The Christmas Contract

The Audition

The text came through on Tuesday afternoon, stark against the backdrop of my crowded inbox.

Derek: Dinner tonight. 8 PM. Le Bernardin. Suit and tie territory. The partners are in town.

Me: The serious and settled’ test?

Derek: The only one that matters. My dad’s old friends. They hold the keys to the expansion. Be brilliant, Chen.

Me: I’m always brilliant.

Derek: I know. That’s why I’m not panicking. Mostly.

A flutter of nerves, different from the ones Evan inspired, took flight in my stomach. This wasn't about saving face. This incident was about Derek’s dream, the legacy of a father he’d loved and lost. The stakes felt profoundly real.

I spent the afternoon doing something I hadn’t done since college: cramming. Not for event logistics, but for whiskey. I pulled articles on single malts versus bourbons, studied tasting notes for regions like Islay and Speyside, and memorized the difference between a finish and a mash bill. If I were to serve as his arm candy, I would be the most informed and discerning presence in the room.

I chose a dress of midnight-blue velvet, sophisticated and conservative, with a high neck and long sleeves. My hair was in a sleek, low chignon. I looked like the kind of woman who could discuss barrel aging and business plans with equal ease.

Derek picked me up in a town car. When I slid in, he let out a low whistle. “Wow. You look…”

“Appropriate?” I supplied, smoothing my skirt.

“I was going to say terrifyingly competent. But appropriate works.” He was dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie the color of deep wine. He looked like a CEO, not a bar owner. The transformation was unnerving.

“Nervous?” I asked, noticing the way he kept adjusting his cufflinks.

“These men… They knew my dad when he was my age. Building his first bar. They think I’m just playing at this. That I’m all style, no substance.” He stared out the window at the glowing city. “Tonight determines if they invest in the second Marshall & Rye location. Or if they write me off as a disappointment.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice tugged at something deep in my chest. I reached over and placed my hand over his, where it rested on the leather seat. “You’re not a disappointment, Derek. You’ve built something incredible. We just have to make them see it.”

He turned his hand over to lace his fingers with mine, a silent thank you. We rode the rest of the way in a quiet, supportive solidarity, our joined hands a bridge between his anxiety and my resolve.

Le Bernardin was a temple of hushed luxury and soft lighting. We were led to a private room where three older gentlemen in expensive suits stood by a window overlooking Central Park. They turned as we entered, their assessing eyes missing nothing.

“Gentlemen,” Derek said, his voice slipping into a smooth, confident tone I rarely heard. “This is Maya Chen. Maya, this is Mr. Henderson, Mr. Vance, and Mr. Li.”

I offered my hand and my most polished smile. “A pleasure. Derek’s told me so much about your work with his father. It’s an honor to meet the legends.”

Mr. Henderson, a man with a formidable white mustache, gave a curt nod. Mr. Vance smiled politely. Mr. Li, the quietest, merely watched.

The dinner was a minefield, conducted with silver forks. The conversation orbited safe topics—the market, real estate, and the holiday season. Derek held his own, his answers sharp and informed. I listened, laughed at the right moments, and asked thoughtful questions about their respective industries, subtly steering the conversation back to Derek’s bar whenever it drifted.

Then, over the cheese course, Mr. Henderson gestured to the bottle of rare Scotch they’d ordered for the table. “Your father had a palate like no other, Derek. He could identify an Islay from a Highland while blindfolded. Do you share that talent, or just the flair for selling it?”

A subtle, loaded challenge. Derek’s jaw tightened slightly. Before he could answer, I leaned forward, a polite smile on my face.

“If I may,” I said, gently swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “The peat here is assertive but not medicinal, more like a smoldering beach grass than a hospital fire. And there’s a remarkable thread of maritime salinity underneath, almost like an oyster shell. That, along with the lack of sherry-cask sweetness, suggests a very specific coastal Islay distillery, wouldn’t you say? Not Laphroaig, perhaps Bowmore?”

A beat of stunned silence fell over the table. All three partners stared at me. Derek’s eyes were wide, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

Mr. Li, who hadn’t spoken more than three words all night, broke into a slow, genuine smile. “Bowmore. 18 years. You are correct, Ms. Chen.” He raised his glass to me in a small salute. “Your father would have enjoyed this one, Derek. He appreciated a keen palate and clever company.”

The tension shattered. Mr. Henderson chuckled, a rich, approving sound. “Well, I’ll be damned. She’s got you there, son.”

Derek looked from Mr. Li’s smiling face to mine. The gratitude and stunned awe in his eyes was a brighter reward than any client’s praise. He recovered smoothly. “Maya has a knack for… thorough preparation.”

The rest of the dinner was a victory lap. The partners were engaged, asking Derek detailed questions about his expansion plans and his vision. He spoke passionately and convincingly. I sat back, letting him shine, my work done.

As we said our goodbyes in the elegant lobby, Mr. Henderson clapped Derek on the shoulder. “We’ll be in touch, Derek. Your father would be proud.” His gaze shifted to me, warm and respectful. “A pleasure, Ms. Chen.”

The cold night air hit us as we stepped outside. Derek didn’t call for the car. He just stood on the sidewalk, looking at me under the glow of the streetlamp.

“You studied,” he stated, his voice thick with emotion.

“You needed a win.”

“How? Why?”

“Google is a wonderful thing. And,” I met his gaze, “because I believe in you. They should too.”

He shook his head, a look of bewildered admiration on his face. “You are… unbelievable.”

He reached for my hand again, but this time, he didn’t just hold it. He brought it to his lips and pressed a firm, heartfelt kiss to my knuckles. The gesture was old-world and earnest, and it sent a shockwave straight to my core.

“The car can wait,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a new intensity. “There’s something I need to show you.”