[Damon]
The snow kept falling outside the penthouse windows, thick and silent, like the world was holding its breath. I stood in Room 1400 of the Michaelson's Hotel, staring at the stacks of cupcake boxes Christy James had just carried in. One hundred and fifty. Not two hundred. But close enough. She had done it. With a dead oven and no sleep. I liked that. Determination. Fire under the frost.
She stood in the middle of the marble
floor, snow melting off her boots, flour still on her cheek like war paint. Her blonde hair was tied in a messy knot. Her blue eyes were wide, tired, but sharp. She held the envelope I gave her, two million dollars, like it would bite her.
"Why?" she asked again. Her voice was soft but steady. "Why me? And what do you need from me?"
I didn't answer right away. I walked to the bar cart and poured two coffees. Black for me. Cream and sugar for her. I had watched her make lattes through the bakery window last week. Research. Always research.
I handed her the cup. Our fingers brushed and she immediately retracted her hand. Hers were cold. Mine weren't.
"Sit," I said.
She sat on the edge of the leather couch. Still clutching the money. Smart girl. Didn't trust me yet.
I sat across from her in the armchair. The fire crackled. The lake outside was frozen white. Perfect Christmas card. Perfect lie.
"My name is Damon Michaelson" I said. "I'm sure you might have heard of that name before".
She nodded. "Everyone knows that." Of course she would, we were the richest family in the city.
"Good. Then you should also know that I don't waste time. Or money."
I leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Eyes on hers.
"I need a fiancee."
She blinked. Then laughed. A short, sharp sound. "You're joking sir, right?"
"No."
She looked at the envelope. Then at me. "You paid two million dollars for cupcakes. Now you want a fake girlfriend?"
"Fiancee," I corrected. "Thirty days. Starting today. Ending December 31st."
She set the coffee down. Untouched. "Why?"
I stood and walked to the window. Snow blurred the city lights. I hated this time of year. Hated the lights. The songs. The fake cheer. Christmas was when everything broke.
"My grandmother wrote a clause in my inheritance," I said. "I turn thirty three on Christmas Day. If I'm not 'happily engaged' by then, I lose everything. Two billion dollars. The company. The estate. All of it goes to charity."
I turned back to her. "I don't do charity."
She stared. "So you picked me? A broke baker?"
"Yes."
"Why not hire an actress? A model? Someone who knows how to fake it?"
"Because they're fake," I said. "You're real. You fight. You don't quit. I saw you last month at the Chamber gala when you were catering services for the event. You smiled while your world was falling apart. I need that."
"How did you know my world was falling apart? And besides" She looked down at her hands. "I don't even know you."
"You will." I replied, ignoring the question she asked. She doesn't need to know that for now.
I walked to the table and opened a leather folder. Inside was the contract. Thick paper. Red ink. My lawyer's handwriting.
"Read it," I said.
She took it. Her eyes scanned fast.
CONTRACT OF ENGAGEMENT – 30 DAYS
Party A: Damon Michaelson
Party B: Christy James
Terms:
Party B will act as Party A's fiancee in all public and family settings.
Party B will attend all holiday events, including the Michaelson Family Christmas Ball.
Party B will live at the Michaelson Estate in Hudson Valley from December 1st to December 30th.
No physical intimacy beyond what is required for public appearances.
No falling in love.
Compensation: Three million dollars upon completion.
Break clause: Either party may end the contract early with 24 hour notice and forfeit payment.
She looked up. "Three million? You already gave me two."
"Two for the cupcakes," I said. "Three for the lie."
She read Rule no 5 again. No falling in love. Her lips moved like she was tasting the words.
"And if I say no?"
I shrugged. "The bank takes your bakery in thirty days. You start over. Maybe wait tables. Maybe sell your mom's recipe book on Amazon."
Her face went white. I hated that I had to say that, but the truth will always hurt.
She looked at the contract. Then at the envelope. Then at me.
"I need to think," she said.
"You have nine minutes."
"Nine minutes? For a decision that changes my life?"
"Eight now."
She stood up fast. "You're an asshole."
"I've been called worse."
She paced the room. Boots squeaking on marble. I watched. She was shorter than me by a foot, but she filled the space. Energy. Anger. Fear. All of it real.
She stopped at the window. Snow kept falling.
"My best friend Sophia is downstairs in the Uber," she said. "She helped me bake. She's waiting."
"Send her home. With a bonus."
