Page 8 of All About Christmas

Media mogul John Wolfs spotted with his new girlfriend Anna Herbers.

Intrigued, I click on the heading that appears under RTL Boulevard, a local Dutch entertainment news outlet, on MSN UK .

Perhaps I look at articles in that category more often than I would ever admit to out loud, but the fact that Olivier’s father is apparently interesting enough to write about makes me linger there a little longer.

The photo accompanying the article is clearly zoomed in on two people lying under a beach umbrella reading a book.

The man—John Wolfs—is considerably older than his new girlfriend.

His grey, curly chest hair covers his torso like a thick layer of moss.

The hair follicles on his head have not survived the years: his skin shines in the sun like a billiard ball.

I peek over the edge of my screen again at Olivier’s full head of hair.

Maybe he’s just grabbed the right chromosomes from the gene pool.

I cast another glance at the photo. Olivier must look like his mother, I think, as I study the image carefully.

Because I see no resemblance at all. His father has a characteristically large nose; Olivier’s nose fits his face perfectly.

John has an indefinably light eye colour; Olivier’s eyes are the colour of melted chocolate.

John’s belly proves that he did not drink non-alcoholic beers during his many galas; Olivier’s body looks taut and toned in his tight-fitting shirts.

The woman lying next to John Wolfs is perhaps slightly older than me. Her slender body appears extra tan because of her white bikini, and her blonde hair lies like a halo around her head.

Olivier takes a pen from the tray and writes something on a piece of paper. His desk shakes a little and the tabletop wobbles against mine. I still don’t understand why Norbert thought it was a good idea to put him opposite me.

I turn back to the article and put on as neutral a face as possible, as if Olivier would otherwise realize that I have no regard for his father’s privacy and thus indirectly his own.

As though he can read my mind, his gaze flashes my way, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You look a little pale.” He pours some coffee from his thermos into his cup, tears open a packet of sugar, and stirs it into the divine drink.

“Though that makes sense too,” he mutters as he puts his spoon back down again.

“The prospect of all my work soon being for nothing wouldn’t sit well with me either. ”

It takes all my willpower not to hurl an inappropriate retort at him. I suddenly feel a lot less guilty for allowing myself to read the latest gossip about his family. My middle finger—which I raise in thought—rolls over the scroll wheel of my mouse and I read on.

John Wolfs has been spotted with his new flame on the beach near Ibiza.

Just two weeks ago, he took Peggy Karthaus to the film premiere of It’s All Relative , but sources close to the couple report that he has since left her for the younger actress Anna, known for The Kissing Dilemma , among others.

Details surrounding the break-up are not known, but it is clear that Peggy no longer follows her former lover on Instagram. That bodes well...

Somehow, I knew that John Wolfs was a real womanizer, attracting more women with his spot on the Quote 500 —the opulent list of the top 500 richest people in the Netherlands—than any municipality attracts with Christmas trees in December.

And that he also goes for the trees that have just taken root and have the life experience of a mayfly.

My eyes dart fleetingly in the direction of Olivier, who is once again writing something in his notebook with concentration.

Could he also be like his father? Is that why he doesn’t believe in love?

Does he see women as expendable objects?

A nice accessory to show off occasionally on the red carpet, but nothing more than that?

I hesitate for a moment, but then open Google.

I am all too aware that the person I am now subjecting to my Sherlock-skills is working right across from me.

But a little extra information about the competitor has never hurt anyone’s chances.

Indeed, it could be quite useful. Hesitantly, I type in his name and a series of articles appear on the screen.

Olivier is not in the spotlight nearly as much as his father is.

Here and there, a photo turns up of him at the premiere of a Dutch film, but no more than that.

His consumption of women also seems to be a lot less than that of Wolfs senior.

I come across only one photo of him and a pretty brunette at the 2022 Golden Televizier-Ring Gala.

He smiles into the camera and his hand hangs casually around the woman’s waist. He wears a black tailored suit with a dark blue bow tie.

She looks up at him in adoration, and her hand rests on his chest. Her black dress is fitted in all the right places and shows just enough skin to be chic rather than vulgar.

Her makeup is subtle and natural, yet present.

If elegance was a person and could walk in heels more than four inches tall, it would be the woman at Olivier’s side.

When I click through a bit, I end up with articles about The Love Farm , which came under scrutiny earlier this year due to behind-the-scenes abuse. The producers allegedly pressured contestants to do things they didn’t want and created an unsafe working environment.

My eyes flash to the other side of the table again, but all I see is an empty desk chair still spinning slightly.

“What are you doing?” Olivier’s voice suddenly sounds behind me.

My butt springs up a few inches from my chair and I let out a small scream. Quickly, I click away all the tabs—by now they form a beautiful mountain landscape at the top of my browser. I turn around slowly and look straight at Olivier. My initial “none of your business” response dies on my tongue.

His gaze is dark, and his tightly clenched jaw is twitching. He has his arms crossed, and everything about his posture radiates hostility.

I swallow. And again. When I have collected enough saliva in my mouth to produce a sound that doesn’t resemble sandpaper on a chalkboard, I say, “Oh, nothing at all.” When he doesn’t respond, I continue, “Just some research.”

He snorts incredulously. “Perhaps you should concern yourself a little less with my private affairs and a little more with finding a suitable segment.”

I, too, fold my arms. “Who says I haven’t had one in mind for a long time?”

“The worried frown line that has been living on your forehead for the past few days.”

My hand shoots to the spot between my eyebrows and, indeed, I feel a small dent. I let it fall back onto my leg again. “That doesn’t mean anything. I happen to have a very good option already,” I mutter with a clenched jaw.

Olivier tilts his head a little to the right, causing the lock of hair falling across his forehead to shift with him. “Oh, yes, what then?”

“You’ll hear about it on Monday at the meeting.”

Olivier looks at me mockingly, his eyes twinkling. “Uh-huh. Now I’m curious.”

I’d give anything to wipe that smug grin off his face, but I’m not really sure how. Then my gaze falls on the briefcase he holds in his hand. “Where are you going?”

“Well, I already have an idea to work on,” he says proudly. “So, I’m going to check in with my participants now to see if they still like it.”

“Participants?”

“Yep.” He looks at me a tad condescendingly. “You know, someone who participates in something. In this case, our show.”

I ignore his disparaging tone. “I mean participants, plural? What are you up to?”

I’ve hardly managed to find one suitable candidate. But that may also be because I’m quite picky.

“You’ll hear about that on Monday,” Olivier replies and straightens his shoulders. “Good luck, then.” He turns and strides toward the elevator.

I turn back to my monitor and rest my head in my hands.

“Shit,” I mutter. On Monday we have to go over the production schedule and I have absolutely nothing yet.

I have to make a decision. It’s better to present something that’s “nice” than to arrive empty-handed.

So, I grab the list of the best emails, close my eyes, and slide my cursor over the options.

After a few rounds, I let go of my mouse and open my eyes.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Okay, then we’ll do that.”

I hastily gather my thermos and my keys, dump them into my shoulder bag, and practically sprint to the elevator, which is just coming back up. The doors open with a soft pling sound, and I step inside.

Here we go.