The Alpha King Who Saved Christmas

I always tell people I believe in miracles. Just… not for myself. You’d think running a child-rescue foundation would harden me, make me immune to emotional whiplash, but truth is—I’m a softie with premium-grade marshmallow tendencies. Every tiny voice, every small hand I hold in mine, every story whispered in the dark… I carry them all like ornaments on a Christmas tree that’s somehow still standing. This morning is no different. “Miss Sydney… are we safe here?” The little boy in front of me—maybe six, maybe seven—clutches the sleeve of my cardigan. His name is Milo. His eyes look too old for someone who still can’t pronounce the letter R. “Yes, sweetheart.” I kneel so we’re eye-level. “You’re safe. As in super safe. Like… Avengers-level protected.” A small smile escapes him. Score: one point for emotional CPR. Beside him, two other rescued kids—a girl with braided hair and a toddler holding a broken toy car—watch me like I’m either a fairy godmother or a possible disappointment. At Cradle Heart Foundation, you learn quickly: hope is fragile. You don’t play with it. “Would you like to see your room?” I ask gently. The girl nods, timid but curious. The toddler just blinks at me like an owl. “Okay,” I grin. “Field trip time.” My staff follows behind, giving me that look again—the look that says how does she still have energy? If only they knew the truth: my energy is duct tape, caffeine, and prayers whispered over scarred hearts. As we walk down the hallway, warm cinnamon from the Christmas cookies we baked yesterday still clings to the air. Twinkling lights frame the doors. We decorate early here—not because we’re impatient, but because these kids deserve to experience a season that doesn’t hurt. When we reach the small, brightly colored bedroom prepared for the three of them, their reactions hit me like a beam of sunlight. The toddler toddles straight to the plush reindeer on the bed. The girl touches the painted moon on the wall with reverence. Milo, brave little Milo, whispers, “No one will find us here?” I smooth his hair. “No one who would hurt you. And everyone who wants to love you.” His shoulders sag in relief. Behind me, Tasha—one of our longest-serving caregivers—murmurs, “Syd… you do magic with them.” “No,” I say softly. “We all do.” But she just shakes her head, smiling like she knows something I don’t. She probably does. By 10 A.M., I’m in my office answering emails, signing supply requests, and fighting off the yawn that keeps threatening to embarrass me. If exhaustion were an Olympic sport, I’d win gold, silver, bronze, and the Spirit of Sportsmanship award. Then for a moment my phone buzzes. Marcus. Just seeing his name flips a small, faithful switch in my chest. Good morning, love. Reminder: gala tonight, 7 PM. I’ll send the car for you at 5:30. I smile—soft, stupid, helpless. Seven years, and he still texts me reminders even when I don’t need them. Copy, I text back. I’ll be ready. Don’t forget to eat. And drink water. And don’t stress. And— He replies instantly. You’re cute when you’re bossy. I laugh quietly. The truth? I’m excited for tonight. It’s been a while since we had time for just us. He’s always busy managing Hamilton Empire’s charity arm, coordinating events, leading projects… the usual corporate prince agenda. But tonight’s Christmas gala is his big baby—their company’s annual fundraiser—and I’m proud of him. So proud. Maybe that’s why my staff keeps teasing me that I glow whenever his name comes up. I deny it every time. Okay, fine. Maybe I glow a bit. A controlled glow. A glow with boundaries. As I step out of my office, my event team is stringing icicle lights across the lobby ceiling. Trays of faux snow are being positioned beside the reception desk. Someone is testing the speakers, blasting Mariah Carey loud enough for our building foundations to consider suing us. “Sydney, look!” Bea, the head decorator, waves a sample centerpiece at me. “For tomorrow’s outreach tables. Silver pinecones, frosty blue ribbons, and tiny LED stars. What do you think?” “It’s gorgeous,” I say honestly. “Kids will love them. Adults will pretend they don’t love them, but they will.” Bea laughs. “You’re seriously glowing today.” “Stop it.” But I can’t stop smiling. My heart feels full—full of the kids we rescued, full of the work we’re doing, full of the life I’m trying to build… and full of Marcus. Maybe believing in miracles for everyone else… maybe that’s okay. Maybe someday one of those miracles will choose me too. By noon, I’m touring the playroom to finalize tomorrow’s Christmas program outline. The kids are rehearsing a little performance—a Christmas medley they’ve mashed together in the most chaotic yet adorable way. I clap along as they sing off-beat, off-key, and with unmatched enthusiasm. I feel alive. I feel needed. But the truth is… I’m tired. Not physically—heart tired. There’s a weight I don’t talk about. An ache I’ve tucked into the quiet corners of my chest. When the kids cling to me, I feel it. When they cry, I feel it. When they laugh and trust again, I feel it even more. Sometimes I wonder if the reason I believe in miracles for others is because I know exactly what it feels like to need one and not get it. Tasha notices my sudden quiet. “You okay, boss?” “Me? I’m sunshine in human form,” I joke. She gives me a pointed stare. The kind that sees through every mask. “Don’t worry about me,” I say, softer. “Just make sure no one teaches the toddlers how to climb the Christmas tree this year.” “That was one time.” “That was twenty-seven times, Tash.” She snorts. The moment lightens. And I cling to it. Afternoon arrives with the speed of a runaway reindeer. I still have to review the donation list, coordinate snack packs, prepare the kids’ gift baskets, and—oh right—get ready for tonight’s gala. When I finally sit down with my laptop, hot cocoa in hand (I deserve it, don’t judge), I take a quick break and scroll through Marcus’s last few messages. All short, straight to the point. He’s probably buried in work. I sigh. I miss him. We’re together, technically, but busy lives turn even strong relationships into passing ships. But tonight… tonight will be beautiful. It has to be. I shake myself out of my thoughts and jump back into work mode. The rest of the afternoon blurs—meetings, checklists, kids calling “Miss Sydney!” from every direction. My heart manages to keep storing all of it, even if it feels like I’m running on backup batteries. At 4:30 PM, the sky dims with early Christmas dusk. Cradle Heart glows with thousands of tiny lights. And I finally head to my room on the third floor—the quiet, untouched place I retreat to when exhaustion threatens to flatten me like a cartoon pancake. I open my closet. Gowns hang like sleeping stars, waiting. Tonight, I need something elegant. Something soft. Something hopeful. My hand stops at a shimmering winter-blue gown. Blue like frost catching moonlight. Blue like promises whispered in December air. I touch the fabric, and the world stills. This is the one. The gown I’ll wear to the gala, to Marcus’s side, to what I believe is another beautiful chapter with him. I hold it against my chest and smile— unaware that by tonight… my life will split open.