Mistletoe Miracle

Chapter One

Chapter One

The brass bell over the door of The Meridian had stopped its frantic jingle, but the rhythm of Serenity Chase’s heart had simply adopted the tempo. Not a blind date. A pilgrimage. The words of her father, whispered from a hospital bed, were a fragile shield against the immediate, stunning reality of the man in the corner booth.

He wasn't merely handsome. Handsome was something you saw on a billboard. This was something you saw in a high-powered lens: sharp, precise, and dangerously focused. His posture was too perfect, his charcoal sweater—which Serenity pegged instantly as cashmere, the kind of texture she only ever felt on a customer’s sleeve—sat on shoulders that looked weighted by responsibility, not leisure. His dark hair was meticulous, almost aggressively, neat.

Her father had promised steady and sweet. Evan Sterling was neither. He was an angular silhouette of impatient silence, bathed in the soft, golden light of the sconce above him, which seemed to illuminate the razor edge of his jawline.

He looked up, meeting her gaze across the expanse of polished dark wood and hushed conversation. In his eyes, Serenity saw not the gentle curiosity of a prospective date, but the sharp, assessing calculation of a CEO evaluating a hostile merger. Her feet kept moving toward him despite the sudden, paralyzing urge to bolt. For Dad. For his peace.

Serenity stopped at the edge of the booth, the borrowed navy blue sweater dress suddenly feeling thin and cheap compared to the oppressive, understated luxury of the café.

“Hi, you must be…?” he asked, his voice a low, resonant baritone that confirmed her initial, harsh assessment of perilous intensity. It was the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders, not exchanging pleasantries.

“I’m Serenity Chase. And you must be…?”

“Evan,” Evan answered as he rose to his full, formidable height—a graceful, fluid movement that spoke of athletic discipline and expensive tailoring. He extended a hand, and the warmth of his skin, unexpected against the chill of his expression, sent a dizzying jolt up her arm.

He’s examining me, Serenity realized. The look in his eyes wasn't flattering; it was analytical. He lingered on the slightly worn lace trim of her dress, the absence of any notable jewelry, and the nervous tremor in her own hand.

Evan, or rather, the true Evan, the one who lived in a perpetual state of corporate siege, was conducting the most absurd interview of his life.

He had expected Talia Vance, the actress his best friend, Leo, had hired from a reputable (and highly discreet) agency. Talia had submitted headshots that screamed ‘old Hollywood glamour meets Manhattan finance.’ She was supposed to be wearing something sleek, possibly a little too revealing, and carry a purse that cost more than Evan’s first car. She was supposed to be an expensive, obvious deterrent—a caricature of the kind of gold-digger his grandmother was terrified of.

Instead, Serenity Chase stood before him, and the entire calculus of the evening shattered.

This woman was a tactical stroke of genius, Evan thought, a sudden, blinding respect for his hired actress’s preparation overriding his initial confusion. She was the anti-Talia. She was effortlessly, distractingly beautiful—not in a curated, magazine way, but in the soft, natural way of a spring morning. Her skin was flawless, her eyes a startling, clear green-grey, and her nervousness—the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she worried her lip—was devastatingly authentic.

She wore a simple, almost threadbare, sweater dress that spoke of thrift and practicality. The total effect was one of genuine, working-class charm. She’s aiming for ‘the sweet girl next door who doesn’t care about money.’ He saw the brilliant, calculated deception immediately. This wasn't Talia Vance; this was a masterful, high-level imposter hired by the agency to replace Talia with someone whose appearance was perfectly calibrated to disarm him and, more importantly, fool his grandmother. This woman would play the long game.

“Please, sit,” Evan said, pulling out the booth bench. He didn’t drop the professional veneer. He needed to test her commitment. “You’re early. Punctuality is appreciated, especially in this line of work.”

Serenity slid onto the leather bench, her spine rigid with formality. This line of work? She thought. Is he referring to dating? Dad said he was stable, maybe he’s in finance and sees everything as a transaction. She remembered her father's coaching: “Just nod and look interested, Ren. Say something encouraging.”

“I… I believe in making a good first impression,” Serenity replied, trying to imbue her voice with a professional cheerfulness she usually reserved for the early morning coffee rush.

Evan raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. She’s good. She’s leaning into the role of the earnest novice. He steepled his hands on the table, leaning forward just enough to make her feel the weight of his attention.