She turned towards me with an irritated look "You think money fixes everything?"
"No. But it buys time. And silence."
She laughed again. Bitter this time. "You want me to lie to your family. To the world. For a month."
"Yes."
"And after Christmas?"
"We break up. Clean. You keep the money. I keep the fortune. We never speak again."
She looked at the contract. Then at the ring box on the table. I opened it. A diamond the size of a nickel. Cold. Perfect.
"Try it on," I said.
She hesitated. Then slipped it on. It fit. Of course it did. I had her ring size from the bakery security camera. Zoomed in on her hand while she frosted.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. Then pulled it off fast. "I can't."
"You can."
She shook her head. "I don't even like you."
"You don't have to."
She looked at the clock. 7:00a.m. The sun was starting to rise. Pink light on the snow.
"I need rules," she said. "My rules."
"Name them."
"No kissing unless cameras are watching."
"Fine."
"No sleeping in the same bed."
"Guest room is yours."
"No lying about my past. My parents. The bakery."
"Agreed."
"And if I say stop, we stop. No questions."
I nodded. "Done."
She picked up the pen. Her hand shook.
I watched her sign. Christy James. Neat. Small. Real.
I signed below. Damon Michaelson. Bold. Black.
I took the ring and slid it back on her finger. This time she didn't pull away.
"Welcome to the holidays, darling," I said.
She looked up. Her blue eyes were so beautiful
"Don't call me darling," she said.
I smiled. First real one all morning.
"Too late."
*************
[Christy]
I left the hotel at 7:10 a.m. with two million dollars in my bank app, a diamond on my finger, and a headache the size of Vermont
Sophia was asleep in the Uber. I woke her up.
"Sir, pls drive," I said to the driver.
She rubbed her eyes. "Did he pay?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Two million."
She screamed. The driver swerved.
"There's more," I said. "I'm engaged."
"To who?"
"To him."
She stared. "You're joking."
"I wish."
We drove in silence. Snow kept falling. The town looked magical. I felt like I was in a snow globe someone had shaken too hard.
Back at the bakery, I paid Sophia $50,000 on the spot. She cried. Hugged me. Promised to keep the secret.
I paid the bank $25,000 online. The foreclosure notice vanished. Just like that.
I fixed the oven with a call to the repair guy. He came at 9:30am. New heating element, $800. Done.
By noon, the bakery was open. Customers came. I smiled. Sold out some gingerbread men. Made lattes. Acted normal.
But the ring felt heavy. Like a handcuff made of ice.
At 2 p.m., a black SUV pulled up outside. Tinted windows. A driver in a suit got out.
"Miss Christy?" he said. "Mr. Michaelson sent me. Your bags."
"My what?"
He opened the back of the car. Three suitcases. Designer. Packed.
"I didn't pack," I said.
"Mr. Michaelson did."
Of course he did.
I went upstairs to my tiny apartment above the bakery. Everything was gone. Clothes. Shoes. Mom's recipe book. Even Mr. Whisky, my cat, was in a carrier with a new diamond collar.
A note on the counter:
'See you at the estate. Jet leaves at 5. — D'
I sat on the empty couch. The apartment looked naked. My ordinary life, gone in six hours.
I called Sophia.
"I'm leaving," I said.
"For how long?"
"Thirty days."
She was quiet. "You okay?"
"No."
"You want me to run the bakery?"
"Yes. Please."
"I got you."
I hung up. Packed a small bag with things he missed, my mom's old apron, and an old photo of my parents.
At 4:30, the driver loaded me into the SUV. Mr. Whisky meowed in his carrier.
We drove to a private airport. A jet waited, White in colour. With an inscription written in gold letters, 'THE MICHAELSONS'
Damon stood at the steps. Black coat. No smile.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No."
"Too bad." he smirked
I climbed the stairs. The inside was leather and wood. Champagne on ice. A bed in the back.
He sat across from me. The plane took off.
I looked out the window. The city got smaller and smaller. Snow covered everything.
Thirty days. Three million dollars. One lie.
I looked at the ring. It sparkled under the cabin lights.
Damon watched me. His gray eyes unreadable.
"Don't fall in love with me," he said.
I laughed. "Don't worry. I won't."
But as the plane climbed into the clouds, I wasn't so sure.
Something about Damon Michaelson felt like stepping into a blizzard.
Beautiful, Dangerous, and impossible to escape.