A Dahlia for Christmas

POV: Dahlia Thorne

​I knew the meeting was a mistake the second I stepped into the private dining room at Le Blanc.

​The air inside smelled like old money, expensive floral perfume, and pure power. Soft piano music drifted from hidden speakers in the high ceilings, white silk tablecloths gleamed under dim crystal light, and the waiters moved around the room like quiet ghosts.

​I smoothed down my cheap black blazer—the one I’d bought on sale at a department store three years ago—and tucked a rogue strand of dark hair behind my ear. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my chin and held my head high. I didn't belong in a place where a glass of water probably cost more than my weekly grocery bill, but I was raised with pride. I refused to let anyone see me sweat.

​Sitting at the corner booth, lit by the warm glow of a shaded table lamp, was Alistair Morgan.

​Even sitting down, the man was intimidating. He wore a sharp, custom charcoal-gray suit that probably cost more than my entire university tuition. He was forty-two, with dark hair silver-streaked at the temples, a jawline cut from rough granite, and eyes so icy blue they could freeze boiling water on contact.

​I’d seen his face in finance magazines and corporate news segments, but pictures didn't do justice to the sheer physical weight of his presence. He sat like a king expecting the world to bow.

​"Ms. Thorne," his deep voice rumbled as I approached. It was low, dark, and smooth as expensive velvet. "Sit."

​It wasn't an invitation. It was a direct command.

​My inner alarm bells went off instantly, warning me to turn around and walk right back out into the cool Manhattan evening. Instead, my stubborn pride won out. I pulled out the heavy mahogany chair across from him and sat down, crossing my long legs.

​"Mr. Morgan," I said, keeping my tone perfectly professional. "Your assistant called my desk three hours ago saying you had an urgent financial contract for me to audit before the market closes tomorrow. But looking at this private room setup, this doesn't feel like a standard audit."

​Alistair didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He just stared at me, his icy blue eyes tracking every subtle movement of my face, reading me like a line of bad code. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a sleek black leather folder, and slid it across the white tablecloth.

​"It’s not an audit," he said coldly. "It’s a proposal."

​I frowned, resting my fingertips on the cool leather of the folder. "A proposal for what? A new hedge fund analysis?"

​"Open it and see for yourself."

​I flipped the leather cover open. The bold, black header at the top of the crisp white page made my heart stall in my chest.

​TEMPORARY ENGAGEMENT AGREEMENT

​I blinked, pulling the folder closer and reading the line three times just to make sure I wasn't having a high-fever hallucination.

​"Is this a joke?" I snapped, looking up from the page to stare directly into his face. "Did my co-workers pay you to pull some bizarre prank on me?"

​"I don't make jokes, Dahlia," Alistair said. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table.

​The shift in his weight brought him closer into my personal space, and the dark scent of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and sheer male authority hit my senses all at once. My pulse gave a sudden, hard flutter against my throat.

​"My father is dying," he said, his tone entirely flat, stripped of any warmth or theatrical grief. "His heart is failing, and his doctors give him six months at best. His absolute last wish before he passes is to see me settled down with a real partner—a woman who isn't a brainless socialite looking to leech off my family’s fortune or merge corporate assets."

​"And you picked me?" I let out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "Mr. Morgan, we’ve never spoken a single word to each other before today. I work three floors down from your executive office in data analysis!"

​"You're five-foot-eleven, sharp as a razor, and you don't back down from anyone," Alistair countered, his blue eyes locking onto mine like a tractor beam, pinning me in place. "I watched you tear apart a veteran hedge-fund manager's flawed revenue report during the quarterly board meeting last Tuesday. You didn't flinch when he yelled at you. You didn't stutter. You destroyed his numbers in three minutes using basic logic. You don't care about elite social circles, and you clearly don't care about my money."

​"I care about money," I corrected immediately, leaning forward until my chest was inches from the edge of the table. "I care about money a lot. I just prefer to earn mine through actual labor instead of marrying into it."

​"Then earn this," Alistair said simply. He slid a second paper out from the side flap of the folder.

​My eyes dropped down to the bold print at the bottom line of the second page.

​PAYMENT TERMS: $500,000 UPON COMPLETION OF TEN DAYS.

​Five hundred thousand dollars.

​My breath caught hard in my dry throat. My brain froze, staring at those five zeroes until they blurred together.

​Half a million dollars.

