Page 43 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
I take a bite, closing my eyes briefly at the perfect balance of flavors. "You're an excellent cook."
"Like I said, I've had years of practice," he says, his tone neutral. "After my wife left, I had to learn quickly. Take-out gets tiresome after a while."
It's the first time he's mentioned Aaron's mother, and I find myself hungry for information about the woman who once shared Victor's life. "How long were you married?"
"Fourteen years," he answers without hesitation. "She left when Aaron was twelve."
"I'm sorry," I offer, not knowing what else to say.
Victor shrugs, the movement elegant even in its dismissiveness. "Don't be. Cassandra was beautiful, socially connected, and utterly incapable of understanding what I was building. She wanted a husband who played by society's rules." His smile turns sharp. "I've never been particularly good at that."
The casual admission sends a shiver down my spine. A reminder that beneath the sophisticated exterior lies something darker, something dangerous.
"What happened?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"She discovered certain aspects of my business dealings that made her... uncomfortable." He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. "She gave me an ultimatum—change who I was or lose her. It wasn't a difficult choice."
The implication is clear. Victor Strickland doesn't compromise, doesn't change to accommodate others. He is who he is, unapologetically. It's both a warning and a promise.
We finish our meal in comfortable silence, and I'm struck by how natural this feels—sharing a quiet lunch with Victor after the intimacy we've shared. No awkwardness, no regrets, just a new understanding between us.
After clearing our plates, Victor turns to me with an expression I can't quite read. "Now for your surprise," he says. "Get your coat."
"Where are we going?" I ask, following him to the front closet.
"Not far," he assures me, helping me into a down jacket I don't recognize—another new addition to my wardrobe, apparently. He pulls on his own coat, then takes my hand, leading me outside to where his Range Rover waits.
The afternoon is crisp and clear, the storm of yesterday replaced by brilliant sunshine that makes the snow-covered landscape sparkle like diamonds. Victor opens the passenger door for me, his hand lingering on my lower back as I climb in.
We drive for perhaps fifteen minutes, winding deeper into the mountains until we reach what appears to be a private tree farm. Rows of perfectly shaped pines stretch across a snow-covered hillside, their green branches heavy with fresh powder.
"Christmas trees?" I ask, understanding dawning.
"Every Christmas requires the perfect tree," Victor confirms, parking near a small wooden cabin that serves as the farm's office. "I thought you might enjoy selecting one together."
The gesture is unexpectedly touching—almost normal compared to the intensity of the past twenty-four hours. Christmas tree shopping. Like regular couples do.
Except we're not regular, and we're certainly not a couple in any conventional sense. We're... something else entirely. Something I don't have a name for yet.
Victor speaks briefly with the owner inside the cabin, and then we're left alone to wander among the trees. He's meticulous in his assessment—height, fullness, symmetry, needle retention—discussing each specimen as if we're selecting a piece of fine art rather than a temporary decoration.
"You take Christmas trees very seriously," I observe, amused by his intensity.
"I take everything seriously," he corrects, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk. "Especially traditions. They create structure, continuity, a sense of permanence in an impermanent world."
I consider this, remembering my own family traditions before my parents died. The simple rituals that had made each Christmas special despite our limited finances. Mom's homemade ornaments, Dad's insistence on reading "The Night Before Christmas" every Christmas Eve, the single expensive gift they saved all year to provide.
After their deaths, Christmas had become just another day to get through. Until Aaron. His family's lavish celebrations had been overwhelming at first—too much food, too many gifts, too much everything. But I'd gradually come to enjoy them, to feel part of something again.
"What are your Christmas traditions?" Victor asks, as if reading my thoughts.
"I don't really have any anymore," I admit. "Not since my parents died."
Something softens in his expression. "Then perhaps it's time to create new ones."
New traditions. New life. New relationship. All implied in those few words.
Eventually, Victor stops before a magnificent Fraser fir, at least eight feet tall and perfectly proportioned. "This one," he decides, circling it with a critical eye. "Excellent needle retention, perfect symmetry, and the scent is exceptional." He turns to me. "What do you think?"
