A Christmas storm made me his

The champagne glass shattered against the marble floor three seconds before my career did. I barely registered the sound. Too focused on Mrs. Patricia Vanderbilt's face, the way her red lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile as she stood in the center of the Riverside Hotel ballroom, microphone in hand, every eye in New York's event planning elite turning toward her. Toward me. "I'm afraid," she said, her voice carrying over the Christmas music, over the clinking glasses and polite laughter, "that Carter & Associates will no longer be handling the Vanderbilt Spring Gala." My stomach dropped. The room tilted. Or maybe that was just me, swaying in these ridiculous heels I'd bought specifically for tonight. Heels I couldn't afford. A dress I'd put on my already maxed credit card because I needed to look successful. Confident. Like someone who deserved to plan events for the Vanderbilt family. Someone grabbed my elbow. Jenna from Luxe Events, her grip tight, sympathetic. I shook her off. "Patricia has been generous enough to give us a chance," Mrs. Vanderbilt continued, gesturing to a woman I didn't recognize. Blonde. Polished. Smug. "But frankly, the work we've seen has been..." She paused. Tilted her head like she was searching for the right word. Like she hadn't rehearsed this. "Uninspired. Forgettable." Heat crawled up my neck. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my thighs, felt the silk of my dress, smooth and cool and suddenly suffocating. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. "We expect excellence," Mrs. Vanderbilt said. "And excellence requires vision. Originality. Something I'm afraid Ms. Carter simply cannot provide." Someone gasped. Actual gasped, like we were in some kind of period drama and not a professional event where my reputation was being gutted in front of three hundred people. I should leave. Walk out with my head high, dignity intact. Instead, I stood frozen, watching Mrs. Vanderbilt hand the microphone to the blonde woman, watching everyone else go back to their conversations like they hadn't just witnessed a public execution. My phone buzzed in my clutch. Once. Twice. Three times. I didn't need to look to know what it was. Who it was. My boss. The room felt too small. Too hot. The Christmas lights strung across the ceiling blurred into streaks of red and gold, and my chest tightened, breath coming in short, sharp gasps that I couldn't control. Not here. Not now. I turned. Pushed through the crowd. Someone said my name but I didn't stop, didn't look back, just kept moving toward the exit, toward air, toward anything that wasn't this. The hallway was cooler. Quieter. I pressed my back against the wall, closed my eyes, focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. I pulled it out. Seven missed calls. Twelve texts. All from Richard. My boss. The man who'd promised me this account would make my career. The man who'd taken credit for every successful event I'd planned in the last three years while paying me barely enough to cover rent. The most recent text made my blood run cold. My office. Now. I almost laughed. Would have, if I wasn't so close to screaming. His office was on the third floor. I took the stairs because the thought of standing still in an elevator made my skin crawl. My heels clicked against marble, too loud, echoing. The door to Carter & Associates was open. The lights were on. Richard sat behind his desk, tie loosened, face red. He didn't look up when I walked in. "Close the door." I did. Stood there. Waited. "Do you have any idea," he said slowly, still not looking at me, "what you've done?" My nails bit into my palms. "I didn't do anything." "Exactly." His head snapped up. "You didn't do anything. You gave Patricia Vanderbilt uninspired garbage and she fired us. In public. Do you understand what that means?" "She didn't fire you. She fired me." "You work for me, Ava. You are me. And now everyone in that ballroom thinks Carter & Associates is a joke." He stood. Braced his hands on the desk. "I've spent twenty years building this company. Twenty years. And you destroyed it in three months." The words hit like a slap. "That's not fair. I worked on that proposal for weeks. I gave her exactly what she asked for." "She asked for spectacular. You gave her safe." He laughed. Bitter. Sharp. "You know what she told me when she called yesterday? She said hiring you was the biggest mistake she'd ever made. Said you had no vision. No creativity. No fire." Each word landed like a punch. "Maybe she's right," Richard continued. "Maybe I made a mistake promoting you. Trusting you with our most important client." My throat burned. "I've planned every major event for this company. Every single one. And you've taken credit for all of them." "Because I own this company. Because without me, you'd still be answering phones and fetching coffee." He straightened. Smoothed his tie. "Clear out your desk. You're done." The floor dropped out from under me. "You're firing me?" "I'm protecting my business. Consider this your resignation, effective immediately." He sat back down. Opened his laptop. "HR will process your final check. You can pick it up Monday." I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. "Three weeks before Christmas," I whispered. He didn't look up. "Should have thought about that before you humiliated us." Something inside me cracked. Splintered. Shattered into pieces I wasn't sure I could put back together. I didn't remember walking out. Didn't remember taking the stairs or pushing through the lobby doors or standing on the freezing sidewalk in my thin dress and expensive heels. The cold bit through silk. Wind whipped my hair across my face. Snow had started falling, light and soft, catching in the streetlights. My phone rang. I looked at the screen. Marcus. My ex. The man who'd spent two years promising me forever before I caught him in bed with Claire. My best friend. Six months ago, in the apartment we'd shared, in the bed we'd picked out together. I declined the call. Blocked the number. Again. He'd been trying to reach me for weeks. Leaving voicemails I deleted without listening to. Texts I never read. I didn't know what he wanted and I didn't care. Another text came through. Julia. My sister. Mom says you're not coming for Christmas. Seriously? I stared at the message. At the little bubbles that meant she was still typing. You can't avoid family forever, Ava. Grow up. I shoved my phone in my clutch. Looked up at the building. At the glowing windows on the third floor where Richard was probably already on the phone, doing damage control, spinning this so he came out looking like the victim. A cab splashed through a puddle, soaking my feet. I didn't move. Around me, the city kept going. People rushing past with shopping bags and coffee cups and purpose. Lives that made sense. Paths that led somewhere. I had nothing. No job. No relationship. No plan. Just debt and humiliation and the crushing weight of another year where I'd given everything and ended up with less than nothing. My hands were numb. I couldn't feel my feet. I pulled out my phone again. Opened the browser. Typed without thinking. Mountain cabin rental Christmas. Results flooded the screen. Cozy retreats. Snowy getaways. Peaceful escapes. One listing caught my eye. A small cabin. Secluded. Available immediately. The price made me wince. I couldn't afford it. But I also couldn't afford to stay here. To wake up tomorrow in my shoebox apartment and face another day of this city, this life, this version of myself that kept failing no matter how hard I tried. I clicked the listing. Entered my information. My credit card number. Hit confirm before I could talk myself out of it. The confirmation email came through immediately. Directions. Check in instructions. A cheerful message about enjoying the winter wonderland. I looked up. Snow was falling harder now. Sticking to the sidewalks. To my hair. To my hands. People hurried past, heads down, going home to families and warmth and lives that weren't falling apart. I opened my Uber app. Hesitated. Then I closed it. Opened my maps instead. Six hours. That's how long it would take to drive to the cabin. Six hours to get away from this. From everything. I started walking toward the parking garage where I kept my ancient Honda. The one that barely ran but was paid off. The one thing I actually owned. My feet were soaking wet. My dress was ruined. I didn't care. For the first time in months, maybe years, I knew exactly what I needed. Silence. Space. A place where no one knew my name or my failures or the way I kept trying and trying and trying and still ended up here, broken and alone on a sidewalk in December. The garage attendant gave me a weird look when I handed him my ticket. I didn't explain. Just took my keys and slid into the driver's seat. The engine sputtered. Coughed. Come on. Please. It caught. Rumbled to life. I didn't let myself think. Didn't make a plan or pack a bag or tell anyone where I was going. I just drove. Out of the garage. Into the street. Through the city that had chewed me up and spit me out. And I didn't look back.