Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Today is the Christmas party.

Three years after the Christmas party.

This Christmas party is still at Rockefeller Center, in the Rainbow Room, packed with lawyers and employees and friends and family.

This year, I know everyone who will be there. I’ve met them all. I’ve had meals with them all. I’ve laughed with them all.

Richard is not one of them.

He was let go (though he blasted on his socials that he quit, of course, according to a few people I’ve spoken to) before the start of the new year that first year and I haven’t seen him since the party.

Damien’s work family has become my family, in a way.

And now I’m here, ready to leave, sitting on the edge of the bed as I weave the delicate strap of my shoe through the buckle before securing it, standing, and smoothing my hands down the dress I’m wearing.

The dress is stunning.

Tight and bright and so fucking me that I actually took a break at work just to try it on as soon as it came in a new shipment.

Perfection.

Damien hasn’t seen it yet, and I can’t wait to see his reaction.

Which should be right about . . .

A knock comes to the bedroom door.

Our bedroom door, for about two years now.

“Come in,” I say, turning toward the door. It opens, Damien stepping in in his tux, his fine black shoes tapping on the wood floors.

My fucking man.

The salt and pepper has grown, creeping into his temples in a way I can’t stop myself from touching anytime we’re together, and the laugh lines near his cheeks have deepened, but he’s never looked hotter to me.

I move, cocking my hip and moving my hands to my sides before smiling at him. “What do you think?”

There was a time when I would do that self-consciously. Where I’d ask because I need the reassurance, need to know I’m wanted, adored, loved.

Not any more.

Not a single day passes where Damien doesn’t tell me I’m gorgeous. Doesn’t murmur in my ear that I’m his dream woman, doesn’t find a way to touch me, to glide his hands over curves and try to get closer.

I know without a doubt that this man would devour me if he could.

“Jesus, rubia,” he says, taking a step closer until he’s right in front of me. I tip my head up to look at him, and his hand moves to wrap my neck the way he loves to do. Slight pressure, just feeling my pulse beneath his hand.

He doesn’t look at the dress when he speaks next.

“Never seen anything more beautiful in my life,” he whispers on my lips as his other hand moves along the satin at my hip, pulling me closer.

“We don’t have time, Damien,” I say, a small smile hiding the fact that I’m already pulsing for him.

“We can make time, rubia.”

“After,” I say, my voice breathy. “I’ll be tipsy, I’ll be full of Christmas cheer, and you can have your way with me.” He smiles that devious smile.

“You could be full of me right now,”

“Damien,” I whisper, “my hair. My makeup.”

“You know I love you mussed up, rubia.”

“Damien.” He steps back, leaving me feeling cold and nearly stumbling with the inability to hold my own body weight. His hands move down my arms, grabbing my wrists and smiling as he waits for me to steady on my feet.

He loves this, too, watching me get frazzled because of him.

“You’re right. We don’t have time.” I scrunch my nose in frustration, sexual in nature, and he laughs. A hand moves, gently brushing over my neck and pushing my hair behind my shoulder. “Something’s missing,” he says. His thumb caresses the divot between my collarbones.

“It’s a statement,” I say, gesturing to the extravagant sweetheart neckline.

“Hold on,” he says then reaches into his pocket, grabbing for something.

A box.

A blue box tied in white ribbon.

“Christmas isn’t until two more days, Damien,” I say with a whisper.

“This isn’t a Christmas present, naranja,” he says, his voice just as low. He places the box into my hands, and I grasp it gently.

“Damien . . .”

“I love to spoil you. Don’t ruin it for me,” he says, and I roll my eyes. Still, I move my hand to the box, tugging on the white ribbon.

It’s not a ring.

I know that.

We’ve agreed to four years—four years together, four years of dating and living together and enjoying this phase before we move to the next.

I’ve got one more year of enjoying being his girlfriend.

It’s not even the right size box for a ring, Abbie, I remind myself, because even though I know down to my soul this man will be my husband one day, I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t interested in speeding up our four-year plan.

