Page 48 of His for Christmas
We remain entwined in the chair until the fire burns low, neither speaking, both lost in thoughts of what this fragile understanding might mean for our future.
Chapter
Twelve
DOMINIC
Our conversationin the library has haunted me for three days. Holly's words—her fear of losing herself in me, her concern that my need to possess would erase her identity—cut deeper than any business negotiation or personal rejection I've ever experienced. The raw honesty in her eyes as she knelt beside my chair, the gentle touch that sought connection rather than possession, the vulnerability we both displayed—these moments have replayed in my mind during meetings, during meals, during the rare moments of sleep I've managed to capture.
Saturday has come and gone. True to my word, I didn't interfere with her party plans. I remained at the mansion, buried in work I barely registered, while she spent the evening with friends I've never met. She returned late, tipsy and smiling, smelling of wine and someone else's perfume from hugs goodbye. Every possessive instinct in me wanted to demand details, to mark her as mine again, to erase any trace of an evening spent away from me. Instead, I simply asked if she enjoyed herself, accepted her animated description of the partywith a calm I didn't feel, and let her fall asleep in my arms without pressing for more.
It was the hardest act of restraint I've ever practiced. And yet, seeing her relaxed and happy the next morning, I understood something fundamental: Holly thrives when given freedom, withers when controlled. If I want to keep her—and I do, with an intensity that still startles me—I need to demonstrate that I see her, truly see her, beyond my desire to possess.
Now, three days before Christmas, I sit in my office finalizing plans for a surprise I hope will prove exactly that. Patricia stands before my desk, her expression carefully neutral as I outline my requirements.
"The east wing guest suite needs to be transformed according to these specifications," I explain, sliding a folder across the desk. "Everything must be completed by Christmas Eve, without Ms. Parker's knowledge."
Patricia reviews the details, one eyebrow rising slightly as she reads. "This is quite…specific, sir."
"I've been thorough," I acknowledge, watching her face for any sign of judgment. "Is there a problem with the timeline?"
"Not at all," she assures me. "The staff can execute this perfectly. I'm simply surprised by the personal nature of the project."
The observation is as close as Patricia ever comes to commenting on my private life. In the eight years she's worked for me, she's never seen me plan something so detailed for a woman. The implied question hangs in the air between us.
"Ms. Parker is significant," I state simply. "This needs to reflect that significance."
Patricia nods, closing the folder with a decisive motion. "Consider it done, Mr. Sterling. Will there be anything else?"
"Yes. The vintage edition we discussed—has it arrived?"
"This morning," she confirms. "It's being prepared as requested."
"Good. That will be all."
When she's gone, I move to the window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. Holly is out there somewhere, supervising the final touches on the exterior decorations for the staff Christmas party tomorrow. Even from this distance, I can see her enthusiasm as she directs the team, her hands gesturing animatedly as she explains her vision. The sight of her—so vital, so completely herself—sends a familiar surge of possessiveness through me, followed immediately by the new awareness that this very instinct threatens what I most want to preserve.
The Christmas Eve surprise has taken more planning than some of my corporate acquisitions. Not because of logistical complexity, but because it represents such unfamiliar territory for me. I'm accustomed to grand gestures—expensive jewelry, exclusive experiences, luxury beyond imagination. Those gifts demonstrate my wealth, my power, my ability to provide what others cannot. But they don't necessarily demonstrate understanding of the recipient as an individual, as Holly gently pointed out regarding the custom gown I ordered without consultation.
This surprise is different. Every element has been selected not to impress with opulence, but to show that I've been paying attention to who Holly Parker truly is, beyond her role as my decorator or lover. The vintage edition of "A Child's Christmas in Wales" that she mentioned was her grandfather's favorite holiday reading. The specific recipe for cinnamon cookies her mother made every Christmas Eve. The acoustic playlist featuring the indie artists she hums along with when she thinks no one is listening.
Small details, insignificant to anyone else, but which collectively form a portrait of the woman who has somehow become essential to me in less than a month.
Will it be enough? Can these careful selections prove that I see her as more than something to possess, more than an extension of myself? The uncertainty is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. In business, I calculate risks with precision, move forward only when success is all but guaranteed. In this—in whatever exists between Holly and me—there are no such certainties.
I return to my desk, reviewing the final element of the surprise—perhaps the most significant. The letter I've drafted and redrafted a dozen times, trying to articulate feelings I've never expressed before, never even fully acknowledged to myself. The words feel foreign on the page, vulnerable in a way that makes me instinctively want to retreat to safer, more controlled territory.
Yet I know instinctively that this vulnerability is exactly what Holly needs from me—proof that I'm willing to meet her halfway, to step outside the fortress of control I've built around myself since childhood.
My phone buzzes with a text from the head of household staff: *East wing preparations underway as scheduled. All vendors confirmed for deliveries on the 24th.*
Everything is proceeding according to plan, yet I feel none of the satisfaction that usually accompanies well-executed strategy. Instead, I feel something closer to nervousness—an emotion so unfamiliar that it took me some time to identify it. I, Dominic Sterling, who negotiates billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, am nervous about whether a woman will appreciate a Christmas surprise.
The irony would be amusing if it weren't so revealing of how completely Holly has disrupted my carefully ordered existence.
Through the window, I catch sight of her again, laughing at something one of the installation crew has said. Even from this distance, her joy is palpable, her energy infectious. The staff around her seem to work more enthusiastically in her presence, drawn to her genuine warmth just as I have been.
What would it be like to see that warmth directed at me without the wariness that has shadowed her eyes since our conflicts began? To have her look at me with complete trust, complete openness? The possibility feels more valuable than any acquisition, more significant than any business triumph.
