SILENT NIGHT BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER SIX

ARIELLA

I don’t understand why the woman at the community center insisted I volunteer today, but when she added that I’d get paid, the decision made itself. Money is money, and I need every cent.

So I called Owen ,my only friend.

“Cover for me at the pub, please,” I beg as I wipe down tables before leaving my shift.

“You owe me food,” he says dramatically.

“I already owe you half my life.”

“Then make it three-quarters.”

I laugh—soft, tired, but real. “Thank you.”

We sit outside the pub for a while, watching people hurry through the cold. Owen tucks a strand of blond hair behind his ear, eyeing me with that overly observant stare he loves to use.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s just charity work. And who knows—maybe you’ll meet some rich guy who wants to sponsor a sad little phoenix.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

But the word “phoenix” makes my chest warm.

When I get home, a small one room apartment that the pub gave me I strip off my hoodie and catch sight of the tattoo in the cracked mirror. The phoenix stretches across my back, wings curling toward my shoulder, flames wrapping around my left arm in black and red ink.

Owen convinced me to get it two years ago.

“You rise every time, Ari,” he’d said, needle buzzing in his hand. “You don’t even see it, but you’re a phoenix. Burned, broken, but still standing.”

Back then, I didn’t feel like one.

Some days, I still don’t.

But it’s the only thing on my body that makes me feel powerful.

I pull my sleeve up and wince at my bruised knuckles. They’re swollen—still healing from last week’s fight. I grab the ointment, dab it on carefully, and wrap my fingers before covering them with a fresh pair of gloves.

By the time I finish dressing, it’s almost time to leave. I throw on simple clothes: black jeans, a shirt, a jacket that barely blocks the cold. Nothing special. Nothing that attracts attention.

When I arrive at the venue, the noise hits me first. Kids running, laughing, chasing each other through the booths. Volunteers handing out food and small gifts. Music playing. The air smells like hot chocolate and roasted chicken.

For a second, I’m ten years old again.

Rushing out while my father was out gambling.

Hoping the charity group would come.

Hoping for a sandwich, a cookie, maybe a smile.

Pretending it was magic.

I swallow the memories down. Hard.

Then I pick up a tray of drinks and start serving.

“These are for you,” I tell a little boy with big brown eyes. His face lights up, and he grabs one with both hands like it’s gold.

“You’re pretty,” he says.

I snort. “You need glasses.”

He giggles, and I feel something tug in my chest. Something warm.

Then I feel it.

A stare.

Sharp. Burning. Heavy.

I look up—and freeze.

A man stands on the small stage. Tall. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Broad shoulders filling out a suit that looks too expensive to be anywhere near this crowd.

Handsome is an understatement.

But it’s his eyes—intense, focused, like he’s seeing something impossible—that make my skin prickle.

He’s staring at me.

Why?

Do I know him?

I force my expression to stay blank, refusing to let whatever heat he sparks show on my face. I look away and go back to serving drinks, pretending my heart isn’t suddenly too loud.

My phone vibrates.

Owen.

I step aside and answer. “Yeah?”

“Ari, the Madam is back. She’s asking for you.”

Of course she is.

“Okay. I’m coming.”

I hand my tray to another volunteer and slip away through the crowd as fast as I can. Away from the noise. Away from the children.

Away from that man and the way his stare awoke something new and deep in me.