But all of that flies from my mind when I lift the lid and see a delicate silver chain. A delicate silver chain with a giant pink diamond right in the middle. The color is pale, a faint light pink, but still: it’s a pink diamond.

I gasp.

“Oh, my god, Damien,” I breathe, my hands shaking as I touch the platinum, afraid to touch the stone.

“Do you like it?” he asks, and his voice is tentative, like a little kid. Like he’s anxious I won’t love it.

“Damien . . . it’s . . . This is too much.”

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice firmer.

“Of course I like it. Look at it. It’s . . . pink. And sparkly and beautiful,” I say, and he laughs, tugging the box out of my hand, grabbing the necklace and tossing the box aside.

“Damien!”

“It’s a box.”

“It’s a Tiffany’s box! I was going to keep it!”

“I’ll buy you more, rubia,” he says in a low murmur, turning me until he’s to my back and I can see him behind me in the mirror.

He undoes the latch of the necklace, moving to drape it on my neck then, does the clasp behind me. Finally, he moves his hands to pull my hair from the chain before he pulls me in tight. Then we’re both looking at the image before us in the mirror.

“Beautiful,” he says, one hand on my waist, the other brushing the gem until it’s center on my chest. “Fucking magnificent.”

“It’s so pretty, Damien. It’s too much, but so pretty.”

His hand moves to my chin, holding it in place. “I was talking about this. You, Abigail.” A shiver runs through me. His hand moves to the diamond again. “Tonight, I’m going to fuck you wearing just this.” My breath hitches and his eyes move down the line of my body in the reflection, settling on my shoes. “Two things, actually. Those shoes and this diamond.” I smile at him.

“I knew you’d like those,” I say.

“You know me better than anyone does, naranja.” His lips press to my hair, and I take a mental snapshot of the reflection, wishing it were a real camera. “Let’s go.”

Hours later, we’re sitting at a big table in the Rainbow Room with a pristine white table cloth, having just eaten an unbearably delicious dinner when there’s a clinking of metal on glass.

It’s time for Simon’s yearly speech.

“Quiet down, quiet down!” he says from the front, holding a microphone borrowed from the DJ. “Thank you all for coming once again for this celebration of Schmidt and Martinez. It’s been another incredible year of helping and serving justice, and I’m honored to have all of you by my side to do it.” There are cheers and a wolf whistle from the crowd. “Every year, I stand up here and I do my thing, congratulating all of you in this big, eclectic family. And every year, I remind you that I’m the one to take on this task because my partner, Damien, is not a fan of grandiose speeches and the like.” I turn my head to my man, smiling at him in a teasing way, tossing an elbow in his direction.

He winks at me in return, his smile stunning as always.

“But this year is a little bit different,” Simon says, and my eyes that are already on Damien narrow, confused.

And then he stands.

He stands and he adjusts his suit jacket, buttoning it in the middle, the light-pink bowtie at his neck.

And he walks up to Simon.

And he takes the microphone.

My boyfriend of three years is standing in front of a room of employees at his company Christmas party in the Rainbow Room on top of Rockefeller Center and he’s holding a microphone.

“Thanks, Simon. Yeah, so, this isn’t usually my thing, but we’ve got everyone here, and it’s a gorgeous location, so I figured you guys wouldn’t mind.” My hands start to shake. “Abigail, naranja, can you come up here?”

My body begins to shake.

“Me?” I say, my voice a whisper, but he hears me. He hears me and lets out a laugh, the room echoing the sentiment.

This is going to happen, isn’t it?

Holy shit.

“Yes, you. Come,” he says, an arm out toward me.

I don’t know how, but I stand, my heels clicking on the marble floor as I walk up until I’m standing next to Damien. He takes my hand in his, still holding that damn microphone, and I look in his eyes, but something behind him catches my attention.

I look, and my breath catches in my throat.

My sister stands there, against the wall, hidden in the shadows in a dark-green dress, her husband standing next to her with his hand on her waist.

My sister is here.

She’s smiling huge, giving me a thumbs up.

I move my eyes back to Damien who moves the microphone away, his next words for me alone.

A comfort.

“Thought you’d want her here for this,” he says in a low whisper. I breathe.

