Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ella
Christmas was three days gone.
The last week of December, and New York's winter was hitting hard. Snow came in waves, wrapping the whole city in white. The apartment's heat blasted full force. A thin film of condensation clung to the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the skyline outside—just like my mood. Hazy. Unsettled.
I dug Sergei's Christmas gift out from the bottom of my suitcase and set it on the nightstand. Stared at it for a while.
Truth was, I'd put real effort into these things. But after that fight in the parking garage, the gift had stayed buried in my luggage. Never made it out.
Sasha's call was the third one this week.
"So you still haven't given it to him?" Her voice exploded through the phone with that "are you insane" tone.
"Haven't found the right moment."
"The right moment? Ella, Christmas was three days ago! You wait any longer, it'll turn into a New Year's gift!"
I shifted position on the couch. Misha immediately moved his head onto my lap and went back to dozing.
"I know, but—"
"No buts," Sasha cut me off. "You spent three months knitting that. You designed it yourself. You sewed every single stitch. And you're telling me you're too chicken to give it to him? Ella Collins, since when did you become such a coward?"
I opened my mouth to say "you don't understand," but Sasha was already rolling.
"Listen to me. Make it special. Have a makeup Christmas, just the two of you. Decorate that apartment. Cook dinner. Light some candles. Give him the damn gift. Men eat that shit up, I'm telling you."
"But Sergei probably doesn't even care about stuff like this... He only wears custom-made everything."
"No, no, no, Ella. He's a man first, your scary CEO second.
" Sasha said. "Guys like that, who look like they have everything—they're the ones who really fall for 'someone put thought into this.
' Because everything they usually get, someone bought it with money.
But what you made? Money can't buy that. "
I went quiet for a beat, but doubt still lingered. "But..."
"No buts!" Ella said firmly. "You always overthink everything. Why do you always try to predict the ending of things that haven't even happened yet? Everything in this world—you have to do it first to know the result!"
Sasha's conviction hit something in me.
She was right. I hadn't even tried yet. How would I know Sergei wouldn't like it?
I took a deep breath. "You're right, Sasha. I'll do it."
"That's my girl!" Sasha cheered.
After I hung up, I curled into the couch and ran through what I needed to do.
Decorate the apartment. Cook. Candlelit dinner. Give the gift.
Start with the easy stuff.
But I couldn't leave.
Sergei's orders.
I found Porter.
He was leaning against the hallway wall, phone in hand. Looked up when I approached.
"Porter, I need a favor."
"What kind?"
"I want to decorate the apartment," I said. "Give Sergei a makeup Christmas."
His expression didn't change, but I caught his eyebrow twitch slightly.
"What do you need me to do?"
"I need some things," I said, handing him the list I'd made. "Christmas decorations, groceries, candles, wine. I can't go out, so I have to ask you."
Porter took the list and scanned it.
"All of this?"
"It's all on there," I said. "Brands and quantities, everything's written down. Just follow the list."
He was quiet for a moment, probably weighing feasibility.
"Does Mr. Volkov know?"
"No," I said. "It's a surprise. You can't tell him."
Porter looked at the list, then at me.
"I won't tell him," he finally said, folding the list and pocketing it. "But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"Until I get back, don't open the door for anyone. Anyone."
After Porter left, the apartment went quiet.
Misha sprawled on the carpet, eyes half-closed, tail occasionally sweeping.
I paced the living room, mentally rearranging the furniture.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were huge—I could string lights along the frame.
The dining table sat between the living room and kitchen.
A deep red tablecloth would pop. Candles in the center, one on each side.
Roses—I'd written roses on the list. Porter would remember.
An hour later, the lock clicked.
Porter pushed through the door with seven shopping bags in both hands.
Misha bolted over, sniffing between the bags.
"Stop it, none of this is for you," I said, crouching to take the bags from Porter.
He set everything out on the island one by one. Christmas decorations, warm yellow string lights, deep red tablecloth, candles, holly, groceries, wine, and a small bouquet of red roses.
"Everything on the list," he said. "I had the grocery store pick the brands you wrote down. The steak came in this morning."
"Thank you, Porter."
He nodded and stepped back.
I started setting up.
The windows were massive. I strung the warm yellow lights along the frame. No ladder, so I stood on a chair. Porter held it steady beside me, expression tight, never letting go the whole time.
