Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

There is shouting after the strike.

There are people moving to help Richard.

Richard is there floundering, a cut to his lip and his eyes wide.

There is a lot to watch in the commotion, all of it centering over a thirty-second span of time.

But I don’t watch any of that.

I watch Damien shake his fist like the hit was nothing, and then I watch Damien leave, his back to me, those broad shoulders slouched just a bit.

They aren’t slouched enough that the average human would notice, but enough that someone who has been studying his body, his posture, his words and expressions—they’d notice.

I notice.

It’s defeat.

I wonder if that’s what he looks like when he loses a case, when he’s leaving a courtroom knowing he tried his best and failed.

Or maybe that’s the look he gets when he wins but he knows who he was fighting for shouldn’t have been the victor.

I will never get to learn little things, small facts, and parts of who he is. Things I would kill to know about this man.

And at that moment, I know.

If I want to learn the minutia about him, I need to go after him to keep him in my life. I need to explain. To explain that while this started as some stupid plan for revenge, to get even and be petty, what is between us is real.

So, so real, and I’m a complete idiot.

I move for the elevator, hoping I can catch it before the doors slide shut and talk to him as soon as possible. The less time I give Damien to sit in his thoughts, the better.

I take one step forward, though, and fingers wrap my wrist painfully.

Richard.

Somehow he’s standing, slightly more sober looking, with a growing red spot on his jaw.

“Let go of me, Richard,” I say, my free hand moving to try and remove his fingers from my arm as I turn to look at him.

He’s not as handsome as I once had convinced myself of.

Especially not now, since I’ve started dating Damien, arguably the hottest man in New York City.

And once he opens his mouth, he becomes even less attractive, spewing disgusting bullshit.

“I can’t believe you pulled this shit, Abigail. Such a fucking child.” His fingers start to tighten on my wrist, and panic builds. Richard may not have been kind, and he may have been a shit boyfriend. He may have used his words as a weapon and said the nastiest things to me to get me to act the way he wanted.

But he never put his hands on me.

Ever.

I think after growing up the way I did, that would have been a wake-up call, but it never got that far.

Until now, apparently.

“Richard, let go of me.”

“You were always nothing more than a whore.”

“You’re hurting me, Richard,” I say, my voice low, trying to not draw attention.

Because even now, I’m trying to protect his image.

Trying to make sure I fit the meek, docile version of a woman he wanted me to be.

Why?

Why the fuck am I making myself smaller for him?

“Good. I can’t believe you thought you could win against me.” He laughs with venom and looks around the room, looking for the good ol’ boy friends who usually stick up for him. But this isn’t a frat party. This is a family-friendly party at a law firm of prestige.

No one is looking to join in on a laugh with him. In fact, the eyes that are on us are looking with confusion and worry. “You’re trash, Abbie. Always were. You were supposed to just be a piece I hit when it was convenient. But then you became useful, taking care of shit and making life easier for me. I kept you around. Why hire an assistant when I can just fuck a woman and convince her that I’ll make her my wife if she does all that shit for me?”

The glaringly obvious truth that Richard not only knew about how much I was doing for him but also knew my motivation, kills a small part of me. It’s the part of me that thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too dumb to understand that part. That perhaps he was so dumb and deluded in his WASP upbringing as a wealthy white boy only child that he thought that was just normal behavior.

But I should have known.

He is an ass, but Richard isn’t stupid.

“But then you lost your usefulness, Abbie. Lost it when you started expecting things. So I lost you.” The room spins just a bit, and I feel the specific urge to vomit at his feet.

“You’re fucked up. I’m a person, Richard. You treat people like property, like they owe you something. But no one owes you shit.” His hand tightens on my wrist, and a small noise falls from my lips, panic and pain and fear rolled into one.

“Richard, let her go,” a voice says.

Simon.

“Grandfather-“

“I said, let her go.”

“You have no idea what—” Simon cuts him off and I’m not going to lie—I’m surprised at the backbone the man has after the stories Richard told me. Then again . . . nothing Richard said was true, apparently,

“I heard everything. You deserve worse than what she did to you.”

“She ruined my chance at partner,” Richard says with a childish whine.

