Chapter 1
One
CHLOE
T he sharp staccato of my heels echoes through the sleek hallways of Anderson Tech as I stride towards my office. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the break room, mingling with the clean smell of new electronics. It’s a familiar aroma, one that usually energizes me, but today it does little to lift my mood.
I push open the glass door to my office, the cool surface smooth beneath my palm. The expansive room greets me with its minimalist décor—all chrome, glass, and stark white surfaces. It’s a testament to my success, a far cry from the cramped, dingy apartment of my childhood. Yet today, it feels hollow somehow.
Settling into my ergonomic chair, I boot up my computer and pull up the latest metrics for our newest app. The numbers are impressive—downloads skyrocketing, user engagement off the charts. I should feel elated, triumphant even. Instead, I feel... nothing.
A gentle knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call out, not bothering to look up from my screen.
“Ms. Anderson?” My assistant, Sally, pokes her head in. “The board is waiting for you in the conference room.”
I nod curtly, rising from my chair. “Thank you, Sally. I’ll be right there.”
As I make my way to the conference room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. My dark hair is impeccably styled, my tailored suit crisp and wrinkle-free. I look every inch the successful CEO. But my blue eyes, usually sharp and focused, seem distant today.
The conference room falls silent as I enter. Ten pairs of eyes turn to me, a mixture of respect and expectation in their gazes. I take my seat at the head of the table, the leather chair cool against my back.
“Good morning, everyone,” I begin, my voice steady and confident. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
For the next hour, I lead the meeting with practiced ease. We discuss quarterly projections, marketing strategies, and potential expansions. The board members nod approvingly as I present our latest successes. On the surface, everything is perfect.
As the meeting wraps up, Harold, one of the older board members, clears his throat. “Before we adjourn, there’s one more matter to discuss.” He pauses, his kind eyes meeting mine. “Chloe, we’ve noticed you’ve been working non-stop for months now, actually years. We cannot even think of a time in the past four years that you have taken a vacation, not even holidays. You worked through Thanksgiving just last week. With Christmas coming up, we think it’s time you took a break.”
I feel my body tense, my fingers gripping the armrests of my chair. “That’s not necessary,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m perfectly capable of managing my own time.”
Harold shakes his head gently. “It’s not a suggestion, Chloe. It’s a decision we’ve all agreed on. You need to take some time off. At least until after Christmas.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Christmas. The very thought of it makes my stomach churn. Memories of cold, lonely holidays spent in foster homes flash through my mind. The pitying looks, the secondhand gifts, the constant reminder that I didn’t belong.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say, my voice tight, “but I assure you, I don’t need a break. Especially not during the holidays.”
“Chloe,” Harold’s voice is gentle but firm, “you’ve done an incredible job building this company. But even the most successful CEOs need time to recharge. We’re not asking you to take a vacation. Just... go home. Spend some time away from the office. Enjoy the season.”
I want to argue, to insist that I’m fine, that the company needs me. But I can see the determination in their eyes. This isn’t a battle I’m going to win.
“Fine,” I concede, my tone clipped. “I’ll take some time off. But I’ll be checking in regularly, and if anything urgent comes up—"
“We’ll handle it,” Harold assures me. “You’ve built a strong team here, Chloe. Trust them to keep things running smoothly for a few weeks.”
With that, the meeting adjourns. As the board members file out, offering well-wishes for my forced vacation, I remain seated, staring out the window at the city skyline. The early December sun glints off the skyscrapers, and in the distance, I can see workers setting up an enormous Christmas tree in the city square.
My mind drifts to the small town of Benton Falls, where my grandmother’s house sits empty. It’s been years since I’ve visited, not since her funeral. The thought of spending Christmas there, alone in that old house, should be depressing. Instead, I feel a sense of relief. At least there, I won’t have to pretend to enjoy the forced cheer of the season.
Back in my office, I start making arrangements. I cancel my social engagements—not that there were many to begin with—and book a flight to the small regional airport near Benton Falls. As I pack up my laptop, Sally appears in the doorway.
“Ms. Anderson? I’ve just received an invitation for you,” she says hesitantly. “The mayor of Benton Falls is inviting you to attend their annual Tree Lighting Ceremony. It’s tomorrow night.”
How in the world would anyone know I was coming to Benton Falls? I’d only decided on the trip two hours ago. I suppress a sigh. Of course, word of my impending arrival has already spread. Small towns and their gossip. “Thank you, Sally. Please send my regrets. I won’t be attending any events during my stay.”
