SILENT NIGHT BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER FIVE

LUCIEN

Marissa waits by the car when I step out of the elevator. She’s bundled in a coat, tablet in hand, already scrolling through today’s schedule.

“Sir,” she greets. “The event begins in forty minutes.”

“I know,” I say, even though every part of me wants to turn around and go back upstairs.

The annual Christmas charity celebration.

The one I’ve avoided for years.

The one my parents loved.

The one they died coming home from.

I dress slowly today. Dark tailored suit. Grey wool coat. Black leather gloves. Polished shoes. I tug the knot of my tie once, glance at myself in the mirror, and force my expression into something calm.

Grandfather wants me there. His voice last night still echoes in my head.

“Lucien, it’s time. Go—for them.”

So I decided to go.

I slide into the back seat beside Marissa, who gives a small encouraging smile before returning to her screen. The drive is quiet, the city decorated with lights and wreaths that feel more haunting than festive.

When we arrive, noise rushes in—laughter, music, children shouting. The venue is an open field transformed with red tents, long tables, strings of gold lights. Volunteers hand out meals, gifts, blankets. Kids sing Christmas songs off-key, and it hits me harder than I expect.

My chest tightens.

Grandfather spots me from across the crowd and waves me over. He looks relieved, proud. I take the seat beside him.

“You made it,” he murmurs.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He chuckles.

Before I settle, the event host suddenly calls out, “Everyone, please welcome Mr. Lucien Deveraux!”

The crowd cheers. I school my expression and step up to the small stage. Marissa discreetly hands me the prepared speech from below.

“Thank you,” I begin, scanning the pages. “It’s an honor to—”

And then I see her.

A woman among the volunteers, handing out drinks to children. Her hair pulled back, shirt slightly oversized, apron tied around her waist. She laughs at something a little boy says, but it’s not the laugh I remember. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

My breath catches.

It's the girl.

The little girl I met all those years ago. The one with the bright smile despite her bruises. The one who disappeared before I could even ask her name.

But she’s not a girl now.

She’s a woman — stunning, grown, still carrying something fragile beneath her tired expression. And I recognize her instantly, like my memory has been waiting for this moment.

She turns slightly.

Our eyes meet.

No shock.

No recognition.

Just a blank, guarded look before she turns away and continues serving.

My pulse kicks hard.

I rush through the rest of the speech—something about hope, charity, community. Words I barely hear myself saying. When the applause comes, I don’t stay for the photos or greetings.

I step down and scan the tables.

She was right there.

I move through the crowd, searching faces, weaving between tents. I check where she served food, the stacks of supplies, even the far corners where volunteers chat and rest.

Nothing.

“Sir,” Marisa calls gently. “We need to leave soon for your next appointment.”

I look over the crowd one last time. I saw her. I know I did. And I’m not losing her again.

“Fine,” I say, turning back to the car. “But we’re coming back.”

I slide into the seat, my heartbeat refusing to calm.

I’ll find her.

I have to.