“You were never going to get partner, Richard,” Simon says, and the entire room goes silent. The DJ is still playing Christmas music, but it seems even lower with Simon’s words.

“The fuck I wasn’t!” Richard says, but he drops my wrist, turning to his grandfather. I worry for a second that he’ll move to him, strike him, and grab the old man, but he just stands there.

“Richard. You weren’t.”

“I deserve partner, Grandfather. I waited six years, never gave you shit about not doing it sooner.” With his words, I can’t help but scoff because the fuck he didn’t. I’ve heard calls he made to Simon, complaining about wanting to be a partner. His head swivels to me, and I bite my lip, remembering I need to get out of here and find Damien.

“You don’t deserve anything just because of your blood, Richard. You don’t win cases on your own. You’re not a team player. Everyone in the office has issues with you—”

“That’s bullshit.” And then, to my all-consuming joy, I hear some agreement and snickers, indicating that the office does, in fact, not like Richard.

Maybe this revenge plan was worth it, if only to see this fall apart.

“It’s not. You only take on cases with shitty intent.”

“I take on cases that will make money.”

“You take on cases with a greedy heart, Richard. That’s not what this firm is for.”

“This firm is to make money.”

“And there’s a way to do that without aiding abusers. Without only taking cases for high-profile clients.”

“I don’t—”

“Damien and I were going to talk to you next year and have a discussion. But you seem so intent on having it now, here it is: The firm is shifting gears. We want to help more people, choose our clients wiser, so we won’t be accepting cases where there are accusations of abuse, be it physical, emotional, or financial. All clients will have to sign a morality clause.”

The room now actually goes silent, the music having been cut a minute ago, and every person in the room is watching, listening with intent.

“Jesus Christ, Grandfather. He’s gotten to you. You had something great going on here, and you’re going to fuck it up?”

“The only person fucking up right now is you. The way that Damien looked at Abbie here all night, I don’t think he will be keen to know you put your hands on her.”

“What the fuck do I care what he thinks?” Richard says, spit flying with his words. “He’s a fucking loser. A piece of trash from the Bronx that got lucky. He’s fucking nothing, and he only wants to help losers—”

And with the ugly words that spill from his mouth, I lose it. I pull my arm back, wishing I had an older brother to teach me how to throw a punch, and hit Richard in the already red spot Damien left.

“Fuck!”

That’s me.

That’s me shouting because I think people forget to tell you that when you punch someone with the intent of hurting them, it also hurts you.

I shake my hand, jumping like that will help, my heels clicking on the expensive marble floors.

But as this happens, I don’t miss three people grabbing onto Richard.

Because as I moved to strike him, payment for talking about Damien the way he did, Richard lunged at me, trying to . . . I’m not sure.

I don’t really want to know.

And now Richard is drunkenly yelling, fighting the hands of the larger, much more sober men holding him.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouts, but I can’t even listen to him. Simon’s hand, warm and soft and kind and so unlike his grandson’s, touches my elbow.

“Go, darling. You’d better go catch that partner of mine. He’s got a temper, but the way he looked at you tonight . . . He just needs to cool down. Go find him.”

I should stay.

I should help clean up the mess I made.

But instead, I nod and run toward the elevator.

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, depending on how you look at it—it’s still descending, currently on floor twenty of sixty.

I don’t have time to wait for it to come back up. Instead, my eyes move to the staircase that’s calling my name, and I curse before starting down them, praying I don’t break a leg or deflate a lung or melt into a gross puddle ten floors in.

By the time I reach the 45th floor, I’m cursing at my shoes.

By the time I reach the 30th, I’m cursing the dress.

By the 15th, I’m cursing myself, wondering how long someone would take to find me if I collapsed and died in this stairwell.

By the 1st though, when I hit the lobby, I have a renewed sense of urgency, sprinting out of the building and into Rockefeller Plaza. The cold air shocks my lungs and burns my skin, but I don’t care.

I have a man to find.

And then I see him, crossing 49th. I book it to the light, watching the “walk” light turn into an orange hand.

