The Wrong Mrs. Claus

Episode 7

ALEX.

I started blankly into space, trying to process what had just happened. Before I even had the chance to steady my breathing from the first shock, my phone buzzed again with another notification. My hands trembled slightly as I unlocked the screen, half-afraid of what I would see this time. A new email sat at the top of my inbox, labeled Flight Itinerary: Confirmed.

I frowned and tapped it open.

My confusion sharpened into outright alarm.

It was a fully booked, first-class flight scheduled for the next morning. My name. My details. My destination: East Hampton Airport.

“What the hell…” I whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

Someone had purchased me a ticket, and without my permission. I didn’t know whether to be terrified, flattered, or furious. This was beyond strange. This was the kind of thing people in crime documentaries experienced right before they vanished.

Just as I stood to pace again, my ringtone sliced through the silence. I glanced at the screen to see Maggie flash across the screen.

I exhaled shakily and answered. “Maggie? Please tell me you know something about all this.”

Her cheerful voice burst through the line. “Alex! Oh, thank God you picked up. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I—what is going on? Someone booked me a flight. And I just got paid—”

“I know,” she cut in, sounding far too pleased with herself. “That was the client.”

I went still. “The client? What client? I never accepted anything.”

“Well, not formally,” she said, as if I were the one being unreasonable. “But Alex, listen. I did a little digging after we talked. I ran your profile through our internal system, background checks and all that… you know the drill, and the moment your photo popped up, our Hamptons client approved you. Immediately. I mean, instantly.”

I stared at the window, watching the snow settle like dust on the glass. “He… approved me? From just a picture?”

“Yes!” Maggie practically squealed. “He said you had the perfect Mrs. Claus aesthetic; warm and elegant. His words, not mine. And then he offered to pay you triple.”

“Triple?” I echoed, barely breathing.

Triple was enough to pay for my overdue bills twice over and still leave room for me to exist without panic for a while. Triple meant stability I hadn’t seen in years.

“Yes, triple,” Maggie repeated firmly. “He’s very high-profile. Very generous. And very private. You’re supposed to handle all Christmas arrangements, décor, schedules, events, whatever the kids need. The works.”

“But—” I rubbed my forehead. “Maggie, everything about this feels suspicious. The money. The booked flight. The kids calling me. How did they even get my number?”

“Oh! That was his sister,” Maggie said casually. “She was at the airport earlier today. She recognized you from our system after she ran into you; small world, right? She told the family about you and, well… the kids got excited.”

My jaw dropped. “The woman at the airport? That woman? I never gave her my number.”

“She pulled it from our staffing file,” Maggie replied, unbothered. “She had clearance. Don’t worry.”

My heart thudded uncomfortably. I wasn’t sure “don’t worry” covered any of this.

Maggie continued briskly, “Look, Alex, I get it. It’s weird. But it’s the Hamptons. These people operate on an entirely different wavelength. They’re used to getting what they want immediately. The money is real, the job is real, and frankly? You would be insane to turn it down.”

I pressed my lips together, and for a moment, I didn’t speak. She was right. I did need the money. Desperately. And every instinct yelling “suspicious” was being muffled by the louder truth: I couldn’t afford to say no.

Finally, I exhaled and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Maggie cheered. “Perfect! I knew you would. I’m sending over your contract now. Just skim and sign; it’s the standard confidentiality package, plus holiday-specific clauses. Also look out for your travel details. And Alex—”

“Yeah?”

“You have to make everything look like their father organized it. Every decoration, every gift, every detail. He doesn’t want his children pestering him. He wants them to be happy. If they ask, he arranged it. Understood?”

I sighed. “Yes. I get it.”

“Great! Text me when you land. And Alex? You’re going to knock this out of the park.”

When the call ended, I stood in the middle of the hotel room, my phone still in my hand, feeling like the world had been flipped upside down and shaken hard.

Within minutes, the contract arrived in my inbox; twenty-three pages of legal jargon about confidentiality, exclusivity, image rights, privacy, and professionalism. It was longer and more intense than any seasonal contract I had ever signed. But the payment section was undeniable.

I signed it, and then I began to prepare.

***

The next morning, I boarded the first-class flight. The seats were so spacious I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s life. The attendants treated me with soft smiles and warm towels and sparkling water before takeoff. I tucked myself into the corner of the seat and tried to calm the flutter in my stomach.

By the time the plane landed at the small East Hampton airport, I was exhausted but alert. A driver stood outside holding a sign with my name. He didn’t say much, only nodded and took my luggage, guiding me into a sleek black SUV with heated leather seats.

We drove for nearly forty minutes through winding, tree-lined roads dusted with snow, passing spacious homes that looked more like luxury resorts. The houses grew larger with every mile, each one more absurdly perfect than the last.

Then we turned into a private driveway. At first, I thought the car had made a mistake but he clearly hadn’t, because he kept driving. The estate in front of us was… massive. A sprawling manor stretched across several acres, flanked by tall stone walls, evergreen trees, and strings of warm white lights so tastefully arranged they looked like something from the cover of a winter magazine.

My breath caught as we rolled slowly toward the entrance.

The house was modern and traditional all at once: towering glass windows, gabled roofs, a stone façade, and balconies wrapped with garlands. It looked like money, old money. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to announce itself because it was permanently inked into the landscape.

A fountain sat in the center of the circular driveway, frozen at its edges, the water still flowing in a crystalline cascade. I stared at it speechlessly.

My new boss wasn’t just rich; he was stinkingly, impossibly, unbelievably rich.

As the SUV rolled to a stop, I smoothed my clothes, swallowed hard, and whispered to myself:

Alright, Alex. Let’s do this.