Page 33 of Merry with a Tycoon

At the Hollister mansion, the familiar opulence I remembered when I first visited months earlier is amplified by the holiday spirit. The crystal chandeliers sparkle with added festive charm, garlands of pine and holly adorn the sweeping staircase, and everywhere, there are lights glittering. A massive Christmas tree stands majestically in the corner, its ornaments catching the light.

“Willy! Crystal! You made it!”

I turn to see Brogan approaching, a wide smile on his face. He kisses Willy before turning to me, his expression softening.

“I’m glad you came, Crystal. It’s good to see you.”

There’s something in his tone, a warmth that makes me wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on about Preston and me. But I push the thought aside, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing server.

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and small talk. I sip champagne and try not to feel too out of place among the glittering crowd. But I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong here, in this world of wealth and privilege.

With Willy and Brogan deep in conversation near the Christmas tree, I slip away from the crowd in the main hall, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses fading as I movedeeper into the mansion. As my fingers trail along the rich wood paneling of the corridor, I remember Willy telling me about how Preston had the mansion divided into three separate spaces—“apartments,” Willy had called them—after their father passed away. One for Preston, one for Brogan, and one for their widowed mother. That way, Lorraine wouldn’t be by herself in the hilltop mansion.

It’s such a thoughtful solution, keeping the family close while still allowing for independence. I can almost picture Preston poring over blueprints, figuring out how to make it work for everyone.

Just like he tried hard to make the revitalization project work for everyone, too.

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the man approaching until I nearly collide with him.

“Whoa there,” a familiar voice says, strong hands steadying me. “You okay, Miss Francia?”

I look up to see Javi, Preston’s bodyguard, watching me with concern. “I’m fine, thanks,” I reply. “Shouldn’t you be with Preston?”

He shakes his head. “Not for this trip, unfortunately.” His brow furrows. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

I hesitate, then make a split-second decision. “Actually... I was wondering if you could show me Preston’s rooms? It’s okay if you’re not allowed to–”

“Sure thing,” Javi replies, grinning. “Follow me.”

As we navigate the winding corridors of the mansion, Javi keeps up a steady stream of small talk about the party and the decorations. But my mind is elsewhere, imagining what I might find in Preston’s private space.

Finally, we stop in front of a set of ornate doors. My breath catches as I spot a familiar mosaic piece hanging at eye level—one of the first pieces I ever sold featuring a beach path set against an orange sunset.

“Here we are,” Javi says, gesturing to the door. “Mr. Hollister’s private suite.”

I hesitate, my hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to go in?”

Javi gives me a knowing look. “Miss Francia, I think you’ll find you’re more welcome here than you realize. Go on in. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

With a deep breath, I turn the handle and step inside.

The rooms that greet me takes my breath away. It’s not just the luxury that strikes me—though that’s certainly present—but the perfect balance of masculinity and elegance.

The space is predominantly minimalist, with clean lines and a muted color palette of deep blues and grays. Large windows offer a stunning view of the ocean, bathing the room in natural light. A sleek, modern desk faces the view, its surface neat and organized.

What catches my eye, though, are the splashes of color and texture that break up the minimalism. Several of my mosaics adorn the walls, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the room’s subdued tones. They’re placed with careful consideration, each one complementing the space rather than overwhelming it.

A floor-to-ceiling bookcase dominates one wall, filled with an eclectic mix of titles. I spot books on architecture, philosophy, and local history, alongside well-worn copies of classic literature. On one shelf, a collection of seashells and sea glass is artfully arranged, a nod to our beach town roots.

Near the windows, a few of my crystal pieces catch the light, sending prismatic reflections dancing across the room. I recognize a particularly striking amethyst geode I’d once hesitated to part with until I saw how Preston’s eyes had lit up when he saw it.

As I move through the room, I’m struck by how quintessentially Preston it is. The space speaks to his intelligence, his appreciation for art and nature, and his connection to our small beach town. My pieces aren’t the focal point, but rather thoughtfully integrated elements that complement his taste and style.

Each familiar artwork tells a story, not just of my growth as an artist, but of the moments Preston and I have shared over the years. How could I have missed it? How could I not have seen the care, the thoughtfulness in each carefully chosen piece?

As I reach out to touch another one of my pieces, I hear the door open behind me. I turn slowly, my heart pounding, to find Preston standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Crystal?” he breathes, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real. “What are you... How did you...”

---