“Damien. Damien!” I shout across the street as I get closer, his dark hair with those streaks of gray creeping into focus. I can see from across the street that his jaw is firm, tight with anger, and I wonder why he’s there, not headed toward the valet. He turns his head to me, somehow hearing me over the sound of New York City chaos, and just stands there.

“One minute! Please!” I shout over the noise, running to the curb and starting to step into the street. A horn blares, but I’m only looking at Damien. His face has gone slack with panic, but someone grabs the back of my dress, stopping me from running straight into a car.

“Jesus, lady, what the fuck!” the guy in his early twenties asks, a look of shock on his face like he can’t decide if he should call the police and put me into a mental hold or if this is just a case of New York being New York. I give him a small appeasing smile and apologize, thanking him for essentially saving my life.

I should be embarrassed.

I almost died trying to get across the street to a man who most definitely hates me. A man who most definitely does not want to hear my explanation of things.

But I’m not embarrassed. I’m determined, if anything. More determined to get over there, to explain, to try like hell to salvage this thing that is really, really fucking good.

“Wait for the light, you crazy woman!” he yells over the zooming traffic, and I assume that’s a good sign. I assume that if he’s telling me to wait, then he’s willing to wait.

I stand there, freezing in the cold of a New York winter’s night, though the adrenaline running through me won’t let me feel it, waiting. I move, pressing the “walk” button repeatedly, as if it will help.

It never does.

Honestly, I’m convinced that button is a con, a placebo to make you wait just long enough, so you don’t risk it and run into oncoming traffic.

Finally, the light turns green, the little walking man shows up, and I bolt, running in those stupid shoes and regretting the open toe and, honestly, not wearing the funeral dress, which may have been easier to run in.

But then I’m there, jumping slightly to hop the curb before I’m standing in front of him.

And fuck, he does not look happy. He does not look welcoming or humorous or warm or any of the other things I feel when I normally stand before him and look up at him.

“Please, Damien. Let me explain.”

He doesn’t say a word, and my stomach drops. He just keeps staring at me. Somewhere down the road, the bell of a Salvation Army Santa rings, asking for donations.

I say the first thing that comes to mind, the first thing I can to try and get him to stay.

“I didn’t think I’d like you,” I say. His eyebrow raises. “Shit. Fuck. I don’t . . . I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t think I’d care for you.” I breathe deep, my lungs so not used to any kind of excessive cardio, much less running down 60 flights of stairs then through Rockefeller Plaza in heels as my heart continued to pound in panic.

The move is almost imperceptible, the slight softening in the furrow between his brows, but I see it. The thing about working in retail is you learn to read the expressions on people’s faces. Even more, when you work in makeup, you have to read people’s faces to see how they really, truly feel about what you’ve presented them with.

“I’d been dating Richard for four years. Four years that I spent convincing myself he was it for me. That we were meant to be. I did everything and anything I could to show him I was right for him, that I fit in this . . .” I wave a hand toward the building I just fled from. “Stupid fucking world that I was dying for him to accept me into. I created this fantasy in my mind where we just . . . fit.” I look at the mistletoe in the doorway behind him, wondering what it would be like to dip into a doorway and kiss him when there was nothing between us.

No lies.

No misleadings.

Just us, a fresh start. Two strangers in New York who fit.

“I told myself that this stupid fucking party was the key. If he took me to this party that he’d been going to for years and never took me, we’d be it. If you’d asked me four months ago, I would have told you that tonight Richard would become partner and I would have his ring on my finger.” I rub a hand over my eyes, probably destroying my eye makeup, but what does it matter anymore? If this goes terribly, it will be a river down my face anyway. “God, I was so fucking stupid. So fucking stupid.” My head tips to the sky, to dark, ominous clouds that reflect how I feel right now.

“I changed for him. Cami saw and hated him for it. Kat saw it and tried to talk me out of it. Even Hannah knew. She worried about me. But I . . . I thought I loved him. I thought he was my everything, and what would a little self-sacrifice mean in the end if I had my soulmate? I dyed my hair to look like the women at the country club. I started dressing more conservatively. I was less fun, less sparkle. I talked less when he was around. I . . . I wasn’t me.”

All of these little changes I didn’t even realize I was doing until he was gone.

Small ways I molded myself to fit what he wanted and for what?

