The Ballerina and the Beast of Christmas Eve
The biting breath of winter gnawed at my skin, mingling with the faint, cold glow of the luxury hotel’s back entrance. As I stepped out of my worn-out car, the silver and white glitter from hours of rehearsal still clung to my face, shimmering like frozen stars. Exhaustion was a heavy cloak wrapped around me; my swollen fingertips, throbbing from yesterday’s endless practice, now sent a relentless ache echoing through my skull.
I looked up, my gaze locking onto two colossal banners draped across the hotel facade.
On one, there I was: ethereal in white feathers and crystals, flawless as porcelain, the prima ballerina of ‘The Frost Queen’ ballet. My name, Angelica, gleamed in golden letters beneath the image. Beside me, a shadow so profound it seemed to devour all of Christmas's dazzling lights loomed.
A colossal figure, bare-chested, his muscles sculpted like rock, his hands bound in blood-stained bandages. His gaze, even in the photograph, was so brutal it threatened to freeze the very air around it. Above him, a single word, more a decree than a name: ABADDON.
I hated Christmas. Family dinners, insincere gifts, and forced smiles had never once graced my world. Yet, seeing myself on that banner, depicted as the Frost Queen… a tiny, bruised flicker of pride stirred within me. But when my eyes found Abaddon’s image, an indescribable shiver of dread seized me. He appeared to be the very executioner of this holiday season.
As I made my way towards the entrance, a cluster of black, luxuriously tinted SUVs caught my attention, surrounded by a crowd of men. They encircled someone, guarding him as if he were an underworld king. Attempting to navigate through them, a burly bodyguard abruptly stepped into my path, his hand forming a solid barrier against my chest.
"Little lady, you need to leave. This area isn't for you right now," he growled, his voice laced with venomous disdain.
The rising tide of stress within my veins overflowed. I narrowed my eyes, lifting my chin defiantly. "Can't you see my entry pass? I work here, you imbecile! I couldn't care less about your loud Christmas festivities; I'm simply trying to do my job. Get out of my way!"
The man’s face contorted with fury, and he took an aggressive step forward. Just then, from the heart of the crowd, a voice — deep, resonant, and as sharp as breaking ice — cut through the air.
"Let her go, Marcus."
The throng parted instantly, like wheat swaying before an approaching storm. The man from the banner, live and in formidable flesh, stood directly before me.
