The Christmas Contract

The Performance

Walking into the gala on Derek Marshall’s arm was like stepping onto a stage where every critic held a magnifying glass. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, expensive perfume, and ambition. A hundred pairs of eyes snapped at us the moment we crossed the threshold.

I felt the stares like physical touches—curious, calculating, envious. I kept my chin high, my smile polished and serene, the mask of Maya Chen, flawless event planner, firmly in place. Derek’s hand rested on the small of my back, a steady, warm pressure that felt both like a brand and an anchor.

“Maya! Darling, you look stunning!” Lydia Sterling descended upon us in a cloud of rose-scented air and burgundy taffeta. Her sharp eyes took on Derek, lingering on the coordinated emerald of his tie. “And this must be the famous Derek. We’ve heard so much.”

“All good things, I hope,” Derek said, his voice a smooth, charming rumble as he shook her hand. His smile was brilliant and utterly convincing. “This is an incredible event, Ms. Sterling. Maya’s been modest—she didn’t tell me she was responsible for what looks like pure magic.”

Lydia beamed, preening under the praise directed at her firm’s work. “She’s our secret weapon. And please, call me Lydia.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ve quite stolen the spotlight from a certain hotel heir, you know. He’s been sulking by the ice swan for twenty minutes.”

My stomach tightened. Evan was here. Of course, he was.

Derek’s hand pressed a fraction more firmly against my back. “I can’t imagine why anyone would look anywhere else,” he said, his gaze dropping to me with a warmth that made my breath catch. It was a masterful performance.

We circulated. Derek was a natural. He remembered names, asked questions about people’s work, laughed at the right moments. He played the part of the proud, supportive boyfriend seamlessly. He brought me a glass of champagne, his fingers brushing mine. He leaned in during a tedious speech by a venture capitalist about holiday philanthropy, his lips close to my ear.

“If he says ‘synergy’ one more time, I’m going to synergize this shrimp fork into my eye,” he whispered, his breath tickling my neck.

A genuine laugh bubbled out of me, bright and unexpected. I saw a few heads turn, smiling at us. See how happy they are, their looks said. The act was working.

Then I saw him.

Evan stood across the room, watching us. He held a tumbler of whiskey, his expression unreadable from this distance, but his posture was rigid. Celeste was nowhere to be seen.

“Heads up,” Derek murmured, his playful tone gone. “Nine o’clock.”

“I see him.”

“Want to make a statement?”

Before I could answer, Derek guided me toward the dance floor. The quartet was playing a slow, jazzy rendition of “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.” He turned me into his arms, one hand settling on my bare back. The touch was electric, a shock of heat on my cool skin.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” I whispered as we began to move.

“The plan is adaptability,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. “Look at me, Chen. Only at me.”

So I did. In his arms, the world narrowed to the space between us. The feel of his hand on my back, the solid strength of his shoulder under my palm, the way his green eyes seemed to see past every one of my carefully constructed walls. We moved together as if we’d done this a thousand times. It was effortless. It was terrifying.

“People are staring,” I breathed.

“Let them.” His thumb stroked a slow arc on my spine. “You’re perfect.”

The word, from him, didn’t feel like a demand. It felt like an observation. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, dancing in his arms, surrounded by twinkling lights and the sound of soft music, I felt perfect. I felt seen.

The song ended, fading into applause. Derek didn’t let go immediately. He held me for a beat longer, his gaze dropping to my lips, and in that suspended second, the noise of the gala fell away. There was only the rapid beating of my own heart and the unspoken question in his eyes.

Then he released me, the moment shattered. “You need to mingle with your clients,” he said, his voice back to business. “I’ll find the bar. This champagne is for show, not sustenance.”

He pressed a quick, soft kiss to my cheek—a natural, boyfriend-like gesture—and melted into the crowd, leaving me standing alone on the dance floor, my skin burning where his lips had been.