The tablecloth went down—deep red, paired with white dishes. Candles in the center, one on each side. Roses in a clear glass vase next to the candles.
I'd also bought a few gold bells and tied them to the sofa arms with red ribbon.
Misha followed me the whole time—living room to kitchen, kitchen to dining area—tail wagging constantly, like she sensed something different in the air.
Porter stood in the kitchen doorway, watching me hustle.
"Need help?" he asked.
"Can you cook?"
"No."
"Then help me watch the heat," I said. "I don't know how long to sear steak. I need someone to time it."
Porter nodded.
The kitchen soon filled with the scent of butter and minced garlic.
Steak seared to a deep brown on both sides, then rested on a plate. Asparagus sautéed simply, sprinkled with sea salt. The appetizer was easy—salmon arranged on a plate, avocado sliced, drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil.
After I got everything ready, I stepped back and looked at the plating on the island.
Not bad.
At least better than Sergei's charred scrambled eggs.
Candles. Wine. Music.
I found a jazz playlist on my phone, turned the volume low, and let the music flow like background.
The light outside started fading. Winter days were short—barely five o'clock, already looked like night.
Misha curled under the new red tablecloth, only her tail sticking out, occasionally sweeping.
Porter checked his watch.
"Mr. Volkov should be back in about an hour," he said. "I'll head out now."
"You're not staying?"
"No," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching—probably the closest he got to smiling. "This is dinner for you and the boss."
He left the apartment. The door closed softly.
Just me in the living room now. And Misha. And those warm yellow lights. And the jazz.
I stood by the windows, watching Manhattan light up in the dusk. Lamps flickered on one by one, dots connecting into lines, lines spreading into an ocean of light.
Deep breath.
Stop being so nervous.
It wasn't like this was the first time we'd been alone together.
But this was different. This time, I'd initiated it. Not something he'd arranged. Not an accident. My choice to do this for him.
The lock turned at seven-fifteen.
My heart slammed once, then I quickly adjusted my expression, standing at the junction between the entryway and living room, trying to look natural.
Sergei pushed the door open.
He wore a dark gray coat, snowflakes on his shoulders—some still unmelted, catching the entryway light in tiny glints. Black briefcase in hand. Looked like he'd just gotten out of a long meeting.
He glanced up while changing his shoes and saw me.
Then he saw the living room behind me.
Warm yellow lights traced the window frame, flowing like a band of light against the night. Deep red tablecloth set with white dishes, candles, and roses. Two wine glasses side by side. The wine was already open, breathing in the decanter.
His steps stopped.
"What is—"
"Merry Christmas, Sergei," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "Christmas Day was such a mess, and we didn't get to celebrate anything. I know it's two days late, but better late than never, right?"
He looked at me. Those gray eyes held something I couldn't quite name. Surprise, maybe—like he'd lived forty years and no one had ever done something like this for him.
"You did this?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"When?"
"This afternoon," I said. "Porter bought the stuff. I did the setup."
He stood in the entryway, coat still on, snowflakes slowly melting on his shoulders, leaving small wet spots.
He just looked at me. For a long time.
"You don't like it?" I asked.
"No," he said. He set the briefcase on the floor, walked over, stopped in front of me, and pulled me into his arms.
Not the suffocating kind of hug. Light. Restrained. But I could feel his heartbeat.
"Thank you." His voice muffled against the top of my head.
I buried my face in his chest, breathing in his scent—cedarwood, and a hint of cold air from outside.
"You haven't even seen all of it yet," I said, voice a bit muffled. "Go change first, then come eat."
He released me, looked down at me.
"Okay."
While he went to change in the bedroom, I double-checked the table.
Steak still warm. Asparagus still hot. Appetizer plated and ready. I adjusted the candle placement slightly for better light distribution. Wine poured into the glasses, deep red liquid rippling in the candlelight.
When he came out, he'd changed into a dark sweater, hair still damp—he'd showered, probably to wash off the exhaustion from outside.
Misha crawled out from under the tablecloth, ran to his feet, tail wagging like a propeller.
He glanced down at Misha, then looked up at me.
"Sit," I said.
We sat facing each other.
Candlelight danced across his face, turning those gray eyes into an illusion of warm brown. He picked up his wine glass and looked at me.
"What are we toasting?"
I thought about it.