​In an instant, my mind raced away from this luxury restaurant and flew straight to my cramped, drafty apartment across town—specifically to my younger sister, Maya. Maya was nineteen, brilliant, and fighting a chronic illness that required specialized treatments our basic insurance refused to cover completely. The stacks of medical bills on my kitchen table had been piling up for months, a terrifying, heavy weight sitting on my chest every single night when I tried to sleep.

​Five hundred grand meant safety. It meant Maya could get her treatments without delay. It meant I could pay off our debt, buy proper food, and finally, finally breathe without feeling like the walls were collapsing on me.

​My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I hated Alistair Morgan in that moment—hated him for his sharp eyes, his calm voice, and the absolute power that single piece of paper gave him over my life.

​"Ten days," I whispered, my voice tight and strained as I forced my eyes off the figure. "What’s the catch? Nobody pays half a million dollars for ten days of fake hand-holding."

​"Ten days at my family’s mountain chalet in Aspen over Christmas," Alistair explained, his low baritone dropping an octave. "You come with me as my official partner. You wear the ring. You play the madly-in-love fiancée. You convince my family—and specifically my mother and my ex-girlfriend—that our relationship is genuine, passionate, and non-negotiable."

​"Your ex?" I arched an eyebrow, fighting to keep my professional composure intact despite the chaos in my chest. "You want me to act as your meat shield against an ex?"

​"Victoria Sterling," he said, a cold flicker of genuine irritation darkening his sharp features. "She's staying at the chalet with my family for the entire holiday season. My mother invited her because she’s desperate to arrange a corporate merger between our shipping companies. Victoria believes she can walk back into my life, put on a sweet face, and trap me into a marriage. I need her to understand that ship has sailed, sunk, and burned at the bottom of the ocean."

​I leaned back into my chair, folding my arms across my chest, trying to process the absolute absurdity of the situation. "So you want me to be a human shield. A five-hundred-thousand-dollar armor piece."

​"I want a woman who can hold her own against pack wolves without crying," Alistair corrected smoothly. "Are you brave enough, Dahlia? Or is the brilliant financial analyst scared of a few wealthy monsters in designer clothes?"

​My blood boiled at the deliberate provocation. Heat rushed through my veins, hot and fast, instantly burning away my shock and hesitation. He knew exactly which buttons to push. He was testing me.

​"I grew up in the real world, Alistair," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, confident purr. I reached out and snatched the heavy metallic pen off the table. "Rich monsters don't scare me. They just annoy me."

​I flipped to the back page of the document, bypassed the paragraphs of legal jargon, and signed my name with a sharp, aggressive slash of black ink right on the signature line.

​Alistair sat back and watched me sign. His dark eyes flashed with something intense—something dark and surprisingly fierce that looked dangerously close to satisfaction.

​Without saying a word, he reached into his coat pocket again, pulled out a small, square black velvet box, and popped it open on the table between us.

​Inside sat a massive, flawless oval-cut diamond set in polished platinum. It caught the dim chandelier light and sparked like crushed glass.

​Before I could process the sheer size of the stone, Alistair reached across the table and grabbed my left hand.

​His palm was huge, warm, and slightly rough around the edges—not the soft, manicured hand of a lazy executive, but the hand of a man who held real, physical control. The second his bare skin touched mine, a sudden, sharp shock of static electricity zipped straight up my arm, making my breath hitch. My pulse spiked into overdrive.

​His long fingers slid the cold, heavy ring onto my ring finger. It slid over my knuckle and settled at the base.

​It fit absolutely perfectly.

​"Welcome to the contract, Dahlia," he murmured, his thumb brushing over my knuckles for a second too long before he slowly released his grip.

​I looked up, meeting his icy blue gaze. My body was buzzing with a strange, terrifying heat that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with the man sitting across from me.

POV: Dahlia Thorne

​The private jet ride to Colorado was pure torture.

​Not because of the flight itself—the leather seats were softer than my mattress at home, the cabin was whisper-quiet, and the flight attendant had offered me a glass of champagne that cost more than my monthly phone bill. The problem was the man sitting directly across from me.

​Alistair hadn't said more than ten words since we cleared the runway in New York. He sat with a sleek silver laptop balanced on his thighs, his thick fingers flying across the keyboard like an automated machine. He looked impossibly broad, handsome, and imposing in his charcoal suit, even with his tie slightly loosened at the collar.

​Every few minutes, despite my absolute best efforts to stare out the dark window into the empty night sky, my eyes would betray me. I’d glance over and catch the hard line of his profile, the razor-sharp edge of his jawline, and the way his dark jacket straine