Bought By Santa (Seasonal Obsessions #1)

Chapter 2

The Breeder

T he cheerful strains of “Jingle Bells” reach me before I even push open the front door of Ability Acres, the care home where my sister lives. It’s like stepping into another world—one where the weight of my problems can’t follow. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Hi, Carolina!” greets Nancy at reception, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. She’s part of the reason coming here doesn’t feel so heavy. I offer a smile, pushing down the ever-present anxiety that threatens to claw its way up my throat.

“Hey, Nancy,” I say, the words a little more breathless than I’d like. “How’s she doing today?”

“Willow’s been buzzing all morning, dear. You know how much she loves this day.”

I nod, my heart hitching a bit because I do know—I know too well. November thirtieth isn’t just the day we decorate for Christmas; it’s our shared moment of joy that I cling to, year after year.

I head down the hallway, passing staff members adorned in Santa hats, their smiles as bright as the tinsel lining the walls. The scent of cinnamon wafts from the kitchen, and for a moment, I let myself be carried away by the festive atmosphere.

Pushing open the door to her room, she’s already ready, waiting for me with that bright smile that outshines the cheap, flickering fairy lights strung around her bed. Her eyes, the color of fresh earth after rain, light up at the sight of me. “Caro!” she exclaims.

“Hey, Will,” I say, closing the distance between us with quick strides.

My sister—appearance wise, she’s almost my twin, with the exception that her hair is practically white, whereas mine is blonde—is parked by the window in her wheelchair, a blanket draped over her legs.

The accident, a memory etched in sharp relief against the canvas of our lives, stole not only our dad’s life, but her use of those legs when she was barely twelve. Dad was walking her to school when a guy lost control of his car, too busy texting. Heroically, our dad pushed Willow out of the way, taking the brunt of the impact on himself. He died instantly, and my vibrant sister was bound to wheels. But she never let it dull her spirit.

My sister’s voice pulls me from the morbid and tragic trip down memory lane. “Ready to make the tree beautiful?” she asks, gesturing excitedly to the small artificial Christmas tree perched on a table beside her.

“Always,” I respond, the corners of my mouth lifting into a genuine smile as I retrieve the box of ornaments from the closet. “And you haven’t changed your mind on the color scheme again?”

She giggles. “No, and I promise I won’t. At least not this year,” she jokes.

We work together, Willow handling the delicate baubles, passing them to me with care. I stretch to hang them, weaving between the synthetic branches, filling in the gaps with glistening reds and golds.

“Higher, Caro! It has to be perfect,” she directs, her laughter like wind chimes in the crisp winter air. And despite everything—the crushing weight of responsibility, the gnawing fear of tomorrow—I find myself laughing too, caught up in the magic we’re creating.

I loop a silver garland around the top of the Christmas tree, but my mind’s tangled tighter than these decorations. Money—or the lack of it—claws at me, a relentless beast with an insatiable appetite. I shove those thoughts deep down, bury them under the soil of forced cheerfulness. Will doesn’t need to see how deep the roots of my fear go.

“Remember when Dad tried to make eggnog that one year?” Will’s voice, always so full of life, cuts through the silence like a bell in the night.

I laugh, a genuine spark igniting within me. “Tried? You mean when he nearly turned us all off Christmas with that monstrosity?”

“Exactly!” she giggles, her eyes twinkling as much as the lights we’ve just strung up. For a moment, the weight on my chest lifts, and I can breathe again. “He was so proud of it too. Kept saying it was a Sterling family recipe.”

“More like a Sterling family disaster.” My response is playful, but a pang of loss accompanies the memory.

A wistful, almost sad, expression takes over my sister’s beautiful face. “Mom would have loved this tree,” Willow says softly, her gaze fixed on the miniature angel perched atop the fir.

It’s impossible not to feel our orphan status extra hard around Christmas. Where Dad died a heroic death, Mom’s was anything but. After we lost Dad, she turned to drugs and alcohol, completely giving up on being a mom.

The accident happened just before my eighteenth birthday, my last year of high school. But when Mom peaced out on her duties, I had to step up. I dropped out of school and took whatever jobs I could get to support myself and Will. Mom used whatever little money Dad and the insurance left us to support her new habits, so it was up to me to get the money to pay for Will’s special needs treatments, and find a facility she could live in.

It hurts me to the core that I can’t live with my sister, but none of the places I can afford are wheelchair friendly. Trust me, I’ve done extensive research. But no matter how much I looked and begged for the calculator to give me the results I wanted, there was no way I could afford her medical bills, a sufficient home, and feed the both of us. So, a home was the only affordable solution.

Looking at my sister, it’s clear she misses our parents. I’ve always done my best to shield her from how cruel our mom became. “Hey, don’t look so sad, Will,” I chirp, forcing my tone to sound extra happy. “She does love it. You know they’re here with us, in spirit.” It’s a line I’ve recited every holiday season since the accident, a mantra to soothe the ache of absence.

“Sometimes, I can almost hear her singing carols,” Willow whispers, her smile tinged with nostalgia. She reaches out, her fingers dancing over a red bauble adorned with glittering snowflakes—a remnant from childhood Christmases that somehow survived the years.

“Well,” I say, hesitantly, taking my sister’s hand. “We can go caroling if you want.”

Will scrunches up her face. “Har har, you know I’m tone deaf. You’re the one named after the tradition so you should do it.”

