Who Stole Christmas Read... — The Grumpy Billionaire
"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."
"I’m not late, Silas. I was detained by the three dozen protesters outside your lobby," I replied, shaking the snow from my coat. "You know, the ones whose livelihoods you’re currently trying to bulldoze for a 'Wellness Plaza'?" The Grumpy Billionaire Who Stole Christmas Read...
Silas Vane stood by the balcony, a silhouette of sharp tailoring and even sharper edges. He didn't look like a man celebrating; he looked like a king surveying a kingdom he found deeply disappointing. "It’s Christmas ," I snapped, stepping into his space
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. I was detained by the three dozen protesters
"Is that what this is?" I gestured to the empty, shimmering room. "You bought the land, you cancelled the permits, and you invited me here just to gloat? You’re not a businessman tonight, Silas. You’re just the Grinch in a Tom Ford suit."
"I don't want a soul," he said, stepping closer until I could smell his expensive cologne—sandalwood and winter air. "I want efficiency. And right now, you are being very inefficient."
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.