Page 68 of The Boss

Christmas Eve passed in quiet, calculated normalcy. Chantelle had insisted on staying in this year—just the two of us, a low-key dinner, chilling in front of the TV. “No traveling, no obligations, no small talk with people I don’t care about,” she’d said with a small, satisfied smile as she poured herself a glass of Merlot. “Just peace.”

And it was peaceful, in a way. Her apartment was still and warm, bathed in the soft shimmer of candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of roasted duck and winter spices, curling into the corners of the room. Outside, the city lay hushed beneath a fresh blanket of snow, the streetlights casting a dim golden haze over the silent roads, muffling the world beyond our windows. The whole evening should have been perfect. But something was missing—a piece of me I didn’t even know I’d lost.

It started small. A fleeting thought, a trick of the mind. As I set the table, I placed two wine glasses down and, without thinking, imagined someone else beside me. Someone who would have nudged my arm playfully and shot me a teasing look.“Look at you, Mr. Fancy. What, no champagne? No fireworks?”

The thought almost made me smile.I shook it off, poured the wine, and sat down.

Chantelle talked as we ate—something about a PR disaster with a major client she represented, a petty fight between two of her friends. I responded like I cared, but I wasn’t really there. The whole time, my fingers itched for my phone without me even realizing it, a restless urge I shoved down before it could take shape.

Later, we curled up on the couch, watching a movie, but even that felt off.

“I don’t get it,” Chantelle said, swirling the last of her wine lazily asHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkabanflared across the screen, the blue glow from the television casting long, shifting shadows on the walls. “Why do people love this so much? It’s so… juvenile. It’s even worse than those movies about a magic ring.”

A dry laugh escaped me but I didn’t answer. I knew many people like Chantelle—people who only found value in things tethered to immediate reality, who outgrew the magic of fantasy and never looked back. Who was it that said stories of imagination tend to upset those without one? I couldn’t remember. But it always made me wonder what happened to people like that—what moments in their lives chipped away at them until they let their inner child die.

Then I remembered how Chris’s face had lit up when he mentioned wanting to visit the Wizarding World that one time—how he’d rattled off some trivia, laughing at himself for being a ‘nerd about it.’ I could hear him in my head now, making some dumb joke that would have had me rolling my eyes, biting back a grin. I had the sudden, ridiculous urge to book a first flight to Orlando just to take him there, just to see his eyes light up the way they always did when he was excited about something.

My hand crawled toward my phone.

‘Tell me you’re a Gryffindor without telling me you’re a Gryffindor.’

The message sat there, cursor blinking. All I had to do was hit send. Instead, I stared at it for too long, then sighed and deleted it.

The rest of the movie dragged. Chantelle barely watched, scrolling through her phone, making an occasional comment I didn’t respond to. I reached for my phone again. Opened my last conversation with Chris. Scrolled up. Stopped myself.

For fuck’s sake. This was getting pathetic. I needed to pull it together. Chris was only a friend. That was all. And I was fine.

Except I wasn’t. Because it was Christmas, and I was sitting on my couch with the woman I was supposed to marry in three weeks, and I had never felt more alone.

Chantelle shifted beside me, resting her head against my shoulder. “You’re quiet tonight,” she murmured.

I gave a weak smile, pressed a kiss to her hair. “Just a headache.”

She hummed in acknowledgment, but she didn’t push.

We used to talk more. We used to fill the quiet. Now, it stretched between us, thick and heavy, settling into the spaces where conversation used to be, where closeness used to be. And neither of us seemed willing to acknowledge how little we had to say.

* * *

Melissa’s townhouse smelled like baby powder and vanilla, the air warm and slightly humid from whatever she’d been cooking before I arrived. The second she opened the door, barefoot and wearing an oversized sweater, a big smile stretched across her face.

“Zac! It’s so good to see you!”

I huffed a laugh, stepping inside and shaking off the cold drizzle clinging to my coat. “Good to see you too, Mel.”

She pulled me into a quick hug, eyeing the glossy white gift bag in my hand. “What’s this?”

“For the baby.” I handed it over, watching as she peeked inside and pulled out the oversized plush teddy bear I’d picked up on a whim. It was ridiculously large, soft to the point of being obscene, and completely impractical.

“Oh my God,” Melissa breathed, cradling it against her chest. “This is adorable.”

“You said he likes soft things,” I muttered, feeling unreasonably self-conscious.

“He does. I love it.” She beamed, then turned and beckoned me to follow. “Come on, I was just about to put him down for a nap. Coffee?”

“Please.”

We moved into the living room, where a bassinet sat next to the couch, a pale blue blanket shifting slightly with the baby’s tiny breaths. Melissa set the bear down, then leaned over the bassinet and scooped up a bundle of soft cotton and warmth, cooing under her breath.

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