Candy Cane Chains

1. Ivy

1

IVY

I tug at the velvet hem of my custom Santa dress, the plush material barely grazing mid-thigh. The matching belt cinches my waist, creating curves that would make Mrs. Claus blush. White fur trim tickles across my chest, and I adjust the sweetheart neckline for the hundredth time.

The elevator dings at the top floor of Porter Industries. My heels click against marble as I make my way down the empty hallway, past dark offices and silent cubicles. At this hour, even the cleaning crew has gone home.

"This is insane." I check my reflection in a window, smoothing my hair. The little Santa hat perches at a playful angle, secured with hidden clips. "What am I doing?"

But I know exactly what I'm doing. Travis has been working late every night this week, consumed by some big merger. When he called to cancel our dinner plans again, something snapped. Two can play at this game.

My fingertips trace the white fur trim at my wrists. The outfit cost more than my monthly grocery budget, but the saleswoman assured me it was "investment lingerie." Whatever that means.

I pause outside Travis's office door. Light spills from underneath, and I hear him talking - probably another conference call. My confidence wavers. What if he's not alone? What if-

No. I didn't spend two hours getting ready and driving across town in this getup to chicken out now. I take a deep breath, channeling my inner vixen. The seductive smile I've been practicing in my mirror all week slides into place.

I grip the door handle, my other hand holding the small gift bag I brought - just a prop really, filled with tissue paper and a sprig of mistletoe. My heart pounds against the velvet bodice. The things we do for love.

One final adjustment to my thigh-high stockings, checking that the red bows at the top peek out just so beneath the dress hem. Here goes nothing.

I ease the door open, my sultry smile already in place. "Merry Christ-"

The words die in my throat. The gift bag slips from my fingers, tissue paper spilling across Italian marble tiles.

Travis is bent over his mahogany desk, suit pants around his ankles, his hips pumping against his red-headed secretary. Her pencil skirt is hiked up, hands braced against stacks of reports. Their combined moans echo off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights.

"Oh god, Travis, yes!" Her voice is breathy, desperate.

My stomach lurches. From the speakers in the hall, a familiar Christmas song fills the stunned silence that descends over me, the cheerful melody a mocking counterpoint to the scene before me.

Travis's head snaps up at the sound of my gasp. His eyes meet mine, widening in recognition. For a moment, we're frozen in a grotesque tableau - me in my ridiculous Santa outfit, him with his pants down, her lipstick smeared across his neck.

"Ivy?" His voice cracks. "What are you-"

The secretary squeaks, scrambling to cover herself. Papers cascade off the desk, floating to the floor like oversized snowflakes.

My chest constricts. The room spins. The velvet dress that felt so sexy minutes ago now feels like a costume, a joke. The white fur trim itches against my skin.

"Don't stop on my account." My voice comes out steady, surprising me. Ice forms around my heart, crystallizing into something sharp and dangerous.

That fucking song feels like it swirls around me, talking about love and Christmas with the right person.

God, I am a fucking idiot.

Travis stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his pants. "Baby, I can explain-"

I spin on my heel and flee, my candy-cane striped heels betraying me with every stumbling step. The tissue paper crunches under my feet as I rush past empty desks and darkened offices.

"Ivy, wait!" Travis's voice echoes down the hallway. The sound of him struggling with his pants, cursing, follows me. "It's not what you think!"

A harsh laugh escapes my throat. Not what I think? What else could it possibly be? The image burns behind my eyes - his tie askew, her red hair splayed across his files, the rhythmic creaking of his thousand-dollar desk.

My fingers slam against the elevator button, pressing it over and over. The doors take an eternity to open.

"Baby, please-" His footsteps grow closer.

The elevator dings. I throw myself inside just as Travis rounds the corner, still tucking in his shirt. The doors slide shut on his flushed face, cutting off whatever excuse he's about to spew.

My reflection in the mirrored walls mocks me. Black mascara is already smudging beneath my eyes as I try to wipe the tears before they fall. The Santa hat sits crooked, making me look like a drunk party girl at last call. White fur trim is bunched around my chest where I yanked at it, desperate for air. The velvet dress that emptied my wallet now feels as cheap as a Halloween costume.

