Chapter 1

Ayessa

The projection on the conference room wall is a sea of bad data disguised as holiday cheer. Little cartoon reindeer prance across the top of a bar graph showing wildly optimistic Q4 projections. I feel a headache bloom behind my right eye, a familiar, unwelcome guest.

Mark from junior analytics is pointing a red laser at the screen, his festive crimson tie a violent slash against his crisp white shirt. It’s the kind of red that belongs on a cheap Santa hat, and I hate it on principle.

“As you can see,” he chirps, his voice brimming with the unearned confidence of a twenty-five-year-old who has never had his professional soul crushed, “the engagement metrics for our new ‘Joyful Giver’ fintech initiative are projected to triple by Christmas week.”

Joyful Giver. Of course, that’s what they called it. I take a slow, deliberate sip of my water, the condensation on the glass cold against my fingertips. The entire room is holding its breath, waiting for my verdict. They know better than to celebrate until I’ve signed off.

“Mark,” I begin, my voice cutting through the stale, recycled air. I let the silence hang for a beat, watching him swallow. “Go back two slides.”

He fumbles with the clicker. The screen changes to a dense spreadsheet. I don't need to look at it for more than a second. The numbers are already seared into my brain from my 3 a.m. review session.

“Your churn rate calculation,” I state, keeping my tone level, devoid of emotion. “Explain it to me.”

“It’s—it’s the standard model,” he stammers, the laser dot now trembling against a cell showing a laughably low attrition figure. “We factored in initial user drop-off…”

“You factored in what you wanted to see,” I counter, leaning forward just enough to make my point. “You ignored the seasonal attrition from our beta user group in the southern hemisphere pilot program. The one from last July? It was their winter. You have the data. You chose not to use it.” I adjust my glasses, sliding them up the bridge of my nose with my middle finger, a habit I know my subordinates have assigned all sorts of meaning to. They’re not wrong. “Your algorithm is overweighting impulse sign-ups driven by holiday marketing. It’s not just optimistic, Mark. It’s fiction. And we don’t sell fiction here.”

The color drains from his face. The festive red of his tie now seems to be actively mocking him. “I… I can re-run the numbers.”

“You will,” I confirm. “And next time, you’ll present a strategy based on reality, not on a Christmas wish list. This meeting is over.”

The room deflates. Laptops snap shut, chairs scrape against the floor. A collective sigh of released tension and quiet resentment follows me as I stand and walk toward the door. No one meets my eye. Just the way I like it.

My executive assistant, Evelyn, falls into step with me as we walk down the glass-walled hallway. She’s the only one who seems immune to my particular brand of frost.

“That was a bloodbath,” she says, her voice low and laced with something that sounds dangerously like amusement.

“It was a necessary correction,” I reply, my gaze fixed on the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall that frames the glittering New York City skyline.

“You know, for a second there, I thought you were going to let the reindeer slide.”

“The reindeer were irrelevant. The math was insulting.”

She hands me my tablet, the screen already open to my afternoon schedule. “Your father called. Again.”

A muscle in my jaw tightens. “Did he leave a message?”

“The usual. ‘Just calling to see if my favorite CEO has time for her old man.’ Said he’d try back in an hour.”

“Block out my three o’clock,” I tell her, not breaking stride. “I’ll handle it.”

“Ayessa,” she says, and her tone softens, shifting from efficient assistant to concerned friend—a line she knows she’s only allowed to cross once a quarter. “It’s almost Christmas.”

“I’m aware of the date, Evelyn. Thank you.”

Back in the sanctuary of my corner office, I sink into my leather chair. My space is minimalist, all clean lines and monochromatic shades of grey and black. There is not a single personal photo, not a sentimental knick-knack. It’s a fortress. A sterile, quiet, and blessedly non-festive fortress.

The city glitters below, already draped in its holiday finest. Strings of white lights wrap around distant skyscrapers, and from forty floors up, the traffic on the streets looks like a river of red and green jewels. It’s a beautiful lie.

My phone buzzes on the desk. The screen flashes: William Brown.

I let it buzz three times before I finally give in, pressing the speakerphone button. “Ayessa Brown.”

