Christmas with a Bad Boy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

1. Her Red Dress

ONE

HER RED DRESS

ZALE

Thousands of man hours. Hundreds of missed opportunities. One last shot to return Union Building to the Fulton name.

I lean against the bar, my fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the sleek marble surface. The lounge hums with quiet conversation, but I'm not here for small talk. My eyes scan the room, searching for Austin Henry.

He's late, but that's fine. I've got all night.

The bartender slides a glass of scotch in front of me. I nod, not bothering with words. My mind's already racing, plotting out every move, every word I'll say when Austin walks through that door.

This is the first step in taking down the Henry empire. The thought sends a surge of satisfaction through me, but I keep my face neutral.

I check my watch—my father's watch.

The weight of it on my wrist is a constant reminder of why I'm here. Of everything the Henrys took from us. The upcoming auction for Union Building looms large in my mind.

It's more than just a property. It's the key to restoring my family's legacy. If I fail to acquire it, I'll be letting down not just myself, but the memory of my father and everything he worked for.

I've spent years rebuilding what they destroyed, but it's not enough. Not until I've torn them down the way they tore us down.

My phone buzzes—a text from my guy watching Austin's movements.

Lance: Henry is leaving the office now. ETA 20 minutes.

Perfect.

I take a sip of scotch, savoring the burn. Everything's falling into place. I've been waiting for this moment for so long, I can almost taste victory. It's bitter and sweet, just like the drink in my hand.

The door opens, and I glance up, expecting to see Austin's smug face. But it's not him.

It's her .

She walks in like she owns the place, all quiet confidence and grace. The red dress she's wearing hugs every curve, drawing eyes from across the room. But it's not just the dress that catches my attention. It's the way she moves, the slight tilt of her chin, the spark in her eyes.

I can't look away.

She scans the room, clearly looking for someone. Not finding them, she makes her way to the bar. As she gets closer, I catch the scent of her perfume—something warm and spicy.

It's intoxicating.

She's…intoxicating.

What the hell is wrong with me? I'm here on business. I don't have time for distractions.

But as she takes a seat just a few stools down from me, I find myself stealing glances. She orders a drink—some fancy cocktail I don't catch the name of—and pulls out her phone. Her fingers move quickly over the screen, her brow furrowing slightly.

I should look away. I should focus on why I'm here. But I can't. There's something about her that's magnetic, pulling me in despite my best efforts to resist.

She must feel my eyes on her because she looks up, catching me staring. A better man would look away. But I'm me .

We just look at each other. Her eyes are a deep, rich brown, intelligent and curious.

I feel exposed, like she can see right through me. It's unsettling.

I force myself to look away, taking another sip of scotch.

I'm not here to pick up women. I'm here to set a fire to the Henry empire. But even as I try to refocus, I can't shake the feeling that something's shifted.

My phone buzzes again—another text from my guy.

Lance: Henry is delayed. New ETA: 45 minutes.

I frown, my mind racing. I need to meet with Austin before Union Building goes up for auction. This changes things. If I miss this opportunity, the consequences could be devastating. Not just for me, but for everything my father worked for.

I glance at the woman in the red dress again. She's still at the bar, looking slightly annoyed as she checks her watch. Then she places a call, and I overhear a familiar name.

Austin. As in Austin Henry?

I smile. Fate is in my favor .

An idea forms in my mind. It's risky, potentially derailing my entire plan for the night. But something tells me it might be worth it.

I make a quick call, speaking low enough that no one around me can hear.

"Keep him busy for another hour. I don't care how you do it."

With that done, I take a deep breath and stand up. My heart's racing, but I keep my face calm, controlled. I've faced down CEOs and cut-throat businessmen without breaking a sweat. This should be easy.

So why do I feel like I'm walking into uncharted territory?

I approach her slowly, giving her time to notice me. When she looks up, I offer a small smile.

"Excuse me. I couldn't help but notice you seem to be waiting for someone."

"I am. Though it seems he's running late."

"May I?" I gesture to the empty stool next to her.

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Sure."

As I sit down, I catch another whiff of her perfume, and for a moment, I almost forget why I'm here.

"I'm Zale Fulton," I say, offering my hand.

She takes it, her grip firm. "Saraiyah Banks."

Saraiyah . Her name feels right on my tongue.

Dangerous, but right.

The name suits her. Strong, unique. I find myself wanting to say it out loud again to feel the way it rolls off my tongue.

"Nice to meet you, Saraiyah. Can I buy you a drink while you wait?"

She looks at me for a long moment, like she's trying to figure me out. Then she smiles, just a little.

"Why not? Though I have to warn you, I'm not easily impressed by men buying me drinks."

I chuckle. There's a fire in her, a challenge. It's... refreshing.

"Noted," I say. "How about we skip the impressing and just enjoy a conversation?"

