Merry Christmas

Ivy

The drive to my parents’ house felt unreal.

My hands stayed tight around the steering wheel the entire time, my thoughts looping so violently I nearly missed two traffic lights.

He knew my name.

Not my screen name. Not the fake persona.

My real name.

And somehow that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was the voice.

That deep calm tone had followed me out of the livestream and into the silence of my car, wrapping around every thought until I could barely breathe without hearing it again.

Go welcome your guest.

No.

No, that was impossible.

Patrick Laurent was one of the most recognizable actors in the world. Men like him didn’t spend their nights hidden behind masks throwing obscene amounts of money at girls online.

Right?

I tightened my grip harder.

Maybe the voice only sounded similar. Maybe I was panicking over nothing. Maybe—

My phone buzzed in the cupholder.

Unknown Number.

My chest tightened instantly.

I ignored it.

Three seconds later another message came through.

Drive carefully, Ivy. Roads are icy tonight.

Every nerve in my body went cold.

I stared at the message at the next red light, heartbeat hammering so hard it physically hurt.

No emojis. No explanation.

Just that.

My fingers shook as I typed back.

Who is this?

The reply came immediately.

You know who it is.

I threw the phone onto the passenger seat as it burned me.

The rest of the drive passed in suffocating silence.

By the time I reached my parents’ neighborhood, snow had started falling harder, soft white flakes coating the massive gated homes lining the street.

Christmas lights glowed from rooftops and windows while expensive cars filled driveways. Somewhere nearby, music drifted faintly through the cold air.

Normal.

Meanwhile, I felt like my entire life was seconds from collapsing.

The moment I stepped through the front door, warmth hit my skin along with the familiar scent of cinnamon candles and pine.

“Ivy?” my mother called from upstairs. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

I quickly locked the door behind me like something might follow me inside.

My father appeared from the dining room holding a glass of whiskey, grinning proudly the second he saw me.

“There she is.”

I forced a smile.

“You look nervous,” he said.

If only he knew.

“I drove through a snowstorm to get here.”

“Nonsense. It’s barely snowing.”

Easy for him to say from inside a heated mansion.

He walked closer, adjusting the sleeves of his expensive sweater before lowering his voice slightly.

“Listen carefully tonight.”

I blinked.

“Dad—”

“No attitude. No sarcasm. And for God’s sake stay off your phone while he’s here.”

I almost laughed at the irony.

“You’re acting like the president is visiting.”

“He’s more famous than the president,” my father muttered.

My mother descended the stairs then, elegant as always in cream cashmere and gold jewelry.

The moment she saw me, her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should change,” she said immediately. “That outfit looks too casual.”

I looked down at my black sweater and jeans.

“It’s literally snowing outside.”

“And?”

Before I could respond, headlights swept across the front windows.

Silence immediately filled the room.

My father straightened.

My mother smoothed her hair.

And somehow my own pulse became deafening.

A car door shut outside.

Then another.

The front gate clicked softly in the distance.

For one insane second, I actually considered running.

The knock came three beats later.

My father practically rushed to open it.

Cold winter air flooded the foyer first.

“Merry Christmas,” he said warmly as he stepped inside, snow melting slowly from the shoulders of his dark coat.

His voice hit me like a physical blow. It was the same voice I had heard every night for the past year. 

“Merry Christmas!” my mother answered immediately, smiling as she moved toward him.

My father grinned, pulling Patrick into a brief one-armed hug. “About time you got here.”

His voice was smooth and familiar enough to make my stomach twist instantly.

He was tall, with broad shoulders, filling the doorway with effortless presence.

And those eyes.

God.

I recognized them instantly even before he smiled politely at my father.

Not because of magazines or the number of times I have watched his movies.

But because I’d stared into them through a screen for almost a year. For a few seconds, I forgot how to breathe. 

Patrick Laurent stepped inside the house slowly, removing leather gloves with calm controlled movements.

Older than me by at least fifteen years.

Maybe more.

Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous rather than charming. The kind of man people fantasized about before realizing fantasy was safer from a distance. 

He was dangerously masculine. Like the kind of man who noticed everything and forgot nothing.

“I’m sorry for the late arrival,” he said smoothly.

My father clapped him warmly on the shoulder while my mother practically glowed beside them.

“It’s an honor having you here.”

Patrick smiled politely.

Then his gaze shifted to me.

Everything inside me locked.

Recognition flickered there instantly.

No surprise.

Not curiosity.

Recognition.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment too.

“Ivy,” my father said proudly, “this is Patrick. I am sure you already know, anyone who doesn't would have to be living under a rock”

Patrick held my gaze as he stepped closer.

Too close.

“It’s nice to finally meet you properly,” he said quietly.

My stomach dropped. His word wrapped around me like a threat.

I stared at him, unable to breathe correctly.

He looked even more dangerous in person because now I could see all the things the screen hid:

The roughness of his jaw, the faint scar near his mouth, the calm confidence in the way he moved, and the exhaustion hidden beneath his eyes made him feel dangerously real.

He was real.

And suddenly every late-night conversation we’d ever had became horrifying.

Because this man had known exactly who I was the entire time.

“You two will probably get along well,” my mother said cheerfully, completely oblivious. “Ivy works in media too.”

My chest nearly collapsed.

Patrick’s eyes stayed on mine.

“Does she?”

I wanted to throw up.

My father laughed proudly. “She’s doing incredibly for herself. Big corporate clients already.”

“Impressive,” Patrick murmured.

There was something almost cruel in how calm he sounded.

Not mocking.

Worse.

Interested.

Like he wanted to see how long I could keep lying.

Dinner passed like a fever dream.

I barely tasted anything.

My father spent most of the evening bragging while Patrick listened with terrifying patience.

Every time I accidentally looked up, I found his eyes already on me.

Watching.

Studying.

“Mrs. Hart,” Patrick said after taking another bite, “this may be the best roast I’ve had in years.”

My mother practically lit up.

“Finally,” she laughed. “Someone in this house appreciates my cooking.”

“I appreciate it,” my father argued immediately.

“You inhale food. That’s not appreciation.”

Patrick smiled softly at that, relaxed and effortless, and for one horrifying second I understood exactly why people loved him on screen.

At one point my father left to answer a phone call upstairs while my mother disappeared into the kitchen.

And suddenly we were alone.

The silence between us felt alive.

I kept my eyes fixed on my wine glass.

“You ignored my messages.”

The quietness of his voice made it worse somehow.

I swallowed hard.

“You’re insane.”

A soft chuckle.

“No,” he said calmly. “Just honest.”

I looked up finally.

Big mistake.

Because his expression wasn’t playful.

It was intent.

“You lied to me too, Ivy.”

My pulse stumbled.

“I never told you my real name either.”

“But you let me believe you were safe.”

The words hit unexpectedly hard.

I frowned slightly. “What does that even mean?”

His gaze moved slowly over my face.

“You have no idea what kind of men watch girls online like you. What they are capable of doing to you. To your body.”

Cold spread through me.

“And you’re one of them?”

Something dark flickered in his expression then.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”