I reach up to rip off the stupid hat, but my hands shake too hard to find the clips. It just shifts more askew. A sob builds in my chest, threatening to tear me apart.

The elevator counts down floors with cheerful dings. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Each number brings a fresh wave of humiliation. What was I thinking, showing up like this? Playing dress-up like some desperate fool while he- while they-

Another sob escapes. I catch a glimpse of my stockings in the mirror, the white now reminding me of surrender flags. The seductive smile I practiced for hours has dissolved into something raw and broken.

Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

That damn song still plays through the speakers, following me down, down, down.

I burst through the lobby doors, winter air slapping my tear-streaked face. Snow drifts down in fat flakes, coating my bare shoulders. The parking garage looms ahead - a concrete monster where my Prius sits waiting, three levels up.

My heels slip on the slick pavement. I kick them off, snatching them up with trembling fingers. The rough concrete bites into my stockinged feet through thin nylon. Better than breaking an ankle.

The garage echoes with my ragged breathing as I race up the ramps. Each step sends jolts through my legs, but physical pain is better than the knife twisting in my chest. Level one. Two. Three.

My car chirps as I hammer the key fob. I throw myself inside, cranking the heat. The Santa hat finally comes off, tearing strands of hair with it. I hurl it into the backseat.

Main Street glows with holiday lights as I peel out of the garage. Red and green reflections dance across my windshield, distorted by tears and falling snow. My phone buzzes in the cup holder - Travis's face lighting up the screen. I silence it without looking.

I don't know what to do. I can't go home - I live with Travis. What I really need it a fucking drink-

It hits me. Sophie texted me earlier about the Secret Santa party at O'Malley's. It's our annual tradition where our friend group exchanges gifts and drinks too much eggnog. I'd planned to skip it, thinking I'd be with...

My hands clench the steering wheel. The alternative is going home to my empty apartment, where everything reminds me of him - or worse, he might come to find me. And I am not going to sit alone when I look this damn good after knowing he hasn't been alone all fucking week.

I hang a sharp left at the next light, tires sliding slightly in the slush. O'Malley's is only ten minutes away. Right now, getting drunk with friends sounds infinitely better than any other scenario I can come up with.

The snow falls harder as I navigate the quiet streets. Christmas lights blur into streaks of color through my windshield. More Christmas music follows me from another car's radio at a stoplight, and I punch the gas when it turns green, leaving the melody behind.

I pull into an empty spot across from O'Malley's, the neon shamrock in the window casting a sickly green glow across my dashboard. My hands tremble as I flip down the visor mirror. God, I'm a mess. Mascara tracks paint dark rivers down my cheeks, and my carefully curled hair has gone limp from the snow.

As I fix myself up, Travis's name flashes across my phone screen again - the fifteenth call in ten minutes. Each buzz feels like another twist of the knife. His text messages scroll past.

Baby please answer.

It meant nothing.

Let me explain.

Where are you?

The screen lights up with his face - a photo from happier times, his arms around me at the beach last summer. I snatch the phone and power it off completely, shoving it into the glove compartment like it's contaminated. The slam echoes in my quiet car.

I drag a tissue from my clutch, dabbing at the mascara tracks. The velvet of my dress feels scratchy against my skin now, but I refuse to let him send me running home to change. I reapply my red lipstick with shaking hands, pressing my lips together until they stop quivering.

"You're fine," I whisper to my reflection. "You're fine, you're fine, you're fine."

My fingers rake through my hair, arranging it to hide the tear-dampened strands at my temples. The snowflakes caught in it have melted, leaving it slightly damp but workable. I even fix my hat back on top of my head, trying to fix it so it looks cute again. I adjust the sweetheart neckline of the dress, squaring my shoulders and shoving my feet back into the candy cane heels.

The cold hits me as I push open my car door, but I welcome it. The icy air helps clear my head, washing away the stuffy scent of Travis's cologne that somehow still clings to my skin. My heels sink slightly in the fresh snow as I step onto the sidewalk, clutch pressed against my side like armor.

Music and laughter spill from O'Malley's open door. I take a deep breath, tasting winter on my tongue. My hand pauses on the door handle as another wave of humiliation threatens to overwhelm me. But I refuse to let him win. Not tonight.