Page 9 of Mistletoe and Mayday

“The research is real.” Her chin lifts, defiant even now. “My work matters.”

“Your work.” A laugh claws its way up my throat. “Right. Your noble crusade to save the world. How many donationsdid my family make to your foundation? How many connections did we leverage?”

“That’s not fair?—”

“Fair?” The ring box creaks in my grip. “You want to talk about fair? I built my entire expansion plan around your research sites.”

The man by the bathroom makes a choking sound. Good. Let him see exactly what he helped destroy.

“Sebastian, please.” Rebecca reaches for me, the sheet slipping. “We can still?—”

“Still, what? Still pretend? Still play our parts in this perfect little drama you’ve scripted?” My voice rises with each word, control slipping. “Was I just another donor to you? Another connection to exploit?”

She flinches. Finally, a genuine reaction.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t make what we had cheap.”

“Cheap?” Ice fills my veins. “Darling, you managed that all on your own.”

The hallway stretches endlessly, each step carrying me further from that twisted scene. My shoes drag against the carpet—cheap, not the Italian stone we use in Lockhart properties. Everything here screams second-rate. Including my judgment, apparently.

The lobby’s empty except for that same useless clerk. His eyes widen at my approach. He looks away. Smart man.

Cold air hits my face as I burst through the doors. Snow falls in thick flakes, coating my suit. I don’t feel it. My phone’s already in my hand, thumb scrolling through contacts. The screen blurs. From snowflakes. Just snowflakes.

My car sits alone in the parking lot, a blacksentinel in a sea of white. The handle’s frozen. Of course it is. Everything in this godforsaken place conspires against me.

Inside, the leather seats crack from cold. I grip the steering wheel. Names blur as I scroll through my contacts. Who do I even call? Mother? She’ll be devastated—she already had the wedding planner on speed dial. Father? He’ll see it as a business liability first, son’s broken heart second.

My reflection catches in the rearview mirror. Hair disheveled, tie crooked. I fix both. Control what you can control.

Snow piles higher on the windshield, creating a white curtain between me and that hotel. Good. Let it bury this whole night.

I need out. Need gone. Need to be anywhere but here, watching snow bury my perfectly planned future while Rebecca probably perfects her sob story upstairs.

My phone buzzes. Mother’s face lights up the screen. Of course. Her timing’s always been impeccable.

I let it ring.

My fingers shake as I punch in the number for our private aviation service. Snow keeps falling, coating everything in deceptive peace while my world burns. The heat’s on full blast, but I can’t stop shivering.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart.” Janet’s voice carries that careful tone reserved for delivering bad news to important clients. “Your father has the jet until the 26th. They’re already airborne for Aspen.”

Of course. The annual Lockhart Christmas retreat.

“There has to be another option.” My voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from far away. “Charter something. Anything.”

“Sir, it’s almost Christmas Eve, and it’s Alaska. Everything’sgrounded or booked.” She pauses. “The weather’s getting worse, too. They’re talking about closing the airport soon.”

The steering wheel creaks under my grip. Father always says a Lockhart doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t lose control. But my carefully ordered world keeps crumbling, one piece at a time.

“Find me something.” Ice coats each word. “I don’t care what it costs. I need out of here. Now.”

“Mr. Lockhart, I?—”

“Just. Do. It.”

The line goes silent except for rapid typing. I watch snow build up on my windshield, each flake another barrier trapping me here. In this backward town. With her.