Page 5 of Bought By Santa

The dining room is a spectacle of wealth and power; crystal glasses catch the light with every flicker of the chandeliers above, casting prismatic colors across white linen tablecloths. Silverware gleams beside porcelain plates, each setting worthy of royalty. Servers move with silent efficiency, pouring wine and offering up platters of delicacies meant to impress.

But the opulence tastes like ash on my tongue. Jack should be here, his easy laughter and irreverence a counterpoint to the stiff formality. His absence is a gaping hole at the table, a reminder that he wasn’t invited—a slight from Dad that I can’t ignore.

“Jack had other commitments,” Dad says nonchalantly when I bring up his absence. His voice is devoid of any warmth.

“Convenient,” I mutter under my breath, and for the second time tonight, I ignore an obvious lie. My brother is only busy because I made sure of it, not wanting him to feel left out. Huh, so I suppose it’s not a lie after all.

Dad rises from his place at the head of the long mahogany table. He clears his throat, commanding silence with an easethat speaks of decades ruling our entire family. The crystal chandelier above casts a warm glow over the dining room, rich with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.

“Today,” Dad begins, his voice reverberating off the gilt-edged walls, “marks the day we lost my beloved Sienna, a woman of grace and strength.”

I glance at Ruby across the table, her green eyes dim with unshed tears. She’s trying to maintain composure under the weight of his gaze. It’s December first—her birthday, and the anniversary of our mom’s death. A cruel twist of fate that has never been allowed to go unnoticed or unmentioned.

“Her passing, giving birth to our youngest,” he continues, an edge of steel in his tone, “was a sacrifice for this family.” His words are a dagger disguised as a memorial. I know it’s meant to remind us all of Ruby’s debt—a life for a life.

“Here’s to Sienna, whose legacy we uphold every day.” Glasses rise around the room, but the toast feels hollow, laced with the subtle accusation that always simmers beneath the surface on this day.

“Happy birthday, Ruby,” I murmur when the clinking of crystal ceases, just loud enough for her ears only. Her lips twitch into a fleeting, grateful smile before resuming their flat line.

Dad sits back down, gesturing for the servers to refill our glasses and bring more food. As courses come and go, I play my part, nodding along to conversations about influence and power, exchanging pleasantries that mask the turmoil beneath.

With every bite and sip, I feel the walls closing in, the expectations suffocating. Yet outwardly, I am calm—commanding even—as I navigate through the intricacies of our family’s politics. It’s a game of chess where the pieces are made of flesh and bone, and I’m a grandmaster playing for the highest stakes.

“Nicklas,” Dad’s voice slices through the post-toast murmur, “the matter of your heir. We need assurance that the future of the Knight family is secure.” His eyes, sharp and assessing, fix on me.

“Everything is in place,” I say, my voice a low drawl of confidence I don’t feel. “The right measures have been taken. There will be an heir.” My heart hammers against my ribcage, betraying the calm façade I present.

“Good, good,” he nods, seemingly placated, yet I can tell he senses the edges of my fabrication. “We trust you won’t delay.”

Under the table, my fist clenches tight, nails digging into my palm. The heir situation isn’t remotely ‘under control’, but admitting that would mean showing weakness—an impermissible act in our world. And so, I weave the narrative they expect to hear, a tapestry of lies that must hold strong under scrutiny.

“Timing,” I add, “is everything. And the timing will be perfect.” I punctuate the sentence with a sip of scotch, letting the burn in my throat anchor me to the lie.

“Very well,” he says, turning back to his plate, his attention moving on as if discussing nothing more significant than a business transaction.

But then, in our family, heirs are just that—transactions. And I am the broker in a deal where the currency is blood and legacy.

The crystal chime of fine china sings a melancholic tune as the last course of our somber feast is served. Every bite of dessert feels like ash in my mouth, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitterness that swells within me. I keep my eyes trained on the flickering candlelight, counting the seconds, waiting for this night to be over.

Dad and Michael, Ruby’s husband, are in the middle of a stock trade debate when the dining room doors crash open. Jackstrides in, his chest heaving, face flushed from sprinting. The room snaps to attention, the air suddenly thick with tension.

“Nicklas, there’s a situation.” Jack’s voice is urgent, a sharp edge to his usually relaxed tone.

I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the polished floor. A cold rush floods my veins, sharpening every sense. I see Ruby flinch at the commotion, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Talk to me,” I demand, practically dragging my brother into another room.

“Someone’s been siphoning funds—large amounts, undetected until now. We’ve got a mole.”

“Damn it.” I taste acid at the back of my throat. In our world, a mole doesn’t just mean stolen money; it’s a direct threat to our dominion, an insult that demands retribution. “Where’s the breach?” I ask, already mentally cataloging potential weak points in our operation.

“East docks account. It’s bad, Nick. We need to handle this now.”

Wanting to spare Jack from having to look at our dad more than what’s absolutely necessary, I tell him to go wait in the car. Then I return to the others. “Dinner is over, I’ve got to go,” I announce.

“Nicklas, your brother can—” my father begins, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

“Business before pleasure, Dad. You taught me that,” I say, a shadow of irony in my voice. We both know tonight was never about pleasure.

---