Page 57 of His for Christmas
And I know.
I can’t keep holding back. Not with her. Not anymore.
She deserves more than a man who hides. More than a man who keeps her close but never lets her in.
She deserves the truth.
Tonight, I’ll tell Holly I love her. Not because I want to own her. Not because she’s mine to control. But because she’s the only person who’s ever made me want to be better.
For her, I’ll unlock every door I’ve kept sealed. I’ll hand her the keys to every dark, broken part of me. No conditions. No control. Just…her.
Because she taught me something no one else could: real love doesn’t trap—it frees.
And I’ll learn. I’ll change. I’ll fight every instinct to keep her caged.
For Holly, I’ll love without owning. Protect without suffocating. Cherish without breaking.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The bravest, too.
As the winter sun rises over the home that finally feels like mine, I make her a silent promise:
I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure Holly Parker never regrets letting me love her.
The symphony was magnificent—Berlin Philharmonic performing Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite, Holly's eyes bright with delight throughout the performance. Now, as we return to the mansion, snow beginning to fall again in gentle flakes that catch in her hair like diamonds, I feel an uncharacteristic nervousness about the next phase of the evening. Dinner awaits in my private dining room, but before that, there's something more important I need to show her.
"I thought we were having dinner," Holly says, curiosity in her voice as I guide her toward the east wing rather than my suite. She's breathtaking in the emerald green dress I first saw in her closet weeks ago, the fabric clinging to her curves in a waythat's made it difficult to maintain appropriate public behavior all evening.
"Dinner can wait," I tell her, my hand at the small of her back, a touch that's become so natural it feels like an extension of myself. "There's something I want to show you first."
She glances up at me, her expression a mixture of intrigue and slight wariness—still not entirely accustomed to surprises after our recent conflicts. "Something good or something concerning?"
The question makes me smile despite my nerves. Her directness, her unwillingness to simply accept whatever I present without question, remains one of her most appealing qualities. "Something I hope you'll find good," I answer honestly. "Though I find myself uncharacteristically uncertain of your reaction."
Now her eyebrows raise slightly. "Dominic Sterling, uncertain? That might be more surprising than whatever you're about to show me."
We reach the corridor leading to the east wing guest suite—the space that's been transformed according to my exacting specifications over the past three days. I stop outside the double doors, turning to face her fully.
"Before we go in," I say, taking both her hands in mine, "I want you to understand something. This is not an attempt to control or an expectation to obligate. It's simply…recognition. Of who you are. Of what you need."
Her expression softens at my uncharacteristically hesitant words. "You're making me nervous," she admits, squeezing my hands gently.
"That makes two of us," I confess, the vulnerability of the admission still unfamiliar but increasingly natural with her. Taking a deep breath, I push open the doors and guide her inside.
The transformation is immediate and complete. What was once an elegant but impersonal guest suite has become a light-filled studio space designed specifically for Holly. The main room now features north-facing windows with perfect natural light, custom shelving holding art supplies arranged by type and color, a drafting table positioned for optimal light throughout the day, and comfortable seating areas for contemplation or client consultations. The walls display framed examples of Holly's design work—photographs I had Patricia collect from her previous clients, properly matted and framed to showcase her talent.
The adjoining room, formerly a bedroom, has been converted to a small but comprehensive design library, with volumes on architecture, color theory, historical decorative arts, and seasonal design. A comfortable reading chair sits in one corner beside a window seat overlooking the snow-covered gardens, complete with the handmade quilt I remembered her mentioning was a gift from her grandmother.
Holly stands frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide as she takes in the space. For a moment, I can't read her expression, and uncertainty floods through me—a foreign sensation I'm still learning to navigate. Then I see the shimmer of tears in her eyes, the slight trembling of her lower lip.
"Dominic," she whispers, her voice catching. "What is this?"
"It's yours," I say simply. "A space that belongs entirely to you, within my home. A place to work, to create, to be wholly yourself without interference or expectation."
She steps further into the room, moving slowly as she takes in the details. Her fingers trail over the drafting table, touch the precisely arranged supplies, pause at the framed examples of her work. "How did you know?" she asks softly, picking up a set of specialized brushes identical to ones I'd noticed her using for detail work on the children's hospital displays.
"I paid attention," I tell her, remaining by the door, giving her space to explore without hovering. "To the tools you use, the materials you prefer. To the complaints you've made about your current workspace being too small, too dark. To the books you've mentioned wanting to read but haven't had time to find. To the way you create best when you have both structure and freedom."
She turns to me, tears now falling freely down her cheeks. "You did all this…for me to have independence? Within your home?"