Sally nods, but I catch a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “Of course, Ms. Anderson. Is there anything else you need before you leave?”
For a moment, I’m tempted to ask her to cancel everything, to tell the board I’ve changed my mind. Instead, I shake my head. “No, that will be all. Thank you, Sally. I’ll see you after the New Year.”
As Sally leaves, I sink back into my chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. The thought of weeks alone in Benton Falls stretches before me, a mix of dread and strange anticipation churning in my stomach.
I close my eyes, memories of my childhood flooding back unbidden. The constant moves from one foster home to another, after my grandmother passed away. She was supposed to rescue me, to help me after my parents passed, but then she was taken too. I was left all alone in the world. I remember the pain and the loneliness. The struggle to fit in, to prove my worth. The realization that in this world, money equals security, respect, power. I’ve worked so hard to leave that scared, lonely little girl behind. To become someone strong, successful, untouchable.
But as I sit here in my plush office, surrounded by the trappings of my success, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing. That despite all I’ve achieved, there’s a hollow space inside me that no amount of money or accolades can fill.
With a sigh, I push these thoughts aside. There’s no use dwelling on the past or on vague feelings of discontent. I have a company to run, even if it’s from a distance. Opening my eyes, I compose an email to my team, outlining my expectations for their performance in my absence.
The next morning, I find myself on a small commuter plane, watching the sprawling city give way to rolling hills and dense forests. As we descend towards the regional airport, I catch my first glimpse of Benton Falls in years. From above, it looks like something out of a Christmas card—quaint buildings with snow-dusted roofs, winding streets lined with trees, a picturesque town square dominated by an imposing courthouse.
A wave of nostalgia washes over me, memories of childhood summers spent here with my grandmother. For a moment, I allow myself to remember the warmth of her hugs, the smell of her homemade apple pie, the sound of her laughter. But I quickly push these thoughts away. That was a different time, a different me. I’m here to work in peace, not to indulge in sentimental reminiscence.
As the plane touches down with a gentle bump, I steel myself for what’s to come. Four weeks in Benton Falls. I can do this. I’ll keep my head down, focus on work, and before I know it, I’ll be back in the city where I belong.
The drive from the airport to my grandmother’s house is a journey through a winter wonderland. Snow blankets the fields on either side of the road, and bare trees glisten with icicles. Despite myself, I feel a small spark of childlike wonder at the beauty of it all.
As I turn onto Maple Street, where my grandmother’s house sits, I’m struck by how little has changed. The same old Victorian homes line the street, their gingerbread trim and wrap-around porches looking like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Christmas decorations adorn every porch and yard - twinkling lights, cheerful inflatable Santas, carefully arranged nativity scenes.
And then I see it—my grandmother’s house. Or rather, my house now. The small craftsman bungalow sits back from the street, its yellow paint warm and inviting against the snowy backdrop. But as I pull into the driveway, I feel my jaw drop in disbelief.
The house is decorated for Christmas. Twinkling white lights outline the roof and porch. A classic wreath with red berries and an enormous bow hangs on the deep green front door. Through the ornate front window, I can see the soft glow of what must be a Christmas tree.
For a moment, I sit in the car, stunned. Who could have done this? How did they get into the house? A mix of anger and confusion swirls in my chest as I grab my bags and march up to the front door.
The key turns smoothly in the lock, and as I step inside, I’m enveloped by the scent of pine and cinnamon. The interior of the house is just as festive as the outside. Evergreen garlands and holly adorn the walls, stockings hang from the fireplace mantel, and sure enough, a small Christmas tree stands in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling softly.
I drop my bags, my mind racing. This has to be some kind of mistake. Maybe the cleaning company thought they were doing me a favor, preparing the house for my arrival. But as I move further into the house, taking in the vintage-style sage green cabinetry in the kitchen, the soft quilts draped over the furniture, I realize that this goes beyond simple decoration. The house looks lived in, loved.
Just as I’m about to call the local police station to report a possible break-in, there’s a knock at the door. My heart races as I approach it cautiously. Who could it be? The mysterious decorator? A nosy neighbor?
Taking a deep breath, I open the door. Standing on my porch is a young woman about my age, her long golden hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. Her bright eyes—are they blue? Green? I can’t quite tell—twinkle with a mixture of friendliness and something else I can’t quite place.
