2. Christmas Night

Catherine’s POV

I stop in front of the door.

My fingers squeeze Clinton’s hand like I’m trying to borrow his courage through skin contact. The music inside rattles the walls. Laughter explodes, like nothing bad ever happened.

Like I wasn’t just emotionally assassinated.

“I can’t do it,” I whisper.

Clinton turns slowly, one eyebrow raised, mildly entertained by the train wreck that is my life.

“Can’t do what?”

“Go back in there,” I blurt. “If I see him tonight, I’ll cry. Or scream. Or...accidentally commit a felony with a chair. I’m not stable enough to figure out which.”

He stares at me, measuring exactly how much drama he’s willing to tolerate.

“Okay.”

I blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to. We’ll start tomorrow.”

“…Tomorrow?” I whine. “Do you even know what tomorrow is?”

“Christmas,” he says, smirking.

“Yes! Christmas!” I wave my hand like it’s a weapon. “The day people spend with family, loved ones… literally anyone…except a girl whose life exploded twenty-four hours ago.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes.

“Danny will be out tomorrow.”

My heart skips. “How do you know?”

He flashes a razor-thin grin. “Trust me. I always know where Danny Westley shows up.”

I loosen my grip on his hand. “You don’t mind… spending Christmas doing this? With me?”

He scoffs. “Please. Revenge is festive.”

“…Thank you.”

He leans closer, voice dropping, breath brushing my ear. “Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. Tomorrow, you’re mine.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re creepy.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But effective.”

I bite back a snort-laugh. “Do you realize this is Christmas? Most people are wrapping gifts, sipping cocoa… not stalking exes and…” I trail off, flustered. “…helping overdramatic girls like me get revenge.”

“Overdramatic?” he repeats slowly. “I think you just described perfection.”

I elbow him. Hard. “Ow! I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

---

The next morning, I stand in front of my mirror, staring at a sad, puffy ghost. Puffy blue eyes. Hair that lost a fight with a bird. Face tired, swollen, confused… tragic, really.

I tilt my head. Squint. Maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll look normal.

Outside, the faint tinkle of Jingle Bells drifts in, carried by kids singing and laughing. Christmas happiness seeps through the walls.

And me… stuck here, a solo disaster.

I step away from the mirror. My foot catches the rug. Trip. Flail like a confused chicken. Crash.

Careful this time, I march to the bathroom. The tap handle comes off in my hand. Water sprays everywhere.

I scream.

“WHY…”

After wrestling it like WWE, I shut it off. Soaked, blinking, I shuffle back to change. My toe hits the bed corner. Pain explodes. Hop around holding my foot.

“THIS IS WHY!” I yell. “Danny dumped me! I’m a walking disaster!”

I collapse on the bed. “Maybe he kissed Natasha because she doesn’t trip over oxygen. Maybe she doesn’t get attacked by furniture. Maybe she’s not cursed.”

I sit up slowly. “…I am cursed.”

Even I wouldn’t want to date me.

Heat builds behind my eyes. Lips tremble. One tear escapes. Then another. Then a full-on sobbing mess, voice breaking halfway through Jingle Bells, because apparently the universe likes cruel little jokes.

When it stops, silence feels worse.

I pull the curtains. Sunlight stabs my eyes. I shut them again. Sit. Stand. Pace. Circle the room like my mind is unraveling.

The image replays mercilessly… Danny’s lips on Natasha’s, the crowd cheering, his hand on her waist like I never existed.

I check my phone. Nothing. No calls. No messages. Christmas was supposed to be ours. Magical. He promised.

The house is quiet. Aunt on vacation. Amy in her grandmother’s place. And Clinton… he promised to call. So I wait.

My phone sits in my hand. Nothing.

Fear creeps in.

What if I imagined it? What if I’m the joke?

Hours pass. Morning becomes evening. Christmas slips away without asking permission. Anger replaces sadness…hot, sharp, self-directed.

How could I trust Clinton Blunt? Everyone knows he’s a playboy. Trouble. A walking red flag.

I groan and drop onto the bed. “So stupid.”

Then my phone rings. Almost drop it. Almost.

Clinton Blunt.

I straighten, trying to act cool. Heart doing gymnastics.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“At home.”