Four wasted years of a precious life.

“What does this have to do with anything? With us?” Damien asks the first words he’s said to me other than directing me not to run into oncoming traffic.

Progress.

I’m calling that progress.

“I promise, I’m getting there,” I say, and again—a small clue, a small hope when the corner of his lip tips up. “Halloween, I was supposed to come to the company party. He came to get me. I was in a bunny costume—”

“A bunny costume?” he asks, the small smile he can’t fight growing.

I return it, my soul lifting.

“A bunny costume,” I repeat with a small smile. “It was modest. It wasn’t like . . . a Playboy bunny or anything.” He raises an eyebrow, and I’m thinking this is good. His intrigue in a costume, right? “Anyway, Richard lost it. I don’t know. He just . . . It was over. He told me I wasn’t serious enough, that I wasn’t what he needed. That I was fun but was never going to be his wife. That I didn’t fit the image he needed to be partner.” I scoff, “I guess his paralegal Misty was, though, huh?” Another shake of my head. “It doesn’t matter. He left me crying outside of my apartment in the cold in a Halloween costume, and I think . . . that snapped the spell. I called up the girls, and we got hammered while we made a list of silly things to do to make me feel better about my life, and Kat made me download a dating app.” I lift my eyes from where they were focused on that pink bowtie to his eyes when he speaks next.

“And you matched with me.”

“And I matched with you. And . . . Shit. God. This is where it gets bad.” That ounce of soft I had earned hardens. “I don’t remember a ton about that night. I was . . . I was a mess. But I do remember seeing you, remembering Richard always bitching about you and saying, ‘I’m going to fuck his boss.’” With that, Damien laughs out loud.

That’s a . . . good sign, right? I think?

“We made a plan, Cam and I. Kat was an . . . unwilling bystander,” I say, and Damien smiles again.

“That seems on brand for her.”

“Very much so,” I say and forget what I’m supposed to be saying.

“So what was—” His hand moves toward the Rainbow Room. “—all that? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ah, that’s where I was, begging and pleading. Yes.

“Say anything? Like what? Oh, my ex of four years who shattered my self-worth and identity works for you, and I’d love it if you took me to the holiday party and proved to him that I am lawyer’s wife material?” I pause for a moment. “Oh, and while you’re at it, we can fuck a bunch, and it’s gonna be killer, and I’m most definitely going to develop feelings for you because you’re fucking amazing and kind and supportive and everything I thought he was going to be but never ended up being?”

“Okay, I see how that would have gone poorly.” I smile, but I know it’s a sad smile. A tight smile.

“I lied to you three times, Damien.” I fight the urge to step closer to him. “The first was not telling you who I was. That was wrong. I regretted it every moment of every day I was with you. God, there were a few times I tried to tell you, I swear. Today was one of them. I tried to call it off, but something always got in the way. Or I was reminded about what a fucking scumbag Richard is and it blinded me.”

“How did he remind you? Were you still seeing him?” Dark clouds roll over Damien’s eyes, similar to those over our head.

“No. Just . . . small things. He texted me the other day, telling me to delete his existence from my social media. We had a jar of—”

“What?”

“A jar. A pickle jar. It had little slips of paper with reminders—”

“No, the other part.”

“Oh. He, uh . . . The day we went to the Rockettes, I was on the phone with Cam and told her I was going to tell you everything. It was . . . We were too real. Too raw. I was going to and then . . . he texted me. He didn’t want me to . . . you know, taint his image, so he wanted me to delete every photo of him, undo any tags, and then report back when that was done.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I don’t say anything. “What are the other two?”

“What?”

“The other two things you lied about.”

“Oh. Uh. I don’t like whiskey.” He smiles, a big one this time, and shit, that hope sparks again.

“No shit.”

“It tastes terrible.”

“You like sweet things. You don’t want to taste it when you drink.” I smile and nod.

“Yeah. But I remembered once Richard had me buy you a bottle for an event—

“A Glenlivet . . . I remember that. You bought it?”

“I did extensive Google research. I didn’t want him to look bad.” His eye twitches.

“And the last?”

“I hate country music.”