“Hi there,” she says brightly. “I’m Rebecca. I live next door. I saw you pull up and thought I’d come over to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
I blink, taken aback by her cheerful demeanor. “I’m Chloe,” I reply automatically, then hesitate. Should I ask her about the decorations? Demand to know what’s going on?
Before I can decide, Rebecca continues, “I hope you don’t mind, but when we heard Marge’s granddaughter was coming to stay for Christmas, we couldn’t resist sprucing the place up a bit. It’s a bit of a tradition here in Benton Falls—no one spends the holidays in an undecorated home.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow. The entire neighborhood knew I was coming? They took it upon themselves to decorate my house? A mix of emotions swirls within me—anger at the invasion of privacy, confusion at their presumption, and underneath it all, a tiny flicker of something that feels dangerously like gratitude.
“That’s... very thoughtful,” I manage to say, my voice stiffer than I intend. “But it really wasn’t necessary. I’m only here for a short while, and I’m not particularly interested in celebrating the holidays.”
Rebecca’s smile falters for just a moment before brightening again. “Well, decorated or not, we’re glad to have you here. Will you be attending the Tree Lighting Ceremony tonight? It’s quite the event—the whole town turns out for it.”
I shake my head firmly. “No, I’m afraid I’ll have to miss it. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
A little lie, but I’m not expecting Santa to bring me presents, anyway.
“Oh.” Rebecca’s disappointment is palpable, but she rallies quickly. “Well, if you change your mind, it starts at 7 PM in the town square. You can’t miss it—just follow the crowds and the smell of hot chocolate.”
I nod noncommittally, already planning my escape from this overly friendly interaction. “Thank you for stopping by, Rebecca. I should really get unpacked now.”
“Of course.” Rebecca steps back, still smiling. “Don’t be a stranger, Chloe. And welcome to Benton Falls.”
As I close the door, I lean against it, suddenly feeling exhausted. This is exactly what I was afraid of—the forced cheer, the expectations, the assumption that everyone must love Christmas. I glance around at the festive decorations, feeling more out of place than ever.
With a sigh, I pick up my bags and head to the bedroom. To my relief, it seems to have escaped the worst of the holiday makeover. I unpack quickly, hanging my clothes in the vintage wardrobe that still smells faintly of cedar and my grandmother’s perfume.
As night falls, I settle on the couch with my laptop, determined to lose myself in work. But the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree keep catching my eye, and the scent of the holiday seems to permeate everything. Despite my best efforts, memories of past Christmases creep in.
I remember my first Christmas after my grandmother died, spent in a group home. The sad little tree with its sparse decorations, the meager gifts that were more necessity than joy. I remember promising myself then that I would never be in that position again. That I would work hard, become successful, ensure that I never had to rely on anyone’s charity or pity.
And I’ve done it. I’ve built a life for myself beyond my wildest childhood dreams. So why does sitting here in this cozy, Christmas-filled house make me feel so... empty?
I shake my head, banishing these thoughts. I’m here to work, not to dwell on the past or get swept up in a small-town Christmas cheer. Opening my email, I immerse myself in reports and projections, letting the familiar world of numbers and strategies wash away the uncomfortable emotions.
As midnight approaches, I finally close my laptop. The house is quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hall. I make my way to the bedroom, studiously avoiding looking at the Christmas decorations.
Lying in bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, I can’t shake the feeling that coming here was a mistake. I don’t belong in this world of neighborly kindness and Christmas traditions. I’ve worked too hard to build my walls, to protect myself from the pain and disappointment that comes with letting people in.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll call the office. Surely there’s some crisis that requires my immediate attention, some reason for me to cut this enforced vacation short. I’ll go back to Boston, back to the world I understand, where success is measured in dollars and cents, not in twinkling lights and warm smiles.
As I drift off to sleep, I try to ignore the small voice in the back of my mind, the one that whispers that maybe, just maybe, I’m running away from something more than just Christmas cheer. That perhaps what I’m really afraid of is not the possibility of failure, but the terrifying prospect of letting myself feel again, of opening my heart to the warmth and joy that seems to permeate this little town.
But those are dangerous thoughts, ones that threaten the carefully constructed world I’ve built for myself. So I push them away, burying them deep beneath layers of determination and ambition. I’m successful CEO and have built a billion-dollar company. I don’t need Christmas, and I certainly don’t need the pity or charity of a small town stuck in the past.
As sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is a determination to remain aloof, to resist the pull of Benton Falls and its Christmas magic. Little do I know that the universe—and a certain guardian angel in training - have other plans for me this holiday season.