Chapter 4
CHRISTIAN
Christian sat alone in the staff room with the manila folder open on his lap, the company logo embossed in gold on the cover. He hadn’t slept since arriving in New York. Jetlag still clung to his bones like a wet coat, but it was the contents of the folder that was weighing him down now.
He flipped through page after page of financials, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Carroll’s used to be an empire, his father’s pride and joy, but the numbers told a different story now.
Revenue was falling fast, costs were ballooning, and profit margins looked like they were a distant memory.
There were strange outflows to consulting firms he’d never heard of, plus a supplier that seemed to be billing double what they used to for basic goods.
His father hadn’t been exaggerating — the red line was steeper than a ski slope. The business was in serious trouble.
As he stared at the numbers, trying to focus, his mind kept slipping sideways.
Back to the girl in the Santa hat. Merry.
Christian shook his head and tried again to focus on the spreadsheet in front of him, but the words blurred together.
What the hell was wrong with him? He hadn’t come here for distractions.
He now had a mess to unravel and his family company to save.
And yet, Merry’s gorgeous face kept floating to the front of his mind, disrupting every attempt to concentrate.
Christian scrubbed a hand over his own face. The room felt like it was shrinking and every breath he took reminded him he was back in the city he’d run from. He leaned back in the rickety staff chair and sighed. What he needed was clarity. Or coffee. Or possibly a brain transplant.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and opened the APEX group chat, the only place on earth where he could admit defeat without being judged.
The APEX Club had started as a business incubator, a think tank for billionaires who didn’t quite fit the mould.
Over the years, the people at its core had become something more.
They were friends and battle-tested survivors of deals, disasters and the kind of heartbreak that money couldn’t fix.
The WhatsApp group had long since evolved into a lifeline and occasional outlet to troll one another.
Christian: You’ll never guess where I am.
There was a pause. Then, like clockwork, the flood of replies began.
Devlin: Don’t tell us it’s another silent retreat. Last time we had to send Nate to break you out.
Nate: Hey, they made me do tai chi with goats, it wasn’t all bad.
Rhuairidh: If this is like the time you “accidentally” ended up on a cruise for pensioners again, just say so. Unless it’s a cruise for swingers this time, in which case I also want photographic proof.
Christian: Worse. Carroll’s Department Store.
Devlin: No.
Blake: Is this a cry for help?
Rhuairidh: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage in Menswear.
Christian: Dad’s ill. He called me back — there’s something going on with the store and the business is sinking. So now, I’m undercover as a janitor to try and figure out what’s happening.
Devlin: Jeez, sorry to hear that, man.
Nate: Yeah, that sucks. Sending love, and by love, I mean inappropriate memes and unsolicited business advice, obviously.
Blake: That’s rough. If you need anything, Dev’s your guy.
Rhuairidh: Tell your dad we’re rooting for him. Also tell him his 1992 Christmas ad still haunts my dreams. Those animatronic reindeer were evil reincarnated.
Devlin: Hang in there, mate. And if you do crack the case steal us all novelty socks from Menswear. Size 12, preferably with penguins.
Blake: Size 12, who are you kidding? You’re not that well-endowed.
Christian laughed quietly, the tension in his chest easing just enough. Maybe they were idiots, but they were his idiots. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, grabbed the manila folder and stood. He needed to get out of Carroll’s and go for a walk to clear his head.
Shoving the folder into his satchel, he slipped down a side corridor most of the current staff probably didn’t even know existed.
The overhead lights flickered above him as he found what he was looking for — the old freight elevator.
It looked just as ancient and unloved as he remembered, coated in dust and humming faintly.
He hauled the door open and stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor.
The elevator groaned like it was a living thing.
It rocked, dust pouring from the ceiling, then it lurched down so hard that he had to grab the side rail to stay upright.
The cabin shuddered, gears screeching like they were protesting after years of disuse.
For a second, he thought it might stop altogether.
But then it seemed to remember what it was supposed to be doing, clattering down with a noise like a steam train.
He let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the door in front of him, the rhythmic rattle of the descent oddly soothing.
It was like the building was reminding him of its age, of how much had changed since he was last here, and how much hadn’t.
The elevator came to a juddering stop and he pulled the door open, stepping out into the quiet, empty corridor that ran beneath the store. He took the fire exit at the end and was promptly hit by a blast of icy air.
“Jesus,” he muttered, hugging his coat tightly. After months in the Philippines, the New York winter hit like a punch.
He ducked his head against the biting wind and started walking, his boots splashing on the wet pavement.
For a few minutes he kept his head down, focusing on keeping warm, but gradually the familiar sights and sounds of the city began to seep into his bones.
Despite everything, New York still had its magic.
Everywhere he looked there were signs of Christmas.
The city was glowing with it. He passed street vendors selling roasted chestnuts, the smell of them throwing him right back to his childhood.
Kids in bright hats skated on a pop-up ice rink.
And for the first time in what felt like days, Christian allowed himself to breathe.
He used to love New York at Christmas. As a kid, he would press his nose to the windows at Carroll’s, mesmerised by the elaborate displays his father insisted on every year.
There had been carriage rides through Central Park, trips to Rockefeller Center to see the tree, late-night hot chocolates from tiny corner cafés.
It had felt magical back then. Like anything was possible.
Somewhere along the way, he’d lost that feeling. Buried it under long-haul flights, late-night meetings and an endless hunger to prove himself outside of the family business. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it until now.
Christian paused on the corner, his breath misting in the freezing air. Maybe he couldn’t fix everything tonight. Maybe he couldn’t figure out what was happening inside Carroll’s yet, but he could do one thing.
He could find a little of that magic again.
Smiling to himself, he turned off Fifth Avenue and on to a street he hadn’t walked down in years, drawn by muscle memory alone.
There was a tiny shop tucked away on West 43rd — a place that had once served the best hot chocolate he’d ever tasted.
His dad used to bring him there after long days at the store, a quiet reward just for the two of them.
It probably wasn’t even still there. It had been a small place back then, its windows permanently fogged up and its door jangling every time someone entered.
But Christian had a sudden, stubborn urge to try and find it and treat himself to a hot chocolate.
A little warmth. Maybe, if he was lucky, a little reminder of who he used to be.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed towards it, the cold biting into his skin but a strange sense of hope kindling in his chest.
The little café was still there, squeezed between a jeweller’s and a bookstore, its window glowing with soft, golden light. The same faded awning. The same crooked sign swinging in the wind. A rush of nostalgia hit him square in the chest.
He pushed open the door, the bell jangling just as it always had, and the aroma of rich, melted chocolate wrapped around him.
The warmth inside was immediate, almost overwhelming after the icy street.
And that’s when he saw her. Merry. What a coincidence!
Of all the places in all the city, she had ended up here too.
She was curled up at a corner table by the fogged-up window, cupping a giant take-out mug between both hands as if trying to absorb its heat.
Her cheeks were pink and her red hair was tumbling out from under her knitted hat.
She looked small, a little blue around the edges, shivering even in the warm room.
Christian’s heart did a ridiculous little flip.
Before he could gather himself, Merry dipped one finger into the mountain of whipped cream piled on top of her drink, absently swirling it, then licked it off with a quick flick of her tongue. Something low and dangerous shifted in Christian’s gut.
He dragged his gaze away, barely managing to get his brain back online. She hadn’t seen him yet. She looked lost in her own world, staring out the window at the snow beginning to fall, a small furrow between her brows as if the weight of the day was pressing down on her.