Page 1 of Candy Cane Chains
1
IVY
Itug at the velvet hem of my custom Santa dress, the plush material barely grazing mid-thigh. The matching belt cinches my waist, creating curves that would make Mrs. Claus blush. White fur trim tickles across my chest, and I adjust the sweetheart neckline for the hundredth time.
The elevator dings at the top floor of Porter Industries. My heels click against marble as I make my way down the empty hallway, past dark offices and silent cubicles. At this hour, even the cleaning crew has gone home.
"This is insane." I check my reflection in a window, smoothing my hair. The little Santa hat perches at a playful angle, secured with hidden clips. "What am I doing?"
But I know exactly what I'm doing. Travis has been working late every night this week, consumed by some big merger. When he called to cancel our dinner plans again, something snapped. Two can play at this game.
My fingertips trace the white fur trim at my wrists. The outfit cost more than my monthly grocery budget, but the saleswoman assured me it was "investment lingerie." Whatever that means.
I pause outside Travis's office door. Light spills from underneath, and I hear him talking - probably another conference call. My confidence wavers. What if he's not alone? What if-
No. I didn't spend two hours getting ready and driving across town in this getup to chicken out now. I take a deep breath, channeling my inner vixen. The seductive smile I've been practicing in my mirror all week slides into place.
I grip the door handle, my other hand holding the small gift bag I brought - just a prop really, filled with tissue paper and a sprig of mistletoe. My heart pounds against the velvet bodice. The things we do for love.
One final adjustment to my thigh-high stockings, checking that the red bows at the top peek out just so beneath the dress hem. Here goes nothing.
I ease the door open, my sultry smile already in place. "Merry Christ-"
The words die in my throat. The gift bag slips from my fingers, tissue paper spilling across Italian marble tiles.
Travis is bent over his mahogany desk, suit pants around his ankles, his hips pumping against his red-headed secretary. Her pencil skirt is hiked up, hands braced against stacks of reports. Their combined moans echo off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights.
"Oh god, Travis, yes!" Her voice is breathy, desperate.
My stomach lurches. From the speakers in the hall, a familiar Christmas song fills the stunned silence that descends over me, the cheerful melody a mocking counterpoint to the scene before me.
Travis's head snaps up at the sound of my gasp. His eyes meet mine, widening in recognition. For a moment, we're frozen in a grotesque tableau - me in my ridiculous Santa outfit, him with his pants down, her lipstick smeared across his neck.
"Ivy?" His voice cracks. "What are you-"
The secretary squeaks, scrambling to cover herself. Papers cascade off the desk, floating to the floor like oversized snowflakes.
My chest constricts. The room spins. The velvet dress that felt so sexy minutes ago now feels like a costume, a joke. The white fur trim itches against my skin.
"Don't stop on my account." My voice comes out steady, surprising me. Ice forms around my heart, crystallizing into something sharp and dangerous.
That fucking song feels like it swirls around me, talking about love and Christmas with the right person.
God, I am a fucking idiot.
Travis stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his pants. "Baby, I can explain-"
I spin on my heel and flee, my candy-cane striped heels betraying me with every stumbling step. The tissue paper crunches under my feet as I rush past empty desks and darkened offices.
"Ivy, wait!" Travis's voice echoes down the hallway. The sound of him struggling with his pants, cursing, follows me. "It's not what you think!"
A harsh laugh escapes my throat. Not what I think? What else could it possibly be? The image burns behind my eyes - his tie askew, her red hair splayed across his files, the rhythmic creaking of his thousand-dollar desk.
My fingers slam against the elevator button, pressing it over and over. The doors take an eternity to open.
"Baby, please-" His footsteps grow closer.
The elevator dings. I throw myself inside just as Travis rounds the corner, still tucking in his shirt. The doors slide shut on his flushed face, cutting off whatever excuse he's about to spew.