have to look at him again. I already want to quit. Maya winks when the couple walks away. “That man was practically drooling,” she murmurs. “You better let them look. Men tip when they’re thinking with the wrong head.” She leans closer. “Check the pockets. If there’s loose cash, take some. These rich people won’t notice. Be careful.” “I’m not stealing.” “Stealing?” She snorts softly. “Lisa, it’s survival. Pride won’t pay your bills tonight. It’s eight p.m. You’ve got four hours.” I sigh and start sorting the coats. Maya grabs my wrist and pulls me to the side, startling me. “Your ex just stepped out of the elevator.” My stomach drops. I turn toward the entrance. Marcus stands near the doors with a woman hooked around his arm. She’s tall, her hair pinned back smooth, hips and ass exaggerated under a tight dress like she paid good money for them. People glance at her when they pass. She laughs at something he says and presses her hand against his chest. My lungs forget how to work. He starts to turn his head, and I move fast, slipping behind the giant Christmas tree beside me. Pine needles scrape my arm, but I stay there anyway. Maya follows. “Why are you hiding? He’s the one who cheated.” “I don’t want him to see me.” “See you doing what? Working?” I gesture down at the dress. Her expression changes immediately. Marcus always knew how to make me feel small without raising his voice. He’d drop little comments that stuck for days. Your s*x drive is exhausting. You’re always broke. You’re going to end up like your mother. Eight months ago, I walked in and found him in bed with another woman. Sometimes I still see it when I’m trying to fall asleep. “Oh. Damn,” Maya whispers, peeking around the tree. “His girl is social media famous. Like millions of followers famous.” He upgraded. Good for him. I step out from behind the tree after they move deeper into the ballroom and head back to the counter. “I’m going back,” Maya says. “You okay?” “No,” I say. “But I need the money.” She bumps her shoulder against mine and disappears into the crowd. I keep my head down and focus on the work. Taking coats. Clipping tags. Matching numbers. Behind me, a row of expensive coats hangs on the rack. One feels soft when I touch it, the lining smooth under my fingers. I find the pocket and slide my hand inside. Nothing. The next coat has receipts. Another has a lipstick tube. Another is empty. Do rich people really not carry cash? I reach into the next pocket and feel paper. A folded fifty. My chest tightens. My fingers stay wrapped around it while my brain runs numbers. Fifty is groceries. Fifty is gas money. Fifty is part of the gap I still haven’t closed. I glance toward the entrance. My mother used to say survival wasn’t pretty. People with choices judged people without them. I pull my hand out of the pocket. The event manager rushes toward me. “Lisa. VVIP arriving. Omarion Montgomery. Be sharp. He’s making a quick appearance.” Omarion Montgomery. That name lives everywhere. Business magazines at checkout lines. Screens in office lobbies. News clips people watch while waiting for elevators. Billionaire. Tech empire. Old family money. I straighten my shoulders and step out from behind the counter. The room shifts before I even see him. Conversations lower. A staff member near the doors fixes his posture as he walks past. I spot him. He’s tall. Broad shoulders under a dark suit that fits like it was made for him alone. Maya and I had cleaning shifts at Montgomery Tech months ago. Overnight work. It lasted two weeks, but the pay beat three of my regular jobs combined. Men like him don’t notice people like me. “Good evening,” I say when he reaches the counter. He nods. Up close, his skin catches the chandelier light. Warm tone against the dark suit. His dark hair is cut short and neat. Some people really do get lucky. Billions of dollars and a face to match. A little girl with glasses stands beside him, holding his hand. He helps her out of her coat, careful with the sleeves so they don’t catch on her bracelet. His fingers smooth the fabric of her dress near her shoulder. She clutches a small stuffed elephant in her other hand. Her eyes are red, like she cried earlier. I take the coat and hang it. Omarion's gaze moves down my legs and back up to my face. Heat crawls over my skin as I suddenly remember how short this dress is. I look away and grab the ticket tags. The clip misses the hole. I have to punch it again. “Papa, I want to go home,” his daughter says. “We will leave soon. One hour.” She shakes her head hard. He gives her a firm look. I speak before I think it through. “There’s a children’s area down the hall,” I say, looking at her instead of him. I point toward the hallway. “That way. Left side.” “That’s not necessary. She stays with me.” “Of course, sir.” He turns and disappears into the crowd, still holding her hand. Ten minutes later, my feet hurt so much I step away from the counter. I’m not supposed to leave, but I can’t feel my toes anymore. I sit on a bench near the hallway and slip off my heels, rubbing my skin until the ache eases. “Hi.” I look up. Omarion’s daughter stands in front of me. Up close she can’t be more than six. Her eyes are large and striking. One gray. One green. “Hi,” I say. She sits beside me without asking. Then she says, “I hate Christmas.” I blink. “I’m not a fan either,” I say. The words come out before I decide to share them. “My mom died on Christmas Eve four years ago.” Images push in whether I want them or not. Snow on the street. Blood soaking through my hands. Hospital lights. Machines beeping and my mom struggling to live. “My mom died last year,” she says. “In December.” My throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” I say. She holds out a bracelet made of plastic beads. The string hangs loose between them. “I made this for her at school. I wrapped it as her present. Papa says she’s gone to heaven and is an angel now. I want her to come take me.” She pauses. “Is your mommy an angel?” I press my lips together. Angel isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think about my mother’s life. The men. The drugs. The danger. The fear. “My name is Lisa,” I say. She points at my name tag. “I’m Zara.” She swings her feet. “I don’t like parties. Mommy didn’t either. Papa doesn’t. Mommy said people are loud.” “I don’t like them either.” She studies my face. “You talk soft,” she says. “Like Mommy.” My heart starts beating faster. A shadow falls over us. I look up. Her father stands there. He looks at her first. Then at me. His gaze drops briefly to my bare feet, then to the loose bracelet string hanging from Zara’s wrist. Something changes in his face for a second before it disappears. “Zara, you shouldn’t be talking to strangers,” he says. His voice stays calm, but it carries weight. Zara’s fingers tighten around mine before I can move. “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my hand back. “She came over. I wasn’t—” He turns to his daughter. “Get your coat. We are leaving.” His gaze flicks to my thighs, then back to my face. She shakes her head and grabs my hand again. “I want her,” Zara says. “She’s my new friend.”