He’s spent years building a tower of steel and glass, high above the festive chaos of Manhattan. To Silas Vane, Christmas isn’t a season—it’s a logistical nightmare of inefficient sentimentality. But when a spirited, sharp-tongued local activist stands in the way of his latest development project—the very site of the city’s oldest Christmas market—Silas decides to buy the land and shut it down himself.
"It’s Christmas ," I snapped, stepping into his space. "People have met there, fallen in love there, and built traditions there for fifty years. You can’t just buy a soul, Silas." The Grumpy Billionaire Who Stole Christmas Read...
Silas watched me, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto mine. The silence stretched, heavy and charged. He’s spent years building a tower of steel
The invitations were embossed in gold, the champagne cost more than my first car, and the atmosphere in the Vane Penthouse was as cold as the December wind whipping against the floor-to-ceiling windows. "It’s Christmas ," I snapped, stepping into his space
"Then let me please them," I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs. "One week. Give the market one more week. If I can’t prove to you that the 'sentimental value' outweighs your profit margins by Christmas Eve, I’ll sign the NDA and walk away from the protest for good."
"One week," he whispered, leaning down so his breath brushed my ear. "But if you lose, Noelle... you don't just walk away. You work for me. And I’m a very demanding boss."
A ghost of a smirk pulled at his mouth—the first sign of life I’d seen on his face in months. "The Grinch had a dog, Noelle. I just have a board of directors. They’re much harder to please."