Christmas morning was supposed to be about my two-year-old son Harrison opening presents beneath the tree.

The presidential suite at the St. Regis Aspen smelled of white pine, expensive woodsmoke, and two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle Krug champagne.

Julian Vance poured two crystal flutes, a confident, dazzling smile playing across his handsome face. He turned toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a sweeping, panoramic view of the snow-covered slopes of Aspen Mountain.

Behind him, Isabel walked out of the master bathroom wearing a plush white hotel robe, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. She was twenty-six, a junior marketing executive at Julian’s venture capital firm, and possessed the fierce, hungry ambition of someone who believed she was meant for the high life.

"To eight days of absolute freedom," Julian said, handing her a glass and clinking his flute against hers. "No board members, no pitch decks, no crying kid."

Isabel took a delicate sip, her eyes gleaming. "And no wife."

Julian laughed softly, stepping closer and resting a hand on her waist. "Eleanor is back home doing what she does best: playing domestic angel. She actually bought my line about the Tokyo tech acquisition without asking a single question."

"She really has no idea?" Isabel asked, tilting her head with a playful, triumphant smirk. "She didn't suspect a thing when you left on Christmas morning?"

"Eleanor is simple," Julian dismissed with a wave of his hand. "She trusts me implicitly. She’s content with the house, the kid, and the allowance I give her. She doesn't have the stomach or the sharp edges for my world, Isabel. That’s why I need you."

Isabel leaned in, kissing his jawline. "I told you in that elevator three weeks ago, Julian... I don't share. You promised me that once this merger goes through in the spring, you’re leaving her."

"And I will," Julian lied smoothly, sliding his arm deeper around her. He had no intention of divorcing Eleanor yet—not while Eleanor’s family trust still held a thirty-percent stake in his firm’s primary investment fund. But Isabel was young, stunning, and fed his insatiable ego, and Julian was a man who believed he could have everything without ever paying the price.

Their romance, however, was interrupted by a sharp, insistence knock at the suite's double doors.

Julian frowned, setting his champagne flute down on the marble coffee table. "I explicitly told the concierge no room service until six."

He walked over and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Standing in the hallway was the hotel’s general manager, flanked by two burly, suited head-of-security guards. The manager’s expression was stiff, cold, and entirely devoid of the typical five-star hospitality.

"Mr. Vance?" the manager asked sharply.

Julian straightened his cashmere sweater, sliding into his polished executive persona. "Yes? Is there a problem?"

"There is a severe issue, sir," the manager said, holding an iPad. "Forty minutes ago, the corporate Black Card you used to book this six-thousand-dollar-a-night suite, as well as your personal Visa Centurion card, were flagged and declined by the issuing banks due to a emergency court-ordered freeze."

Julian’s face went pale, though he quickly tried to laugh it off. "That’s absurd. I’m the CEO of Vance Capital. There must be a glitch with your system—"

"It is not a glitch, Mr. Vance," the manager interrupted smoothly, his voice dropping so that Isabel, who was listening from the living room, could hear every word. "Additionally, a courier arrived ten minutes ago with a certified legal delivery for a Miss Isabel Cruz."

The manager stepped aside, allowing a courier in a red uniform to hand Isabel a thick white envelope.

Isabel frowned, pulling open the seal. Inside was a stack of high-resolution glossy photographs—photographs of Julian and Isabel kissing in hotel lobbies, entering apartments, and holding hands in dark restaurants. Attached to the front was a letter printed on heavy, formal letterhead from a top-tier family law firm in Chicago.

Isabel’s eyes widened in horror as she read the cover page out loud:

"Notice of Intent to Subpoena: Miss Isabel Cruz is hereby named as a co-respondent in the contested divorce proceedings of Eleanor Vance v. Julian Vance. Please be advised that all gifts, funds, and travel accommodations provided to you using marital assets are subject to immediate legal clawback..."

Isabel dropped the papers onto the floor as if they were covered in acid. She whipped her head toward Julian, her face contorted in shock. "What is this?! You told me your wife didn't know!"

Julian stood frozen in the doorway, his mind racing, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Isabel, wait—let me explain—"

"And Mr. Vance," the hotel manager added coldly, "since your payment methods are frozen and the suite is booked under false corporate pretenses, we must ask you and your guest to vacate the premises within fifteen minutes. Otherwise, local law enforcement will escort you off the property for fraud."

The luxury, the woodsmoke, and the champagne instantly turned to ash.

Julian looked at his phone. The screen flashed with four new notification banners from his bank: Account Frozen. Credit Line Suspended. Corporate Account Restricted.