Chapter 18
VINCENT
“Justin Vale, born in Silver Lake, Maryland,” Edgar hums, the distant sound of Jingle Bell Rocks in the background. “He stole Willow’s pin which was Rose’s birthday. Cut, but please change for security reasons.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean back in my chair. The leather creaks, loud in the quiet of my office. “Of course, and where is the money now?”
There’s a shuffle on the other end, papers sliding, a sigh.
“That’s the part you’re not going to like.
It’s not here. Not in any Cayman account or shell company.
He moved it—bit by bit—over the last year into multiple nonprofits.
Housing relief, food distribution centers, community outreach programs in low-income districts.
Nothing about this looks like personal gain. ”
I sit forward, elbows on my knees. “You’re telling me he stole fourteen billion dollars from Beaumont Holdings just to…feed people?”
“Not just people,” Edgar says. “Entire neighborhoods. Homeless shelters, medical vans, after-school programs. The man’s practically built an invisible infrastructure out of your father’s money.”
My pulse stutters. “My father’s money?”
Edgar hesitates. “That’s the other thing.
Turns out, Justin was… displaced. When he was sixteen, your father’s development firm bought out a series of low-income properties near the docks in Silver Lake.
Eminent domain. The project went belly-up, of course, like half of Victor Beaumont’s expansions.
Families lost everything. Justin’s was one of them. ”
The words hit like cold water. I stare at the Christmas lights bleeding through the glass—cold and clean, so far removed from the ruin my father left behind. “He was a kid.”
“Yeah,” Edgar says softly. “And your dad didn’t look back.”
I press my hand over my mouth. For a long moment, all I can hear is the slow, even hum of the heater, the faint rustle of papers on Edgar’s end. Fourteen billion dollars. I’d been prepared to hunt a thief, not face a mirror.
“Christ,” I murmur. “He wasn’t stealing. He was… returning it.”
“Seems that way,” Edgar admits. “What do you want to do with the report?”
I stare at the file open on my desk—the numbers, the transfers, the quiet proof of a man who took everything that broke him and used it to feed people my father never saw. People I never saw. “Close it,” I say. My voice feels foreign. “We’ll cover the loss internally.”
“Mr. Beaumont-”
“Edgar,” I add, before he can hang up. “Set up a meeting with Legal and Corporate Social Responsibility. Tomorrow morning. I want to start a new foundation. Food and housing relief. Call it the Silver Lake Initiative.”
There’s a pause, then a faint chuckle. “Ahhh, good PR move.”
I manage a weak laugh. “Merry Christmas, Edgar.”
He snorts. “Merry Christmas, Mr.Beaumont.”
The line clicks dead. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the dark screen of my phone. Outside, snow drifts past the window like ash. Somewhere in the house, the faint notes of White Christmas hum through the walls—Willow’s playlist.
I close my eyes, rub the space between my brows. Fourteen billion dollars, stolen by a man who’d once been a kid left on the street because of my family’s greed. There’s a bitter poetry in that—an inheritance of guilt I didn’t ask for but can’t deny.
I push away from the desk and stand, my shoulders heavy, but lighter in some way I can’t quite name.
When I turn toward the doorway, she’s already there.
Willow leans against the frame, wearing one of my sweaters that slips off one shoulder, the hem barely brushing her thighs. Her hair falls in soft waves, and there’s a mischievous spark in her eyes that always undoes me.
She twirls a small sprig of mistletoe between her fingers. “Long call?”
“Too long,” I murmur, crossing the room.
She grins and lifts the mistletoe just above my head, then slides onto my lap as I sink back into the chair. Her legs curl around me, warm and effortless. The faint scent of cinnamon and something sweeter clings to her skin.
Her voice drops to a teasing whisper. “So, Mr. Beaumont… have you been naughty or nice this year?”
I cup her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. The weight of the phone call fades beneath the gravity of her nearness, the only truth I’ve ever needed.
“I’m always naughty around you,” I murmur, and kiss her.
Her breath catches as our mouths meet—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier.
She fists the front of my shirt, pulling me closer until the world narrows to her warmth, her taste of cocoa and wine.
My hand finds her hair, sliding through it as she sighs against my lips, that small sound breaking me open.
When we part, her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, mistletoe still trembling above us.