Page 4 of Christmas with the Billionaire
It’s a message claiming to be the very man who’s currently on my mind. The world tilts, not from the wine, but from the sheer, impossible weight of that name on my screen.
Like a weirdly timed message, another one arrives with an invitation that doesn’t seem real.
Are my eyes playing a trick on me?
Looking over at the wine, I have to double-check that it doesn’t have any new ingredients that could induce hallucinations. It doesn’t.
“You’re missing the best part!” Talia’s voice is a distant call from a different, simpler universe. “They’re about to have an angry make-out session!”
My eyes drop back to the screen, rereading the short paragraph until the words blur. A gala. At Christmas. He needs a date he can trust, someone who isn’t “known.” I think that’s his polite, corporate-speak for “a nobody.” Me. He’s describing me.
He’s inviting me to a two-day event in a glittering world that feels as alien as the moon. It sounds less like a fantasy and more like a beautifully wrapped trap. My stomach twists.
There’s no waytheCharles Thornton I’ve just been pitying myself over is lounging in some penthouse, casually texting me. The disconnect is too vast. My fingers, clumsy with a dangerous mix of wine and hope, stumble across the keyboard.
I demand proof. A picture. Now. It’s not because I’m desperate and want to cling onto something I can call my own. Of course not.
The pause that follows is agonizing. Seconds stretch into a small eternity. Then, my phone vibrates, a tiny earthquake in my palm.
When the image loads, my heart doesn’t just flutter—it slams into my throat, stealing my breath.
It’s just him. No suit, no studio lights, no artfully disheveled hair. He’s in a simple grey t-shirt, his black hair is slightly messy, and his green eyes don’t hold the cool, calculated charm of his magazine covers. They look… warm. A little unsure. This isn’t the hotshot bachelor. This is the guy I remember. This is him.
My thumb hovers for only a second before I type out my reply. Yes. Without any doubt,yes.
The word is sent before the rational part of my brain can scream in protest. A cold dread washes over me, followed by a dizzying thrill. What have I done?
Now he’s going to know how deep his hooks are in me. Despite doing Owen and I dirty by disappearing right after he graduated with my brother, I can’t even pretend to be mad. Even if all of these years have passed, I should harbor some kind of grudge, shouldn’t I?
His response is immediate, a flood of details, times, and a request for my address so a car can pick me up. The professional Charles is back. As the plans solidify on the screen, a new, desperate strategy forms in my mind. Maybe… maybe this is exactly what I need.
This isn’t an event I’ll foolishly deceive myself into thinking of as a date; it’s an exorcism—a way to resolve my current problem.
I’ll go. I’ll stand by his side in that glittering gala. I’ll see the man he’s become up close, without the filter of memory or magazine pages. I’ll witness his polished life, his cool distance, the reality of the chasm between us. I’ll finally see that the boy I loved is truly, irrevocably gone.
And then, with my fantasy shredded up by the cold light of reality, I will finally,finallybe able to let him go and move on.
It’s a perfect, foolproof plan.
3
Charles
The long drive out of Citrine Bay toward Fairland is all the reminder I need that I can still feel anxious. Hell, even my palms are sweating as I stroll up to Ellie’s apartment complex in a rental SUV.
The navigation assures me that I’ve reached my destination, but I’m struggling to believe I’m really here.
She steps out of her house, and it’s like someone has slammed a filter over my eyes. Today is full of monotonous grays and washed-out blues—the dull sky, the slushy street, the bleak, skeletal trees. It’s all a monochrome haze. And then there’s her. Ellie.
She glows, a radiant warmth against the cold, a splash of vital, humming color in a place that’s been drained of it. My heart isn’t beating; it’s trying to break through my ribs.
I forgot how this felt. The nervousness of just being near her. Seems I haven’t outgrown old habits.
She drags a suitcase behind her, the wheels catching on the pavement. A reminder that she’s not some mirage. She’s real, and for Christmas, she’ll be mine.
I shove my door open. The freezing air bites my cheeks, a welcoming pain. But then I step out, and our eyes lock across the frost-dusted hood. The last bit of air in my lungs evaporates.
She smiles.
