CONTRACTUALLY STUCK.

CHAPTER 4: Ghosts Wrapped in Tinsel

ZARA

Christmas has always smelled like nutmeg, burnt sugar, and my grandmother’s laughter.

Even now, standing in my parents’ kitchen with flour dusting my hands and Mariah Carey playing softly from the living room, I can almost hear her voice telling me not to overmix the dough. She used to say cookies could feel fear. That if you bullied them too much, they’d turn out hard and bitter.

I smile at the thought, pressing a star-shaped cutter into the dough. Grandma believed food carried memory. That’s probably why I’m here, trying to bake myself back into a time when Christmas didn’t feel like walking on emotional glass.

“Careful,” my mom says gently, tying her apron tighter. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“I always think too hard,” I reply. “It’s my brand.”

She chuckles, the sound soft but tired. We’ve been cooking since morning. Rice simmering. Chicken marinating. Cookies lined up like soldiers waiting for the oven. It feels normal. Almost safe.

Grandma would have loved this part. She used to wake us before sunrise, humming off-key carols while dragging me into the kitchen. Flour on her nose. Apron crooked. She let me lick spoons and burn cookies and believed Christmas was less about perfection and more about warmth.

Everything changed after she died.

My father changed most of all.

The house went quiet after the funeral. Not the peaceful kind. The hollow kind. He stopped laughing. Stopped cooking. Stopped touching anything that reminded him of her. Christmas became tense instead of joyful. Something to endure, not celebrate.

I slide the tray into the oven and wipe my hands on a towel.

“I think Grandma would like these,” I say.

My mom hums in agreement. “She would steal half of them before they cooled.”

That’s when it happens.

The tension.

It starts as footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

My father enters the kitchen, face already set in that familiar, tight expression. His eyes flick to the counter, the ingredients, the mess.

“What is all this?” he asks.

“Christmas,” my mother replies calmly.

He scoffs. “Looks like wasted effort.”

I freeze.

“Zara,” he says, turning to me. “You’ve been home for months now.”

Here we go.

“I finished school six months ago,” I say evenly.

“At Stanford,” he snaps. “Wasted years. Wasted money. And for what?”

My mother stiffens. “Theodore—”

“For what?” he repeats, voice rising. “A useless degree? Sitting in my house doing nothing? Spending money I don’t even have?”

Something in me snaps quietly.

“And whose fault is that?” I ask.

His eyes blaze. “Excuse me?”

“You think I don’t know the business is struggling?” I say, heart pounding. “You think I don’t see the stress? But tearing me down won’t fix it.”

He laughs harshly. “You sound just like your mother. The words hit like a slap.

“Careful,” I say softly. “That’s not the insult you think it is.”

“You’re wasting away,” he continues. “Just like her. No direction. No value.”

I take a breath. Grandma used to say respond, don’t react.

“I am not useless,” I say. “And neither is my mother. I am figuring things out. That does not make me a burden.”

The kitchen goes silent.

My mom steps forward. “Please,” she says quietly. “It’s Christmas.”

He stares at me one last time, jaw tight, then turns and walks out.

The silence he leaves behind is heavy.

My hands shake.

My mother touches my arm. “Don’t worry about the money,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “We’ll be fine.”

I search her face. “Mom—”

“Let’s finish the cookies,” she says, forcing a smile. “Grandma wouldn’t forgive us if we burned them.”

I nod, even though his words echo in my head.

Useless.

Later, as we sprinkle powdered sugar like snowfall, I remind myself of one thing.

I am not defined by his fear.

And Christmas, no matter how cracked, still belongs to me.

JULIAN

Christmas has never been loud for me.

It’s quiet offices. Muted lights. Empty streets. Work as distraction.

I’m at my desk by noon, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, emails glowing on my screen. The city outside my window sparkles with celebration I don’t feel invited to.

My mother loved Christmas.

She used to decorate the tree herself, insisting every ornament had a story. She baked cinnamon bread that filled the entire house with warmth. She believed in handwritten cards and terrible sweaters and laughter that echoed.

She died when I was twelve.

After that, Christmas became something to get through.

I shake the thought away just as my office door opens.

Elliot Finch steps in, holding a tablet and wearing the faintest smirk.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Because I knew you would be,” he replies. “And I didn’t want to leave your grumpy, emotionally unavailable self alone on a holiday.”

“You should be home.”

“I like money,” he says simply. “Also, you scare investors when you’re left unattended.”

I snort despite myself. “What is it?”

“The Whitmore Group is hesitating,” he says. “They want reassurance. Something personal.”

“We don’t do personal,” I say.

“They do,” Elliot replies. “Also, I looked into the Caldwells.”

I glance up. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“You were going to,” he says mildly. “Textile business. Old money. Recent cash flow issues. Pride is the problem. Not lack of talent.”

I file that away.

“Go home,” I say. “Enjoy Christmas.”

He smiles. “Try not to ruin anyone’s life today.”

No promises.

I leave the office late, the quiet of my penthouse welcoming.

Until I open the door.

My father is there.

Drunk. Slumped. Angry.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He looks up, eyes glassy. “You killed her.”

I stiffen. “Leave.”

“You should have died,” he slurs, standing unsteadily. “She should be alive.”

He lunges.

I grab his arms, hold him back, my voice cold. “Enough.”

He struggles weakly, fury burning where love used to be.

I call my driver. Have him taken home.

When the door finally closes, the silence is deafening.

I sink onto the couch, staring at the Christmas lights blinking uselessly.

So much for peace.

So much for quiet.

Somewhere across the city, a woman who laughed in my face is probably baking cookies.

The thought irritates me.

And lingers.

Christmas, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.