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” he stated, his voice dropping in volume. “I’m a direct person. We both know why we are here. My grandmother is a force of nature, and my inheritance is tied to demonstrating… stability.”

Serenity blinked. Stability? He was talking about his family legacy on a first date? It was bizarre, but it also fit the description of a man obsessed with his future. It was honest, at least.

“I understand completely,” Serenity said softly, thinking of her father. “It’s about offering peace of mind to the people we care about most. My father… he’s going through a difficult time, and he needs to know that my future is secure, that I won’t be facing things alone. I appreciate you being so open about your own motivations.”

Evan felt a prickle of shock that rapidly morphed into grudging admiration. This was a response Talia Vance could never have conjured. Serenity—the imposter, the professional—had just taken his crude, transactional statement and reframed it into something deeply emotional and human.

She’s not just acting. She’s improvising, and she's using real vulnerability as a weapon. She’s playing the selfless daughter role to perfection.

“Selfless daughter,” Evan murmured, testing the phrase. “A commendable angle. I admire commitment to a narrative. So, let’s talk terms. The basic agreement, as you understand it, is strictly short-term, high-profile appearances. You’ll be required to be witty, charming, and, above all, discreet.”

Serenity froze, her small, polite smile wavering. Terms? Agreement? Her father had told her that Evan was a gentleman, a bit old-fashioned, perhaps. Was this his idea of vetting a potential partner? Defining the "terms" of a courtship before the first appetizer?

She decided to play along, channeling the brave face she wore when a customer complained about cold coffee. “I can certainly be witty and charming,” she confirmed, though her confidence was wafer-thin. “And I’m always discreet. I don’t believe in airing personal matters.”

Evan nodded, reaching for the wine list. “Excellent. Let’s formalize the compensation structure, then. The agency was vague. What is your rate? Per appearance, retainer? I prefer clarity.”

Serenity was thunderstruck. Rate? Compensation? She glanced down at her hands, trying to absorb the sudden, terrifying implication. Her father must have told Evan’s family that she was struggling financially, that she worked as a waitress. Had Evan, in his grand, business-tycoon way, decided to pay her to date him? To help him secure his legacy while she dealt with her father’s wishes? The thought was mortifying, yet strangely practical in her world of looming medical bills.

She took a slow, deliberate breath, trying not to let the sting of humiliation show. He was being clinical, but perhaps also trying to help.

“My father… he just told me you were kind,” Serenity whispered, pushing the word rate out of her mind. “He didn’t mention compensation.”

Evan misread the hesitation as a calculated demurral, an attempt to leverage her apparent innocence for a higher price. The agency trained her well, he thought, suppressing a weary sigh.

“Don’t be coy,” Evan said, a trace of impatience entering his tone. “This is a simple transaction. Tell me what you need, and we can discuss a baseline. Is the ten-thousand-dollar initial retainer for the first two weeks acceptable, or do you want to adjust the figure?”

Serenity’s jaw dropped so imperceptibly that Evan missed it. Ten thousand dollars. That was nearly four months’ rent and her father's medication copay combined. Her mind reeled. The man her father arranged, Evan, was so wealthy that he was offering to pay her this absurd amount of money just to go on a date and pretend to be a 'stable' figure for his family. He was taking care of her, just as her father had prayed. He was fulfilling the wish.

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, a strange mix of profound relief and crushing shame. He thinks I'm desperate enough to take money for a date. He’s right, I am desperate for Dad.

“The… the figure is generous,” Serenity managed, her voice thick. She straightened, channeling her deep-seated pride. “But I assure you, Mr. Sterling, I’m not doing this for the money. My commitment is purely… personal.”

Evan leaned back against the plush velvet, a genuine, startled smile flashing across his face. It was the first authentic expression she’d seen—brief, electric, and breathtakingly attractive.

“‘My commitment is purely personal.’ You are incredible,” Evan chuckled, shaking his head. “The conviction, the delivery—the sheer, beautiful audacity. All right. Fine. Let’s call the compensation a ‘mutually beneficial retainer’ to facilitate your continued ‘personal commitment’ to this… arrangement. Shall we order? The Sancerre here is surprisingly good.”

Serenity nodded weakly, still processing the exchange. Arrangement. Mutually beneficial retainer. He was strange, intimidating, but undeniably efficient and, yes, generous. Maybe this was what her father meant by 'stable'—a man who solved emotional problems with clear, practical, financial solutions. She felt a knot of anxiety loosen in her chest.