"Then let me please them," I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs. "One week. Give the market one more week. If I can’t prove to you that the 'sentimental value' outweighs your profit margins by Christmas Eve, I’ll sign the NDA and walk away from the protest for good."
"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." The Grumpy Billionaire Who Stole Christmas Read...
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. "Then let me please them," I challenged, my
"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." If I can’t prove to you that the
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.