Chapter 1

Tasha

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Reed Tower's thirty-second floor, December paints the city in postcard perfection. Garland drapes every storefront below like emerald scarves, twinkling lights cascade down building facades in waterfalls of gold and crimson, and the evening snow transforms the bustling streets into something from a snow globe. Even the harried businesspeople below move with a certain seasonal bounce, their breath creating little puffs of joy in the crisp air.

Inside these sterile walls, however, Christmas doesn't exist.

The office stretches before me in all its soul-crushing glory—marble floors that echo every footstep like a funeral march, chrome fixtures that catch nothing but fluorescent glare, and walls the colour of wet concrete. Not a single red bow, not one sprig of mistletoe, not even a pathetic desk Santa to break the monotony. Dominic's holiday ban extends to everything except the paychecks, and those barely make up for working in what feels like a very expensive morgue.

"Reed Enterprises, Tasha speaking—hold please." Line one gets the freeze treatment while line two starts its angry symphony. "Reed Enterprises—yes, Mr. Han, I understand the Shanghai contract is—no, sir, Mr. Reed specifically said—"

My coffee mug tips as I lunge for line three, sending a cascade of caramel macchiato across the quarterly reports. Perfect. Because the only thing missing from this Monday morning was a caffeine sacrifice to the corporate gods.

"Reed Enterprises, how may I—Mrs. Whitmore, slow down. The charity invitations went out when? Last week? But the venue changed?" I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, grabbing napkins to dam the coffee flood before it reaches my keyboard. "No, ma'am, Mr. Reed doesn't 'do' last-minute changes, but I'll see what—"

Line one blinks back to life with the patience of a toddler past naptime.

"Thank you for holding, Mr. Davidson. About that acquisition—" 

My emerald blouse now sports a lovely coffee abstract that would make Jackson Pollock weep, but my voice remains steady as I toggle between three conversations that each think they're the most important thing happening in the world right now.

"Yes, Mrs. Whitmore, I'll have him call you back. Mr. Davidson, the contracts are on his desk. Mr. Han—"

The coffee spreads across my desk like it's claiming territory, seeping toward the stack of invitations that absolutely cannot get ruined because reprinting them would cost much more than my monthly rent.

Through the window, a couple stops beneath a lamppost wrapped in silver ribbon, the man pulling the woman close as snowflakes dance around them. They're laughing about something, probably nothing important, but they look warm. They look alive.

In here, I'm a one-woman juggling act keeping Dominic's empire from imploding, armed with nothing but caffeine, sarcasm, and the kind of multitasking skills that should qualify me for hazard pay.

My personal phone buzzes against my hip, vibrating like an angry wasp. The screen lights up with "Riverside Elementary" and my stomach drops faster than the elevator in this tower.

I freeze mid-sentence, leaving Mr. Davidson hanging on line one while Mrs. Whitmore's voice continues its urgent warble through the earpiece. My hand hovers over the phone like it's radioactive. Personal calls during work hours violate Dominic's sacred commandments, right up there with breathing too loudly and existing with feelings.

But it's Amari's school. 

"Mr. Davidson, I need to place you on a brief hold." I punch the button before he can protest, then grab my cell with coffee-sticky fingers.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Williams? This is Janet from the administrative office at Riverside Elementary."

Janet's voice carries that particular blend of sympathy and exhaustion that comes from making calls like this all day. I've heard it before. Too many times.

"Hi, Janet." I turn away from my desk, lowering my voice to barely above a whisper. The office lines blink like angry Christmas lights, but they'll have to wait. "Is everything okay with Amari?"

"Oh, she's fine, honey. Bright as always in Mrs. Peterson's class. But we need to discuss her tuition situation."

The coffee stain on my blouse suddenly feels ice-cold against my skin. I hold my back against the window, watching those happy couples below who probably don't know what it's like to choose between rent and a ten-year-old's education.

"I know it's late. The payment should have cleared last Friday, but there was a delay with—"

"Ms. Williams, I understand these things happen, and Lord knows we've all been there." Janet's sigh travels through the phone like a gentle reprimand. "But this is the third month we've had to extend Amari's payment deadline. The school board is asking questions I don't have good answers for."

My free hand finds the scarf around my neck, tugging at it like it might provide oxygen to my suddenly tight chest.

"Other families pay on time, and it's not fair to them when we keep making exceptions. Principal Morrison has been very patient, but—"

"Friday," I interrupt, my voice stronger than I feel. "I can have the payment to you by Friday afternoon. That's four days."

"Ms. Williams..."