She isn’t wrong. Mom’s water broke while she and Dad were caroling on December thirteenth almost twenty-seven years ago, which is how I earned my name. Most people think it’s because I was conceived in one of the Carolina states, but nope. Luckily, that’s not the story accompanying my name.

The room seems to hold its breath, the air thick with unspoken words and memories that cling like cobwebs. We are the last Sterlings, clinging to each other in a world that has been anything but kind.

“Caro, promise me something?” Willow’s brown eyes lock onto mine, earnest and searching.

“Anything, Will.”

“Promise we’ll always find a way to keep our traditions alive. No matter what.”

My heart clenches, a vise of responsibility tightening around it. The thought of failing her, of watching the light in her eyes dim because I couldn’t keep our world afloat, terrifies me more than anything else.

“Always,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. Because in the end, it’s not the money or the desperation that defines us. It’s the love between two sisters, fighting against the cruelty of life.

Although it takes most of the afternoon, because Will has made me change the placement of everything a thousand times over, I finally place the last ornament. A bright red bauble which catches the soft glow of the fairy lights.

I step back, the scent of pine and cinnamon wrapping around me like a warm hug. The twinkling lights cast dancing shadows on Willow’s face, illuminating her wide smile that’s as comforting as it is heartbreaking.

“Looks perfect,” I murmur, my chest swelling with a pride that momentarily eases the gnawing anxiety lodged deep in my belly.

“Better than perfect—magical,” she insists, her voice ringing with a joy that belies her confinement to the wheelchair. The accident may have stolen her mobility, but not her spirit.

I bend down, plugging in the small electric kettle by her bedside. “Hot chocolate?” I offer, even though it’s more statement than question. Tradition dictates it, and heaven knows we cling to those.

“Yes, please,” she replies, her anticipation palpable as I mix the cocoa powder and marshmallows into the steaming water. We sip our drinks, the sweetness of chocolate and the burn of heat a sharp contrast to the chill seeping through the windowpane.

“Caro…” Willow begins, her tone shifting, “You’ll come back soon, right?”

“Of course,” I answer too quickly, the lie bitter on my tongue. Each visit costs something I can barely afford—time, money, hope—but I push that aside, focusing on the warmth spreading through my fingers from the ceramic mug.

“Good. It’s just not the same without you,” she says softly, gripping my hand.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Will,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. We finish our hot chocolate, and I clean up, leaving no trace of our little celebration except for the lingering scent of cocoa. “But hey, you’re all set for December first now. Maybe Santa will visit you this year.”

When we were kids, we always decorated the Christmas tree on December first, it was the Sterling family tradition. But now, we’ve changed that to the last day of November. Willow insists it makes more sense, and frankly, I kind of agree.

“Love you, Caro,” Willow calls out as I head for the door, the nickname tugging at my heartstrings.

“Love you more,” I reply with a half-hearted smile and slip out into the cold.

Back in the silent confines of my small studio, the once merry jingles of Christmas music now sound mocking. Bills are strewn across the kitchen table like a deck of cards dealt by fate—a losing hand. I sit, the weight of numbers and overdue notices pressing down on me.

I close my eyes, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability. My breath hitches, the fear and panic clawing at my insides. How much longer can I keep this up? How much longer before everything crumbles?

The room is suffocating, walls closing in, filled with the ghosts of our parents and the relentless pressure to provide for Willow. To give her the life she deserves—one that doesn’t end within the confines of a care home room.

Letting out a shaky breath, I try to piece together a plan, any plan, that doesn’t involve selling pieces of my soul or poking holes in prophylactics in vain attempts at securing an anchor in this storm. But as always, I come up with nothing. I’m a high school dropout without qualifications for anything. I only have one thing to offer; my body.

I stand in the middle of my cramped studio, eyes shut as I paint the fantasy once more; grand ballrooms, silken gowns, a life where Willow laughs free of worry. It’s a dream spun from desperation, woven with threads of hope and longing. My fingertips graze the cold windowpane, imagining it’s the smooth marble of some opulent mansion. The frosty touch sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s not from the chill.

“Carolina Sterling, you will be the belle of every ball,” I mutter, the words a vow to the night. “You’ll find that golden ticket.”

I snap my eyes open, the reality of peeling wallpaper and looming shadows crashing back. The fantasy fades, but it leaves behind a fierce resolve. No more tears, I decide. They solve nothing. Action—deceptive, sly, desperate action—is what’s called for now.

Moving to my closet, I rummage through hangers until I find the dress. Red, daring, a whisper of fabric that promises sin and salvation all at once. A tool, nothing more, despite its allure. As I inspect the tags, still firmly attached, a smirk pulls at my lips. “One night only,” I remind myself. “Wear it, charm them, return it.”

It’s a calculated risk, an investment in a future I’m clawing toward with everything I have. Each time I play this game, the stakes mount higher, the fall closer. But there’s no room for doubt.

“Tomorrow, they’ll see only what you want them to see,” I say, practicing the tone of a woman who’s never known the suffocating embrace of poverty—a woman who doesn’t exist.

I lay the dress out, then turn to the mirror, studying my reflection. The blonde hair, the curves—they’re my weapons in this masquerade. I practice smiles, tilts of the head, soft laughter. A mask of allure over the steel of determination.

I can’t let myself slip, can’t let the sparkle in my eyes dim to reveal the dread beneath. I must be all charm, all grace. Because somewhere in that crowd is a man with pockets deep enough to lift us from this mire. And I will find him.

After hanging the dress back in my closet, I reach for my laptop and power it on. It’s time to make some money.