Page 1 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Prologue

I should’ve known something was wrong the moment Nate asked me to meet him here.

The restaurant shimmered in a way that didn’t feel human—soft gold lighting, candles that flickered without melting, waiters who moved like they’d been trained not to disturb the air. Even the clink of silverware sounded expensive.

Nate had chosen the place, of course. It was way beyond my pay grade.

And honestly? I was relieved. Nate loved places where people turned their heads when he walked in—the kind of restaurants where he’d run into constituents, donors, someone who wanted something from him. I hated that. Too many eyes, too many conversations, too much noise. But this place, for all its shimmer, didn’t feel crowded. It was private. Contained. A room where no one knew me and no one needed anything from him. A rare blessing.

He sat across from me in a navy suit that cost more than six months of my rent, dark hair slicked back just enough to saypolished, nottrying too hard. His tie was perfectly knotted. His cufflinks caught the candlelight when he shifted his hand.

He looked like a man ready to announce a campaign.

Public admiration fed him in a way I never fully understood. The way people’s eyes followed him, the way they leaned in when he spoke—he drank that in like oxygen. Nights like this, where no one recognized him, were the exception, not the norm.

That alone should’ve warned me.

The waiter poured water, recited the specials, and vanished. Nate picked up his menu and scanned it like a file he needed to approve. I traced a fingertip along the edge of my plate, trying to shake off the tightness low in my chest.

“So,” I said lightly, “what’s good here, Mr. Future Senator?”

He huffed a small laugh, the kind he used at fundraisers when donors made jokes he’d already heard six thousand times. “The halibut is reliable,” he said. “So is the filet. You’ll like either.”

Reliable. Dependable. Safe.

Words people used about him. Words he liked.

I looked at the menu even though I already knew I couldn’t afford any of this if I were paying. “I’ll go with the halibut,” I said. “It’s a fancy way of saying fish, right?”

Nate’s mouth twitched. “It’s notthatfancy.”

The waiter returned. Nate ordered for both of us, wine included. I let him. This was his world—white tablecloths, quiet power, colleagues who shook his hand like they were already picturing him behind a podium.

Sometimes I tried to imagine myself in that world long-term. Shaking hands at events. Smiling politely when someone said something that made my skin crawl. Being “Rudy Callahan, partner of Councilman Nathan Burke,” not Rudy who wrote social media copy from his couch in sweatpants while a playlist hummed through too-loud headphones.

I loved that he had goals. Loved that he wanted to make change. I just never quite knew whereIfit inside all that polish.

We made small talk while we waited—about his latest council meeting, about a colleague who’d said something stupid on a radio show. He never said it outright, but I could hear the subtext:this is why I have to be careful.

I told him about clients of mine, a rock band whose bassist had accidentally started a meme by falling off a stage mid-song. Nate smiled politely at that, then steered the conversation back to a bill he was tracking.

The wine came. Our food followed—my plate smelling of lemon and butter and something herbal I couldn’t name. For a few minutes we ate in relative silence.

It wasn’t a bad silence. Just… measured. Like everything else about Nate.

He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, then folded it precisely on his lap. That was the first sign—the way his shoulders drew up just enough to look like he was bracing.

“Rudy,” he said softly, “we need to talk about the future.”

The wordfuturelanded heavy inside my chest. I set my fork down carefully, my palm suddenly slick against the cool metal.

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice easy. “What about it?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box.

My heart stopped.

He didn’t make any grand gesture. He just set the box on the table, neat and square between us.