“You prefer boy bands,” he says with a smile, and I roll my eyes.

“Yes, I prefer pop music. But I like it now. That’s the truth. It’s . . . been growing on me.” I smile at him, and shit, it’s there. It’s not hate, but a shine in his eye, that shine that’s there when he thinks I’m being amusing. “But that’s all. Everything else is all me. Everything I told you, how I feel about you.” I move, testing my luck, and place a hand on his chest. The warmth of his chest races up my arm.

“I swear—”

“Why is your knuckle bleeding?” Damien asks, interrupting me.

“What?”

“Your knuckle. It’s bleeding. Why?” I look down, and sure enough, the first knuckle on my ring finger is bleeding. It’s almost poetic, to be honest.

“I punched Richard.” He looks at me, confused.

“No, I punched Richard.”

“Well, yeah. You did, and then you left, and then I tried to leave, but Richard grabbed my arm—”

“He what?”

“He grabbed my arm. Simon made him stop. And then he said some nasty things to me, and then he said some nasty things about you, and then I punched him in the face. And then I ran off. I was going to take the elevator, but it was already going down, and I didn’t want you to get that far. That elevator is so damned slow. So I ran down the stairs and—”

“You ran down the stairs?” he asks, now a slight smile on his lips. “You did cardio to get here?” His voice is very “aw, honey, you baked,” a la Christian in Clueless.

“Yeah, and I’m all sweaty, and it’s making me freaking itchy, but I guess it’s okay because it’s cold as shit out here.”

“Where’s your jacket?” he asks, nearly glaring at me.

“I didn’t have time to stop at the coat check and have them find it. I had a man to run after.” The glare softens into something that sparks something else in me—hope.

A gust of freezing wind runs down the road, and I shiver.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath before pulling me into him, opening his tux jacket so I can fit my arms under and wrap them around his back.

It seems he didn’t have time to get his coat, either.

I breathe in his scent, that signature Armani that I pinpointed on day one filling my lungs. I let his warmth seep into my bones, and when his arms wrap my back, I let that feeling sink in too.

If this is the last time this man will hold me like this, I need to soak up enough to tide me over for the rest of my life.

I once thought that Richard was my soulmate because I liked the idea of what he could offer me.

A simple life of devotion to a man who was important.

A life where I could spend every moment living for the man of my dreams the way my mom was unable to do.

I think I thought in a way that if I succeeded where she failed, all would be well in the world. The balance would return. Life would be easy.

But a soulmate doesn’t work like that. A soulmate isn’t supposed to be easy or one-sided. It’s a balance—a give and take.

I think there’s a chance Damien could have been the give to my take, and I may have ruined that.

He pulls back just a hair to look at me, and I mirror him, tipping my head back. The sky is dark, a mix of a storm brewing and the early winter night, but we’re under a streetlight, and the highlights and shadows it creates on Damien’s face are so unbearably handsome.

“Did you do it to get him back?” Damien asks, his voice low and questioning.

“What?” I ask. I don’t understand the question, my mind not being able to focus on anything but the way he looks right now, staring at me with kind eyes.

Not angry eyes.

Worried eyes, maybe.

Should I be relieved? Or nervous?

“I said, did you do it to get him back? Was this whole scheme with the intention of getting Richard back?” Ah, there it is.

“What? No. Never,” I say quickly, scrambling to explain. “You have to know, there was never a part of me that wanted that. Ever. Once he broke up with me, it was like . . . a spell was broken. I didn’t understand what I saw in him anymore. It was like I could finally see the reality. I just . . . I wanted him to hate that he let me go.” I look over his shoulder, back at the Rockefeller Center and the Rainbow Room atop it. I keep talking, not looking at him, but I feel his eyes burning on me. “I spent some of my best years trying to make his life easier. I thought that was my duty, my comeuppance for what would be a beautiful life. And I think he knew that. I think he always knew I wasn’t it for him, but he liked what I could give him.” I breathe and finally look back at Damien, afraid of what I’ll see.

Mixed emotions. That’s what’s there.

Might as well finish digging the grave of this beautiful relationship.