It’s all I can do.

Shit, I’m going to cry and he’s barely said anything.

“So a lot of you probably know, mostly because you were there, that Abigail and my meeting and starting to date was a mix of happenstance and . . . chaos.”

“REVENGE!” a voice yells from the back of the room, and though my head swivels in that direction, I don’t need to.

I know that voice.

I would know that voice if I were in a Black Friday mob and she whispered my name.

Cam is standing in the back of the room, a gorgeous black dress highlighting her curves and Kat standing next to her in red, slapping her arm.

My best friends.

“Yeah, I thought you’d want them here, too,” Damien says for my ears again. “So it wasn’t traditional. But as soon as I met Abigail, I think part of me knew she was made for me.” He turns to me, his hand tightening on mine. “You are kind and exciting and you make killer meatballs.”

“They’re Hannah’s recipe,” I say in a shocked whisper, and I hear Hunter choke out a laugh, but when my eyes move back to him, Hannah is slapping him.

When I move my eyes back to Damien, he’s on one knee.

“They’re made by you. You take care of me—you take care of anyone who lets you, really. You think color can change the world and you prove it, one person at a time, every single day. You keep me grounded and you sing too loud at concerts, and honestly, there’s a tiny part of me that’s doing this today because I think if I don’t, you and your girls might craft some kind of plan that includes me walking into work covered in fine glitter or finding that all of my clothes are just a quarter inch tighter.” My eyes widen at his rare but not unheard of reference to my days of revenge and I hear a, “Hell yeah!” from the peanut gallery in the back.

Lord give me strength with my damn friends.

“You wanted something big,” he says, the mic to the side, not fully catching the words.

“No I didn’t!” I say in a hushed whisper.

“You’re a damn liar, Abigail Amelia Keller. You want big and you want sparkle and you want extravagance. Not in price, but in love and adoration. And right here, right now, I’m promising to spend the rest of my life giving you that. Say yes and I’ll make you feel loved and cherished and appreciated until my last breath. Say yes and I’ll help you paint the world pink. Say yes and we’ll forever be completely consumed by each other. We’ll be the cool aunt and uncle, and we’ll travel and explore, and you will be mine and mine alone. I am absolutely wild about you. You are my sun and my moon and I will be yours. You completely consume me.”

His words are so similar to those I whispered in a dark room in a tiny cottage in my hometown before we were even close to this.

But we were always this, weren’t we?

We were always the sun and the moon and all-consuming love.

“Say yes, Abbie,” he says, his hand squeezing mine, and I only now see the opened black box that he must have stashed somewhere holding a platinum band and a pink diamond.

Simple but fabulous.

All me.

“Yes,” is all I can get out of my throat that is inexplicably tightening.

It’s tears, of course.

Giant, girly, body-wracking tears, but those are going to ruin my makeup in front of an entire room full of powerful New York family law lawyers and I might be dramatic, but I’m not that dramatic.

But never to fear, Damien hears my word, stands quickly, and wraps me up in his arms, knowing how much I would hate everyone seeing that.

The man knows me down to my marrow.

“Thank you, naranja. You won’t regret it,” he says into my hair as if I’m doing him a favor.

And that’s what sets me off.

“I lied,”Damien whispers in my ear when we’re dancing, having spent the last hour accepting congratulations and squealing with my sister and best friends. Cami and Kat dragged me to the bathroom, having my makeup case already on hand to fix my face after my big cry fest into poor Damien’s tux, and I full-on slapped my sister on the arm for not telling me she would be here. And now we’re finally being given space and privacy as a soft Christmas song plays, and he’s holding me close as we sway.

“What?” I ask, and for a moment, my heart stops in panic.

But then I remember Damien would never make me question anything between us, not ever.

“I lied before about what I want you wearing tonight.”

My brow comes together, confused.

“Is the dress not—”

“The dress is spectacular. But tonight, when we’re home, I’m going to fuck you wearing that necklace, those shoes, and your ring.” I look down at my hand on his chest, nails tipped in pink, brand new ring twinkling in the lights.

“Deal,” I say with a smile.