Page 9 of Wicked Mistletoe

My eyes linger on the families hustling along the sidewalks, laden with shopping bags and radiating that particular brand of stressed-out joy that seems unique to the holiday season. A little girl in a puffy pink coat squeals with delight as her father hoists her onto his shoulders, and I feel a pang in my chest so sharp it takes my breath away.

“We’re here, ma’am.”

The driver’s voice jolts me out of my brooding, and I blink, realizing we’ve stopped in front of a towering behemoth of glass and steel—the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building.

With a nod, I step out, staring up at the structure. Feels like a lifetime ago when I first walked through those doors, wide-eyed and full of hope. Excited about my future, and a little scared I was making the wrong decision by leaving the family I found behind to make something of myself.

Do I regret my decision?

Hell if I know.

It’s only been five years, after all, and I haven’t even started working for the bureau yet. I just finished my training at Quantico, and immediately after my graduation three days ago, I was ordered back to Manhattan.

Questions still nag at me as I force my feet to move, carrying me through the revolving doors and into the belly of the beast. The lobby is a hive of activity. Men and women in sharp suits and sensible shoes bustle about with purpose.

I make my way to the security checkpoint and fish out my credentials. My hands shake slightly as I present my shiny new gold badge, and I can’t help the little thrill that runs through me.It’s real. It’s actually real.

I’mreallya special agent now.Holy shit.

The elevator ride to the 23rd floor feels endless. I watch the numbers tick up, each floor bringing me closer to my new life, to the person I’ve fought so hard to become. My chest tightens as I try to keep my nerves in check.

When the doors finally slide open with a soft ‘ding’, I suck in a deep breath and step out into the sprawling lobby of the FBI’s New York office.

This is it. No turning back now.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the bureau's badge, prominently displayed on a cobblestone wall, and I smile as I take it in.

But the mood in here? Definitely not festive. Christmas decorations are strung up like they’re trying to convince everyone it’s the happiest time of the year, but no one’s buying it. Every agent I pass is all business, eyes locked on screens and paperwork, clearly too buried under the never-ending mountain of crap this job throws at them to even think about a little holiday spirit. And honestly, I get it. This isn’t a place for twinkling lights and jolly tunes—this is a place for getting shit done.

I make my way to the front desk and ask to see Stacey Rodrigues, my direct supervisor and mentor.

A few minutes later, I’m being ushered down a long hallway, past a row of cubicles buzzing with agents in full grind mode. The further we go, the more serious it feels. Locked doors line the next stretch of hallway, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of classified secrets are tucked away behind them. Finally, we stop in front of a massive set of double doors gleaming with the engraving: Stacey Rodrigues, Assistant Director In Charge.

My pulse kicks up.Here we go.

I knock sharply, and Stacey’s familiar voice calls out, “Come in.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself before pushing the doors open.

Stace’s office is a sprawling, coveted corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of City Hall and a glimpse of the Hudson River beyond. But it’s Stacey herself who commands attention, rising from behind her imposing desk with a grin that lights up her entire face.

“Welcome, Emily,” she says, waving me to a chair in front of her desk, rather than the plush seating area a few feet away. It’s a power move, I realize, but a subtle one.

I sit, my back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in my lap. Five years of training kicking in automatically.

“I feel like a proud mother hen right now. Who knew I had it in me, huh?” she chuckles, picking up a folder from her desk. “You’re the child I never had, Emily. You know that, right?” Her eyes soften for a moment, then sharpen again. “I hope you do..”

My eyes flick to her perfectly manicured nails. “I do,” I manage to say, even though I rarely voice how much she means to me. Because I do care about Stacey. She’s been my rock, my guiding star for the past five years. She was the only familiar face at my med school graduation last year, and again at my graduation from the Academy at Quantico a few days ago.

She’s family. It’s just… weird to say it out loud. The word holds too much history, too much pain.

“Good,” she nods, seemingly satisfied. Then she slides the folder to me, and I reach for it eagerly, hungry for my first mission. This is it, the moment I’ve been working towards for five long years.

I open the folder… and the world stops.

Staring up at me is a face etched into my soul, more familiar than my own reflection. Dark hair. Eyes like molten silver. A crooked nose.

Rafael.

My blood turns to ice as Stacey leans forward, her expression suddenly serious.

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