“I knew who you were when you first popped up on that app. Richard hates you, by the way. Whines about you all the time.” The edges of Damien’s lips tip up. “So you came on that damn app, and I said fuck it. I was drunk with Kat and Cam, but I distinctly remember saying, ‘I’m gonna fuck his boss.’” Repeating those words makes Damien laugh, his head tipping back with a boom. I keep talking, a smile on my lips. “So we made a plan. Turns out, I already fit your type,” I say and widen my eyes. “Short and blonde and curvy?” He smiles too. “I just . . . I wanted to prove to him I could do better. He said he couldn’t stay with me because I didn’t fit the firm’s image. That I wasn’t serious enough. I wanted to prove to him that . . . I could.”

Damien’s face goes dark again, the smile draining from his face.

“I swear if that first night you told me you were looking for something serious, I would have dropped it then and there. I promise, Damien. I never would have led you on . . . But then . . . things changed between us. It became more for me. You became more. And I tried. I swear, honey. I tried to tell you a few times. We always got . . . interrupted.”

“So it was never about him?” he asks.

“Not in the way you think. You were never my ticket to win him. You were my ticket to making him feel as shitty as I felt.” I take a deep breath in, ready to spill. “And somehow, along the way, you undid all the damage he had done and made me feel beautiful and loved and cherished. And I stopped caring about him or revenge or getting even. I thought we would just be fun. But it was more. Every day you showed me what I was worth and that I deserved more than someone tolerating my presence. I deserved to be equal in a relationship instead of an assistant to some man. It took one date with you to see you were nothing like I had been told. It took one visit to Rollard’s to know you were a good man. It took one trip home to realize that you and I were something more.”

And here I go.

Because if this is going to blow up in my face, at least I’ll do it with a clear conscience, no word left unsaid.

“It took one night of you coming home to your place and seeing me there to make me fall for you.” I roll my lips in on themselves, rubbing them as I fight to keep my eyes locked on his. “It was never about extravagance. It was about feeling like an equal. Feeling cherished. Feeling appreciated. You do that. You’ve shown me that from the beginning. And I know I started this off shitty, and I know you probably think I’m insane and a bitch and . . . a million other things. But I’m begging you, Damien. Give me a chance. Give me a chance to prove this was all as real as it gets. That this—”

“You don’t need a chance, Abigail.” His words are firm, and I stiffen at them, my hands tightening around his warm waist because this is the last time I’ll be doing it.

And that’s fine.

That’s fair.

“I already know this has been real from the beginning. I should have told you earlier, told you we weren’t just fun anymore. We danced around it, and you’re right—you tried to tell me, and I told you to tell me later.” His hand tips my chin up before sliding to my throat, feeling my rapid pulse there.

“This tells me everything I need to know. The way your pulse is panicked. The look in your eyes right now. The way you’re holding me, the way you ran. Though, naranja, you try running into traffic like that again, I’m spanking you when we get home.” My eyes widen, but my mind is so confused, trying to put things together.

“This was always more, Abigail. I don’t blame you for wanting revenge. If you had told me from the start, I would have agreed. Richard’s an ass. An ass who won’t have a job after the holidays.”

“Damien, you don’t—”

“I do. I will. It was bound to happen regardless, but that’s a story for another day. All you need to know is that this is real. I am falling head over heels for you, and even if you weren’t with me, I’d drag you along.” My heart speeds, and Damien’s lips tip up. “Yeah, baby. I feel that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Now can I kiss you, and then can we grab our jackets and head back to my place so I can fuck you properly?” Another skip of my heart, another tip of his lips.

“Why don’t you have your coat?” I ask, my brain finally working enough to ask.

“Baby, you were never leaving without me tonight. I needed air. I went for a walk. I was headed back when you found me.” My mouth drops open, and his hand tightens just a hair at the look. “You’re getting it. I told you I’m falling, and I’m taking you with me.”

With his words, all I can do is stare at him, letting a small smile play on my own lips.

“You don’t have to drag me anywhere, Damien. I’m already there.”

Then he kisses me, full and deep, just as the snow begins to drift down.

It’s the magical Christmas moment of my dreams, kissing this man in a tux, the Rockefeller tree framing us, the air clear.

Revenge never felt so good.