"Janet, please. Amari loves that school. She talks about Mrs. Peterson every night at dinner, and her art projects cover our entire refrigerator. Just give me until Friday."

The silence stretches between us like a tightrope I'm desperately trying not to fall from.

"Janet, please. Just until Friday. I promise."

The silence on the other end stretches like a rubber band about to snap. I can almost hear Janet weighing policies against compassion, bureaucracy against a ten-year-old's future.

"Alright, Ms. Williams. Friday afternoon, but that's absolutely the final extension. After that, we'll have to discuss alternative arrangements for Amari."

The breath I didn't realize I was holding escapes in a shaky rush. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Janet. I won't let you down."

"I hope not, honey. Amari's a special little girl. We'd hate to lose her."

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity. Friday. Four days to find money I don't have for a school Amari can't lose. 

I let the weight of it settle on my shoulders—another burden to add to the collection. But that's what I do. I carry things. I fix things. I make impossible math work because failure isn't just an option I can't afford; it's a luxury I was never offered.

Every coffee-stained morning, every twelve-hour day, every smile I paste on while dealing with impossible people—it's all for her. For the way she hums while doing homework at our tiny kitchen table. For her art projects that turn our refrigerator into a gallery of hope. For the life she deserves, the one neither of us had growing up.

I straighten my shoulders and pick up the office phone. Line one blinks at me like an impatient red eye.

"Mr. Davidson, thank you for your patience. About that acquisition timeline..."

My voice carries none of the panic that just gripped my chest. Professional. Controlled. Because failure isn't an option, and these people don't pay me to have feelings.

"Yes, sir, the contracts will be reviewed by tomorrow morning. I'll personally ensure they're on Mr. Reed's desk by eight AM."

Line two immediately starts its angry dance. Mrs. Whitmore's charity crisis awaits, followed by the Shanghai contracts that apparently can't survive another day without my intervention.

I toggle between calls with the deliberate precision of a symphony conductor, each conversation getting exactly what it needs to stay satisfied while I mentally calculate which bills can wait and which ones will shut off the lights.

The sound of Italian leather against marble announces his presence before I see him. Dominic's footsteps carry the authority of someone who's never had to choose between groceries and school tuition, never had to explain to a child why Christmas might be smaller this year.

"Williams."

That voice cuts through my concentration like a scalpel. Not 'good morning,' not 'how's your day'—just my last name delivered like a summons. He doesn't pause at my desk, doesn't acknowledge the three lines blinking like distress signals. He simply expects me to follow, the same way gravity expects things to fall.

I sigh and grab my tablet, stabbing the hold button for Mrs. Whitmore with perhaps more force than necessary. My coffee-stained shirt clings uncomfortably as I hurry after him, the emerald fabric now sporting an abstract masterpiece that screams 'professional disaster.'

His office door closes behind us with the soft click of expensive engineering. Dominic settles behind his desk—a monument to success carved from black granite and chrome—and those gray-blue eyes immediately find the stain spreading across my chest like a scarlet letter of incompetence.

The weight of his disapproval lands on me like a physical thing. That gaze has a way of making me feel microscopic, as if I'm somehow failing at the basic human function of existing without chaos. I resist the urge to cross my arms over the stain.

"The Morrison acquisition requires acceleration." His fingers drum against the desk with mechanical precision. "Schedule the due diligence review for Wednesday of next week, legal consultation Thursday, final signatures Friday."

I pull up my calendar, stylus moving across the tablet screen. "Wednesday's the twenty-third, Sir, the day after is Christmas Eve."

"Correct."

"Sir, that's Christmas Eve and Christmas Day."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't pause. Doesn't show even the slightest flicker of recognition that he's just scheduled work meetings during the most sacred days of the year.

"Work doesn't stop for a calendar, Williams."

The casual dismissal of everything that makes the holidays meaningful hits me like ice water. Not just for me, but for every person in this building who might want to spend Christmas morning with their family instead of reviewing acquisition papers.

"People do."

The words escape before I can help them, carrying all the frustration of coffee stains and overdue tuition and a boss who thinks human beings run on batteries instead of hearts.

The silence that follows could freeze hell. Dominic's eyes narrow fractionally, and I can practically hear the gears turning behind that perfectly controlled expression. Outside his office, the bullpen pretends to work while absolutely listening to every syllable of this standoff.

The tension hums like a live wire, waiting for someone to blink first. My tablet suddenly feels heavy in my hands, and I realize I've just challenged the man who signs my paychecks over something as simple as human decency.

"Maybe robots do run this company," I mutter under my breath, but in the cathedral silence of his office, it carries like a church bell.