A pause. Then his voice… tired, rough.

“I’m at the Grand Palace Hotel. Do you… want to come over?”

I freeze. “Wait… what?”

“It’s fine if you don’t…” He exhales softly. “I don’t go home when my father’s angry.”

“No,” I blurt. “Send the address.”

Silence.

“I’ll send it.”

The call ends.

I stare at my phone like I’ve officially lost my mind.

Seconds later, a message pops up. I mutter, "You're unbelievable, Catherine,” then move like a rocket.

Clothes fly everywhere. “What do normal people wear to emotional disasters?”

I pull out a pink short flare dress. Danny’s favorite. The thought stings.

“No,” I mutter. “This isn’t about you anymore.”

I slip it on anyway. Payback looks good in pink.

---

Grand Palace Hotel glows gold against the night sky.

Expensive. Untouchable. Very Clinton.

I ride the elevator up, nerves buzzing like an orchestra of tiny panicked bees. My chest heaves from rushing through the house. I pause for a second at the elevator doors, taking a deep breath, trying to remind myself I’m not about to explode in front of him.

Fingers hover over the door like it’s a bomb. I knock once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Five times in. Still nothing. On the seventh, the door swings open.

Clinton.

Oh God. He looks worse than I expected. Puffy eyes. Cut lip. Tired. Somehow… still impossibly intimidating.

“Oh,” I squeak. “You look… bad. Like… seriously bad. Not in a hot way. More like… call-your-mother bad.”

He mutters a quiet, “Thanks,” as if I just complimented him. I roll my eyes, ignoring the flutter in my chest.

Inside, a Christmas movie plays quietly. A tiny lit tree glows in the corner. Why is this… kind of perfect?

“Come in,” he says.

I step forward…and pause. Take another breath, steadying myself before diving back into chaos. Just a few seconds to not panic.

I try to gesture with my hands. My palm smacks his cheek.

“OW!”

“Oh my God! I’m so…”

I step closer to apologize… and headbutt him. Right into his jaw.

He grunts. Blood…real blood…trickles down.

“I’M SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN…”

I grab tissues and step forward. My foot lands on his toes.

He hisses. “Catherine…”

“I’m helping!” I protest.

“You are literally making it worse!”

I lunge to wipe his lip, smearing the blood even more. I trip over the rug. Grab his shirt. Pull him forward. We almost tumble. He catches us just in time.

I pause mid-flail for a second, chest heaving, just to catch my breath. My fingers grip the tissues like life support. My cheeks burn. I can feel him watching me, calm, assessing.

Clinton inhales slowly, like he’s measuring how much patience he has left. “Okay… stay. Right there.”

I freeze. Hands in surrender.

“Don’t move.”

I nod. “…I won’t.”

“You’re a hazard.”

“I KNOW!” I whisper, cheeks flaming.

He wipes his lip himself, silently judging me. I stare at the floor.

Then… he steps closer. Too close. Inches away. Warmth. Heat. His presence everywhere. My chest hitches.

“Sorry for not calling sooner,” he murmurs.

I force a small smile. “It’s okay… you probably had your own problems.”

“You mean getting beaten by my father?”

My eyes widen. Wait. His father hit him? On Christmas?

He whispers, “Sorry,” as if it’s his fault.

I open my mouth, then close it again. Great. This is the moment I’m supposed to be comforting.

“Is that why you called me?” The question escapes me before I can think better of it.

“You can leave if you want,” he says quietly, stepping closer.

Crossing my arms. Defensive. “Tempting… but no. I’ll stay.”

A flicker of dark satisfaction lights up his eyes.

“Good,” he says. “Because I didn’t call you here to be alone.”

My breath stutters. I take a slow, grounding inhale. Remind myself I’m still standing. Still breathing. Still alive.

He lifts his hand… not touching me yet… just hovering near my waist, like he’s testing how close he’s allowed to be.

My eyes flick to his lips. He notices. His lips twitch… not quite a smile. More like restraint.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “It is.”

He doesn’t move away.

The space between us shrinks. Inches. Heat. His presence everywhere… too close.

Then his thumb brushes my waist. Just once. Light. Intentional.

My breath hitches.

“Say stop,” he says quietly.

I don’t. His thumb presses just a little harder.