The Christmas Contract

The Rules of Engagement

My apartment had never felt so small. Or so quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the frantic hammering of my own heart. I’d fled the party shortly after sealing our deal with a handshake that still felt branded on my skin. Derek had stayed, no doubt to “casually” spread the news of our budding romance.

Romance. The word felt foreign and fraudulent.

I poured a glass of wine I didn’t want and sank onto my sofa, burying my face in my hands. What had I done? I’d entered a business arrangement with a man who’d been my arch-nemesis since the Bush administration (or so it felt). To deceive my ex, my family, my colleagues. This wasn’t me. I was Maya Chen, creator of flawless events, not a co-conspirator in some romantic charade.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number.

Unknown: It’s your fake boyfriend. Rules for engagement:

1. No breaking character in public. Ever.

2. We need a meet-cute story. I’m thinking you were dazzled by my cocktail craftsmanship.

3. Pet name status? I’m leaning toward “sweetheart.” You can call me “your supreme annoyance.”

— Derek

A startled laugh burst out of me. I quickly typed back.

Me: How did you get this number?

Derek: Marcus. Rule 4: Share intel. I know you’re allergic to peonies and terrified of clowns. Your move.

Me: …You hate cilantro. You listen to true crime podcasts while you work out. You have a scar above your left eyebrow from trying to jump a bike over a fire hydrant when you were 12.

Derek: Impressive, Chen. Marcus talks too much. Rule 5: We coordinate outfits for events. Send me your gala dress. I’ll match my tie.

The sheer audacity was breathtaking. I stared at the screen, a strange flutter in my stomach that wasn’t entirely anxiety. This was a game to him. A strategic game, just like running his bar. I needed to remember that.

Me: This is a business transaction, Marshall. Not a game.

Derek: All the best things are both. Dress. Send it.

I sighed, but found myself opening my camera roll. There was a photo of the emerald-green gown I’d bought for the Sterling Events Gala. It was backless, dramatic, and nothing like the safe, elegant dresses Evan had always picked for me. I hesitated for only a second before sending it.

His reply was almost immediate.

Derek: Emerald it is. See you Thursday, sweetheart.

Me: Don’t call me that.

Derek: Rule 1, Chen. Practice makes perfect.

I put the phone down, my skin buzzing. This was a mistake. A colossal, beautiful, terrifying mistake.

The next morning, the world had already shifted. A notification popped up on my i********:. Derek Marshall had followed me. His profile was exactly as I’d expected: shots of his sleek, moody bar, Marshall & Rye; pictures with friends; a few of him hiking somewhere rugged. No pointless selfies, no photos with women.

Scrolling further back, years back, I froze. There was a photo from Marcus’s medical school graduation party. A group shot. Marcus was in the center, grinning. I was on the edge, mid-laugh, my head thrown back. And Derek… Derek wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at me. The expression on his face was unguarded, soft, and utterly unlike the smug man I knew. It was the look of…

I shook my head, closing the app. Old photos meant nothing. He was probably looking at something behind me.

My work phone rang. It was Lydia Sterling, my boss. “Maya, darling! I just heard the most delicious gossip! You and Derek Marshall? That gorgeous bar owner? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The news had spread like champagne spill on silk. I pasted a smile into my voice. “It’s very new, Lydia. We wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag! Bring him to the gala, of course. Everyone is dying to see you together!”

As I hung up, another call came in. This time, my mother.

“Maya-ah,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “Marcus told us about Evan being at the party. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Ma.”

“And he said… you were with Derek now?” The disbelief was palpable. “The one who is always teasing you? This is real?”

I looked out my window at the gray December sky. It’s a contract, I wanted to say. It’s a lie. But I heard Derek’s voice in my head: Rule 1. No breaking character.

“It’s real, Ma,” I said, the words tasting like ash and something strangely like hope. “It’s… different. But it’s real.”

Later that night, as I lay in bed, my phone lit up one last time.

Derek: One more rule.

Me: How many are there?

Derek: Just this one. Don’t fall in love with me, Chen. It would complicate our exit strategy.

I stared at the message, a hot, defensive anger rising in my chest. As if. As if I could ever.

Me: Don’t worry. That’s one rule I won’t have any trouble following.

I put the phone down, but sleep was miles away. All I could think about was the warmth of his hand in mine, the startling sincerity of his kiss, and the unsettling feeling that I’d just made a deal with a man who was infinitely more dangerous than I’d ever realized.

Because the most dangerous part wasn’t the pretending.

It was the terrifying, sneaking suspicion that some of it… wasn’t pretend at all.