She tilts her head, considering. "Alright, Zale. Let's see what kind of conversation you've got."

I signal the bartender, ordering her another of whatever she's drinking. As we wait, I study her profile. The curve of her neck, the way her lashes brush her cheeks when she blinks. She's beautiful, yes, but it's more than that. There's an energy about her, a quiet strength that draws me in.

"So, Saraiyah," I say, turning slightly to face her. "What brings you to a place like this on a night like tonight?"

She takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving mine. "I could ask you the same thing."

I smile, appreciating her deflection. "Fair enough. I'm here on business, actually. But I'm starting to think pleasure might be on the agenda, too."

She raises an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Smooth," she says. "Do lines like that usually work for you?"

I laugh, surprised by her directness. "You'd be surprised," I admit. "But no, not usually. I'm not in the habit of chatting with beautiful women in bars."

"No?" she asks. "What are you in the habit of doing, then?"

Images flash through my mind—boardrooms, contracts, the slow, methodical pursuit of destroying the man who killed my father's dreams. Then I push them aside.

"Making money," I say with a shrug. "It's not very exciting."

"I don't know," Saraiyah muses. "Money can be pretty exciting in the right hands." She leans in slightly, and I catch another whiff of her perfume—something floral and spicy. "What do you do with all that money, Zale?"

I mirror her posture, drawn in by her presence. Our knees brush under the bar, and I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact. "Would you believe me if I said I donate it all to charity?"

She laughs again, and I find myself chasing that sound, wanting to hear it over and over. "Not for a second," she says. "But it's a nice thought."

I shrug, not denying it. "I've been told I have a way with words. But something tells me you're not easily swayed by pretty phrases."

"You'd be right about that," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I prefer substance over style."

"And what would you consider substance?" I ask, genuinely curious.

She thinks for a moment, twirling the straw in her drink. "Honesty. Passion. A willingness to stand up for what you believe in, even when it's not easy." She looks at me, her gaze intense. "What about you, Zale? What do you stand for?"

The question catches me off guard. For a moment, I'm tempted to give her my usual line—something vague about business success and innovation. But there's something about her that makes me want to be honest.

"Legacy," I say finally. "Making sure that the work my family's done, the name we've built, means something."

She nods slowly, like she understands. "Family's important to you."

"It is," I agree. "Though I get the feeling it's important to you too."

A shadow passes over her face, so quick I almost miss it. "It is," she says softly. "Sometimes I think it's too important."

I lean in slightly, intrigued. "How so?"

She shakes her head, as if coming out of a daze. "Sorry, I don't usually get this deep with strangers in bars."

"We don't have to be strangers," I say, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them.

She looks at me, surprise and something else—interest?—in her eyes. "Is that so?"

I nod, feeling like I'm standing on the edge of something fresh and exhilarating. "I'd like to get to know you, Saraiyah. If you'll let me."

For a long moment, she just looks at me. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, weighing the risks and rewards. Then, slowly, she smiles. "Alright, Zale. Let's see where this goes."

As we talk, I find myself forgetting about Austin and my plans for revenge. Saraiyah is smart, funny, and refreshingly direct. She challenges me in ways I'm not used to, calling me out when I try to deflect or give vague answers.

I learn that she runs a coffee shop, one that's been in her family for generations. The way she talks about it, the passion in her voice, it's captivating.

"It must be challenging," I say, genuinely interested. "Running a small business in this economy."

Saraiyah nods, her eyes lighting up. "You have no idea. Especially for Black female business owners like me. We face unique challenges that others don't even have to think about."

"What kind of challenges?"

She takes a sip of her drink, considering her words. "Where do I start? Access to capital is a big one. Banks are less likely to approve loans for Black-owned businesses, especially when they're run by women. Then there's the lack of mentorship opportunities, networking challenges..."

As she speaks, her passion becomes evident. Her hands move animatedly, her voice filled with conviction. I find myself drawn in, not just by her words, but by the fire behind them.

"It's not just about running a business," she continues. "It's about breaking barriers, creating opportunities for others like me—every day. I'm not just serving coffee. I'm proving that we belong in this space. That we can succeed despite the odds stacked against us."

"That's... incredible, Saraiyah. I had no idea the challenges were so significant."

She gives me a wry smile. "Most people don't. But that's why it's so important to talk about it, to raise awareness. Change only happens when people understand the problem."

I find myself wanting to know more, to understand her world better. "What do you think needs to change?"

Saraiyah launches into a passionate explanation of policy changes, community support initiatives, and mentorship programs that could make a difference. As she speaks, I'm struck by her knowledge, her drive. This isn't just talk—she's clearly put thought and research into these ideas.

"Sorry," she says suddenly, looking a bit embarrassed. "I didn't mean to go off on a tangent like that."

I shake my head, smiling. "Don't apologize. It's refreshing to hear someone speak so passionately about something that matters."

