A fresh beginning stretches before us like the undisturbed white of the snow outside.
I pull on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, even though every part of me wants to crawl back into bed. I could climb in beside my wife and wrap myself around her until she wakes up.
But I have work to do.
Downstairs, the house feels massive without the staff. I gave them the day off, wanting the estate to belong solely to us for twenty-four hours. Jaxon and his team are outside, invisible ghosts in the snow, but inside, we’re alone.
I head to my office first.
The hidden safe behind the painting opens with a biometric scan. I bypass the stacks of cash and the sensitive files, reaching for the long velvet box I stashed there weeks ago.
It’s heavy.
I run a hand over the crimson fabric before carrying it into the Great Room.
The tree stands in the corner, a tower of lights and glass ornaments. The fireplace is cold, so I stack fresh logs and get a fire roaring before I turn my attention to the mantle.
I hang the stockings.
Gabriel.
Blair.
Gold thread glitters against the deep red velvet.
We never had anything like this growing up. My mother used socks—actual tube socks—pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Usually, they stayed empty. Sometimes there was an orange or a candy bar if she’d had a good week at the diner.
I hated Christmas back then. I hated the reminder of everything we didn't have.
I step back, looking at the two stockings hanging against the stone.
Next year, there’ll be three.
The thought hits me hard. A child. A son or daughter who will never know what it’s like to look at an empty sock and wonder why they weren't good enough for Santa to visit them.
I leave the room before the memories can sour the mood and head for the kitchen.
I wash my hands and roll up my sleeves before I pull eggs, heavy cream, and thick-cut bacon out of the fridge. Then I grab a loaf of brioche bread.
People assume men with my net worth don't know how to boil water, let alone crack an egg. They think we have people for that. And usually, we do.
But I didn't start out with people. I started out with a single burner hot plate and a hunger that felt like it was eating me from the inside out.
I learned to cook because the alternative was starving. I learned to make French toast because stale bread was cheap and eggs were a source of protein my mom could afford.
It was survival then.
Now, it’s an act of service. I’ll always feed Blair and our children. I’ll always take care of them.
I whisk the eggs and cream, adding vanilla and cinnamon until the scent overpowers the lingering smell of woodsmoke from the other room.
Bacon hits the hot pan first, sizzling and spitting grease. Once it’s crisp, I dip the thick brioche slices into the batter and lay them on the griddle.
They hiss as they hit the heat.
I flip them, watching the sugar in the batter caramelize into a perfect golden brown.
My mind drifts to the woman upstairs.
