Page 2 of Bought By Santa

“See that you do,” Arthur’s tone is final. “Before Christmas would be preferable. I’m in the country until then, and I’d like to know it’s happening before I return to England.”

The dinner continues, but every mouthful is now laced with the acrid flavor of duty. The opulence of the meal, the perfection of the presentation, it all seems grotesque when juxtaposed with the stark reality of my purpose.

I clench my jaw, a muscle twitching in my cheek as I fix my gaze on Arthur. The air around us is thick with the delicious food on our plates, but it’s the stench of expectation that chokes me. I lean back in my chair; the leather creaking under my weight, and try to find the words that won’t betray my seething reluctance.

Taking a measured breath, I feel the constraints of destiny tightening around me. This isn’t just about continuing the bloodline; this is about power, control, the unyielding grip we have over, not just New York’s shadowy corners, but all of America.

“You’ll get your heir before Christmas,” I finally say, the words heavy like lead on my tongue.

Around me, the conversation carries on; they’re talking about the death of Arthur’s dad, Uther, due to poisoning almost three years ago. As I consider how to continue the lineage, their words become nothing more than background noise.

It’s mid-November already, so I don’t have long to find someone to impregnate. It would all be a lot easier if I was actually in a relationship, which I’m not. It’s not that I havetrouble finding women to spread their legs for me, but not one has lasted more than one night—two at most.

But now I’m supposed to find someone I can stand having around for at least nine months…

Well, fuck me!

Chapter 2

The Breeder

The cheerful strains of “Jingle Bells” reach me before I even push open the front door of Ability Acres, the care home where my sister lives. It’s like stepping into another world—one where the weight of my problems can’t follow. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Hi, Carolina!” greets Nancy at reception, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. She’s part of the reason coming heredoesn’t feel so heavy. I offer a smile, pushing down the ever-present anxiety that threatens to claw its way up my throat.

“Hey, Nancy,” I say, the words a little more breathless than I’d like. “How’s she doing today?”

“Willow’s been buzzing all morning, dear. You know how much she loves this day.”

I nod, my heart hitching a bit because I do know—I know too well. November thirtieth isn’t just the day we decorate for Christmas; it’s our shared moment of joy that I cling to, year after year.

I head down the hallway, passing staff members adorned in Santa hats, their smiles as bright as the tinsel lining the walls. The scent of cinnamon wafts from the kitchen, and for a moment, I let myself be carried away by the festive atmosphere.

Pushing open the door to her room, she’s already ready, waiting for me with that bright smile that outshines the cheap, flickering fairy lights strung around her bed. Her eyes, the color of fresh earth after rain, light up at the sight of me. “Caro!” she exclaims.

“Hey, Will,” I say, closing the distance between us with quick strides.

My sister—appearance wise, she’s almost my twin, with the exception that her hair is practically white, whereas mine is blonde—is parked by the window in her wheelchair, a blanket draped over her legs.

The accident, a memory etched in sharp relief against the canvas of our lives, stole not only our dad’s life, but her use of those legs when she was barely twelve. Dad was walking her to school when a guy lost control of his car, too busy texting. Heroically, our dad pushed Willow out of the way, taking the brunt of the impact on himself. He died instantly, and my vibrant sister was bound to wheels. But she never let it dull her spirit.

My sister’s voice pulls me from the morbid and tragic trip down memory lane. “Ready to make the tree beautiful?” she asks, gesturing excitedly to the small artificial Christmas tree perched on a table beside her.

“Always,” I respond, the corners of my mouth lifting into a genuine smile as I retrieve the box of ornaments from the closet. “And you haven’t changed your mind on the color scheme again?”

She giggles. “No, and I promise I won’t. At least not this year,” she jokes.

We work together, Willow handling the delicate baubles, passing them to me with care. I stretch to hang them, weaving between the synthetic branches, filling in the gaps with glistening reds and golds.

“Higher, Caro! It has to be perfect,” she directs, her laughter like wind chimes in the crisp winter air. And despite everything—the crushing weight of responsibility, the gnawing fear of tomorrow—I find myself laughing too, caught up in the magic we’re creating.

I loop a silver garland around the top of the Christmas tree, but my mind’s tangled tighter than these decorations. Money—or the lack of it—claws at me, a relentless beast with an insatiable appetite. I shove those thoughts deep down, bury them under the soil of forced cheerfulness. Will doesn’t need to see how deep the roots of my fear go.

“Remember when Dad tried to make eggnog that one year?” Will’s voice, always so full of life, cuts through the silence like a bell in the night.

I laugh, a genuine spark igniting within me. “Tried? You mean when he nearly turned us all off Christmas with that monstrosity?”

“Exactly!” she giggles, her eyes twinkling as much as the lights we’ve just strung up. For a moment, the weight on my chest lifts,and I can breathe again. “He was so proud of it too. Kept saying it was a Sterling family recipe.”

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