Page 2 of The Christmas Trap

I’m deep in seating charts and dress fittings. I have an excel sheet to track the deliverables from vendors.

Soon, the life I’ve always wanted, with the perfect job and the perfect husband, will be a reality.

“Of course.” The receptionist checks her screen then looks at me again. "Mr. Davenport isn’t in."

“He…isn’t?” My smile falters. “But the meeting’s at ten, right?” I check my phone.

“It is.” Her tone is apologetic. “He’ll be back shortly. He asked that you wait in his office.”

Right.So, my prospective boss is the kind of CEO who schedules an interview, then ghosts the first ten minutes.

My chest tightens.

This job is supposed to betheopportunity; the one that changes everything. But now, it feels like I’m chasing someone who can’t be bothered to show up on time.

I clamp down on the rising doubt. Nothing ruins my festive spirit. Not even being stood up by my could-be boss.

On the other hand, it shows he needs an EA to make sure he turns up to appointments on time.

And I’m the woman for the job.I hope.

“This way, please.” Evelyn rises and leads me down a hallway dotted with glass-fronted offices. People are glued to their phones or buried in their screens. Senior management, I assume.

In between them, a scatter of cubicles hums with keyboard tapping, and meeting rooms brim with polished tables and serious faces.

The whole place is a study in minimalist white desks, aluminum fittings, and brushed chrome. Exactly the kind of fast-growing, billion-dollar company I want to work for.

What it doesn’t have? A single hint that Christmas is less than a month away. No garland. No sparkle. Not even a lonely string of tinsel.

Tragic. That'll be the first thing I’ll fix when I get the job.

I trail Evelyn across the gray carpet toward the double doors tucked away at the far end of the office.

Just before she opens them, she pauses.

“Good luck.”

Her voice is concerned.

That borderline-pitying look is back in her eyes. Just like that, the butterflies in my stomach start breakdancing. Why do I get the feeling I’m walking into the lion’s den?

I researched my ass off; I pulled together a whole personality profile on Brody Davenport. But now? When faced with his receptionist's reaction, I wonder if my ambition has bitten off more than it can chew.

I shuffle forward, then stop in the middle of the large room.

It’s a corner office and has floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Thames and the boats that ply on it, leaving white foam in their wake. The view feels too curated to be real.

The kind which money—or a surname like Davenport—can buy.

The office is situated in a heritage Victorian building and is located on prime real estate in the center of London on the Southbank.

From the outside, it's four stories of weathered red brick, crowned with ornate cornices and a black wrought iron balcony that curves like a sneer above the main entrance.

Inside, it’s a shrine to futuristic design.

Mr. Davenport’s office is a masterclass in masculine minimalism: cold-toned chrome and brushed steel. All sharp lines and angles.

The space hums with the kind of tension that makes me want to stand straighter and breathe a little shallower. It’s built for power plays, not pleasantries. For raising empires. For issuing orders and expecting to be obeyed.