The Christmas Contract

Dress Rehearsal

The emerald gown was a weapon.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the draping silk that fell like a waterfall of dark green over one shoulder. The back was scandalously low, a plunge that ended just above the curve of my spine. It was the kind of dress you wore when you had nothing to hide, when you wanted to be seen. I’d bought it in a fit of defiance after Evan left, a promise to myself that I would one day feel powerful enough to wear it.

Tonight was that night. Or, at least, I had to pretend it was.

My phone buzzed on the dresser.

Derek: On my way. Did you know your brother just interrogated me for 20 minutes about my intentions? I told him my only intention was to not spill wine on your dress. He was not amused.

Me: What did you really tell him?

Derek: That I’d break the legs of anyone who looked at you wrong. He approved. See you in ten, sweetheart.

A nervous flutter took up residence in my chest. Sweetheart. It was just a word, part of the act. So why did it feel like a live wire against my skin?

The Sterling Events Holiday Gala was the pinnacle of my professional year. Held at the Mandarin Oriental, it was a glittering showcase of everything our firm could do: ice sculptures that defied gravity, a string quartet playing modern pop covers, champagne flowing from a fountain shaped like a swan. It was also a nest of vipers. Every socialite, every rival planner, every potential client would be watching, judging, and most of all, gossiping.

I took a steadying breath. Tonight wasn’t just about my career. It was the first test of the contract. The first of the twelve dates. If we couldn’t sell it here, in front of the most discerning audience in Manhattan, the whole scheme would collapse before it began.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it, and all the air left the room.

Derek Marshall leaned against my doorframe, looking like sin personified in a tailored black tuxedo. The jacket was cut perfectly across his broad shoulders, the white shirt stark against his tanned throat. But it was the tie—a deep, shimmering emerald green that matched my dress exactly—that made my heart stutter. His dark hair was slightly less messy than usual, his jaw clean-shaven, and his green eyes swept over me from head to toe with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“You…” I finally managed, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “You got the tie.”

“I told you I would,” he said, his voice low. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The space in my entryway suddenly felt incredibly small. “You, Maya Chen… are a vision.”

It wasn’t the teasing “Chen.” It was my full name, spoken with a reverent seriousness that unraveled me. This was part of the act, I reminded myself fiercely. The committed improv.

“You clean up alright yourself,” I said, turning to grab my clutch to hide the flush on my cheeks.

“Just alright?” He asked, a familiar smirk returning. “I’ll have to try harder.”

He offered his arm. I stared at it, the fine black wool of his sleeve, the steady certainty of the gesture. This was it. The curtain was rising.

I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow. His warmth seeped through the layers of fabric, steady and real.

“Rules of engagement?” I asked, looking up at him.

His eyes met mine, the playful glint hardening into something focused, protective. “Stay close. Follow my lead. And remember,” he leaned in, his breath ghosting my ear, sending a shiver down my exposed back, “for tonight, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room, and you’re mine. Believe it.”

Then he straightened, his public mask sliding into place: confident, charming, slightly possessive. “Shall we?”

We stepped out into the hallway, and with every click of my heels toward the elevator, the line between performance and reality blurred a little more. His hand covered mine on his arm, his thumb stroking absent, reassuring circles. It felt… practiced. Natural.

Too natural.

In the elevator, surrounded by mirrors, I caught our reflection. We looked like a power couple. A team. The green of his tie against the green of my dress was a silent, stunning declaration. We belong together.

He caught me looking. In the reflection, his eyes held mine. “Nervous?”

“Terrified,” I admitted quietly.

“Don’t be,” he said, his reflection’s gaze unwavering. “I’ve got you, Chen. Always have.”

The elevator doors opened to my building’s quiet, marble lobby. The doorman tipped his hat as Derek guided me outside into the crisp December night. A sleek black town car was waiting at the curb—he’d called it while I was getting my coat. The short ride to the Mandarin Oriental was filled with a tense, charged silence, our reflections visible in the dark window. He never let go of my hand.

At the hotel, we moved through the glittering lobby, past towering Christmas trees, and toward the ballroom doors. The muffled sound of music and laughter grew louder. My pulse kicked up a notch.

He leaned down, his lips brushing my temple in a kiss so soft it could have been mistaken for a whisper. “Showtime.”

Then the doors opened, and the roar of the gala spilled over us. The first test had begun.

And as we walked into the sea of sequins and scrutiny, his arm a firm anchor around my waist, I realized the most dangerous part of this contract wasn’t the pretending.

It was how much I wanted to believe it was real.