“There she is! My favorite CEO,” my father’s voice booms, too loud, too cheerful. It’s his holiday voice. I brace myself.

“Father. I’m in the middle of Q4 analysis.” A lie. My desk is clear.

“Always working. I swear, you’ll merge with that company one day. Just wanted to see if you’d reconsider my offer. Christmas Eve. Your mother’s favorite roast, those little potatoes you love, a roaring fire…”

The mention of my mother is a low blow. He knows it.

“My Q4 deliverable schedule is quite demanding, as you know,” I say, the corporate jargon a welcome shield. “Perhaps in the new year.”

“The new year,” he scoffs, the forced cheer finally cracking. “Ayessa, it’s been five years. Five Christmases. Your mother would have…”

“Please don’t,” I cut him off, my voice dropping. The air in the room suddenly feels thin. “Don’t use her to try and manipulate me.”

“Is that what you think this is? Manipulation?” He sounds genuinely hurt, which only makes me angrier. “I want to see my daughter. I miss you.”

“I’m right here. We had dinner two weeks ago.”

“We had a business meeting where you critiqued the restaurant’s quarterly earnings report over dessert,” he retorts. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose where the headache is now a full-blown siege. “I can’t. Okay? I just… I can’t do Christmas.”

The silence at the opposite end of the line is heavy, filled with five years of unspoken grief and frustration. When he speaks again, his tone has shifted. The cheerful dad is gone, replaced by the shrewd businessman who built a global empire from nothing.

“Alright, Ayessa. Let’s drop the pretense.”

My eyes snap open. I sit up straighter. “What pretense?”

“I just got off a call with the board,” he says, his voice now calm, strategic. My blood runs cold. He still holds a thirty percent stake and a non-executive seat. A powerful seat. “We’ve been reviewing your performance reports. Your work hours, your lack of vacation time. We’re all… concerned.”

“Concerned? My division’s profits are up seventeen percent year over year. The board is thrilled.”

“We are. We’re also concerned our top asset is heading for a catastrophic burnout. So, we held a vote.”

The room feels like it’s tilting. “A vote about what?”

“Your health and wellness,” he says, and I can hear the infuriating, checkmate satisfaction in his voice. “The board has unanimously mandated a one-month, paid wellness sabbatical. Effective immediately.”

I’m on my feet now, pacing the length of my office. “You can’t be serious. You can’t force me to take a vacation. That’s not how it works.”

“It is when it’s a board directive for a key executive. It’s in your contract. Clause 14, subsection B. You wrote it yourself.”

The fury that rises in me is hot and swift. He used my own weapon, my own meticulous, airtight logic, against me. I feel the walls of my fortress crumbling.

“Where?” I bite out, my hand gripping the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles are white.

“A beautiful little place upstate. Serenity Villa. All-inclusive. Five-star chefs, spa, yoga, crisp mountain air. Your flight is booked for tomorrow morning. A car will be at your apartment at six a.m.”

Serenity Villa. It sounds like a prison sentence. A yuletide-themed nightmare.

“I won’t go,” I growl.

“Then the board will be forced to place you on temporary leave and instate an interim CEO until you comply. Don’t make this messy, Ayessa.” He sighs, and for a fleeting moment, he sounds like my father again. “I’m not losing you to that corner office. I’m not letting you erase yourself. I want my daughter back.”

The line clicks dead.

I stand there, phone in hand, the dial tone a shrill, mocking scream in the silent office. I’ve been outmaneuvered. Cornered. By my own father, using my own rules.

Slowly, I walk to the massive window. The city is a dazzling spectacle of holiday cheer. Red bows on every lamppost, glittering lights on every building, a dusting of snow starting to fall. It’s the backdrop to everyone else’s joy, and for me, it’s the wallpaper of my own personal hell.

My fingers, trembling with a rage I haven’t felt in years, drift up to my left temple. They find the tiny, faded scar there, a sliver of tissue that’s smoother than the rest of my skin. A permanent reminder of the day everything broke.

A month.

A month trapped in a snow globe of manufactured joy, with no work to hide behind, no data to analyze, no firewalls to protect me.

It’s not a retreat.

It’s a cage. And I’m about to be locked inside.