Page 11 of Curvy Girl for Santa

I laugh bitterly.

The car weaves through snow-dusted streets, city lights bleeding into a neon haze. Anastasia's laughter echoes in my mind, a siren call pulling me back.

"Fuck," I growl, fists clenching. Her warmth, her curves—they haunt me even now.

I close my eyes, recalling the softness of her skin, the way her green eyes sparkle when she smiles. It's addictive, that authenticity. So different from the cold, calculating world I'm hurtling towards.

"Sir, we're approaching the tower," Frank's voice snaps me back.

I straighten, steeling myself. "Right. Thank you, Frank."

The car glides to a stop. I step out, the biting wind a stark reminder of the life I'm choosing. The glass facade of Caldwell Industries looms above, a gleaming monument to my success.

I adjust my tie, slipping on the mask of the billionaire tycoon. With each step towards those revolving doors, I feel Anastasia slipping further away.

"Mr. Caldwell," the receptionist chirps. "The board is waiting."

I nod curtly, striding past. My shoes click on marble, echoing through the cavernous lobby.

But even as I ascend to the cutthroat world above, her voice echoes in my ear. Her smile is in my mind’s eye.

I grit my teeth, pushing the thoughts away. There's no room for small-town dreams in this glass and steel reality.

I step into the elevator, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. My jaw clenches, eyes hardening. This isn't the man Anastasia sees—this is Ryan Caldwell, billionaire shark.

"Focus," I growl, adjusting my cufflinks. "Billions on the line. No distractions."

But her curves, that inviting smile...fuck. I slam my palm against the wall, the sharp sting grounding me.

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal a bustling hive of activity. Phones ringing, heels clicking, the scent of ambition and designer perfume thick in the air.

"Mr. Caldwell." My assistant materializes, tablet in hand. "The Wang deal?—"

"Brief me," I snap, striding forward. People part like the Red Sea, averting their eyes.

She falls into step beside me, rattling off figures. "Their stock dropped 3% this morning. We can leverage?—"

I nod, mind racing. This is what I'm good at—the hunt, the kill. So why does it feel so hollow?

I picture Anastasia’s guileless eyes peering up at me so innocently.

I falter, just for a moment. My assistant notices, eyebrow raised.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

I school my features, squaring my shoulders. "Fine. Let's crush this deal."

But as I reach for the tablet, all I can think of is Anastasia's warm hand in mine, guiding me through a world of genuine connection and joy.

I shake my head.

I push through the conference room doors, a predator entering his domain. Suits stiffen, eyes dart my way. The air crackles with tension and expensive cologne.

"Gentlemen," I purr, sliding into the chair at the head of the table. "Let's make some fucking money, shall we?"

The screen flickers to life, numbers and charts dancing across it. But all I see is Anastasia's smile, warm as sunshine on snow.

"Mr. Caldwell, our projections indicate?—"

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