She looks at me, her brows lifting slightly as her gaze softens, the shift in her expression speaking volumes without a word.

"Most guys' eyes glaze over when I start talking about this stuff."

"I'm not most guys," I say, holding her gaze.

The air between us seems to thicken. I'm acutely aware of how close we're sitting, of the way her knee is almost touching mine. She leans in slightly, and I let the scent of her brand my soul. My heart rate picks up.

"No," she says softly. "You're not."

For a moment, we just look at each other. I have the strangest urge to reach out and touch her face, to trace the curve of her cheek with my thumb. But I hold back, reminding myself why I'm here and what's at stake.

"Your shop sounds important to you," I say, my voice softer than I intend.

She nods, her eyes distant. "It's more than just a business. It's my family's legacy. I guess in that way, we're alike."

I think of Union Building, of what it means to me, to my family. For a moment, I see myself telling her everything—about the Henrys, about my father's dying wish, about my plans. But that's not in the cards for us.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to her warmth. Our fingers brush on the bar, and I feel a jolt of electricity.

Saraiyah's breath catches, her eyes meeting mine. For a heartbeat, I think I might kiss her.

Then my phone buzzes, shattering the moment. Reality crashes back in. I have a mission to complete, a building to reclaim. But as I look at Saraiyah, I realize my carefully laid plans might be more complicated than I thought.

Saraiyah breaks the tension, glancing at her watch. "I think it's official," she says. "I've been ghosted."

A twinge of remorse washes over me, knowing I'm why her date hasn't shown. But it's overshadowed by a surge of possessiveness.

I don't want her waiting for anyone else. But me .

"His loss. My gain."

Her eyes widen, and she stands. "I should probably get going. I've got a long day tomorrow."

I nod, trying to ignore the disappointment that wells up in me. "Of course. Can I have you driven somewhere?"

She shakes her head, smiling. "Thanks, but the subway's fine. I'm a New Yorker, remember?"

"At least let me walk you to the station," I say, standing up. "It's the least I can do after monopolizing your evening."

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Alright. I'd like that."

As we walk out into the crisp night air, I'm hyper-aware of her presence beside me. The street is busy, full of people rushing to and fro, but it feels like we're in our own little bubble. Our hands brush as we walk, and each time, the simmer in my gut turns up a notch.

We chat as we walk, about nothing in particular—the city, the approaching holidays, her plans for the coffee shop's Christmas decorations. But underneath the casual conversation, there's a current of tension, of unspoken possibilities.

Fate , maybe.

When we reach the subway entrance, we both pause, reluctant to say goodbye. Saraiyah turns to me, a small smile on her lips.

"Thanks for the company, Zale. And the conversation."

"The pleasure was all mine," I say, meaning it more than I've meant anything in a long time.

She extends her hand, and without thinking, I take it. But instead of shaking it, I bring it to my lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. I hear her sharp intake of breath, see the way her eyes widen slightly.

"I'd like to see you again. If you're interested."

She looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she smiles. "You know where to find me," she says, echoing her words from earlier.

I do. Ruth's Brew in SoHo.

With that, she turns and descends into the subway station. I watch her go, fighting the urge to call her back, to ask for her number, to do something— anything —to prolong this moment.

But I don't. I have a job to do.

I make my way back to the bar, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I need to focus, to get back into the mindset I need to deal with Austin Henry.

But Saraiyah's face keeps flashing in my mind, her voice echoing in my ears.

As I push open the door to the bar, I take a deep breath, forcing myself to compartmentalize. I can think about Saraiyah later. Right now, I have a mission to complete.

I scan the room, spotting Austin at a corner table. He hasn't seen me yet. Good. It offers me a brief chance to steady myself, to return to the detached, methodical persona I've developed over the years.

But as I make my way towards him, I can't shake the feeling that something has fundamentally changed.

Can meeting a woman be that powerful? Yeah, if she's the one.

Where the fuck did that come from?

I stop for a second, not liking my train of thought. But I feel like the man who walked into this bar a few hours ago isn't the same man approaching Austin Henry now.

Like Saraiyah isn't just any woman. But she'll be my woman.

I smile as the image of her in that red dress floats through my mind. Then I resume my course. To get all the details I can about the Union Building auction because I plan to swipe it from their grimy hands.

I plaster on a fake smile and extend my hand to Austin. A small part of me is already planning my next visit to a certain coffee shop in SoHo.

"Austin. I'm surprised you made it here without your daddy." I glance around him as if he has his conniving father tucked in his pocket.

"Fuck you, Zale. You asked to meet, and I'm here." He glances around me.

"Looking for someone?"

"Yeah… I guess I missed her."

"That's the understatement of the century. Shall we?"

I lower into the chair as Austin searches my face for the answer to that unspoken riddle. But little does he know. He'll never get the chance to see Saraiyah again.

That beautiful queen is mine .