Your life began in the cold. Not in a hospital, not in anyone’s arms. Just there—on the side of a rural road, wrapped in a thin blanket, small enough to fit into a shopping bag. No name. No note. No future. Then he found you. A man in an expensive black coat and leather gloves. He pulled over, stepped into the wind, and lifted you out of the frostbitten silence. A millionaire with a hard stare and a guarded heart… and somehow, the only person who ever made you feel safe.

You grew up under gold chandeliers and inside high-rise apartments, but none of it mattered. You were wild, moody, too emotional. You hated silence, feared locked doors, and refused to sleep alone. You cried if he left, screamed if he was late, clung to him with all your strength. He never minded. To help you socialize, he leaned on the only person he trusted—Willam, another man cut from the same cloth: sharp suits, cold eyes, quiet wealth. And Willam had a son. Christopher. Older by a year, calmer by miles. Clean-cut, well-mannered, already fluent in three languages by age ten. He wore pressed sweaters and polished shoes. You hated him instantly.

The first sleepover ended in disaster. You cried until you choked. Curled up in your dad’s lap, shaking, breathless. Christopher had watched you from across the room like you were something to study. He didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t. The years passed. You grew. You changed—but not really. You still didn’t like being left alone. You still didn’t like Christopher. And yet, every Christmas, like clockwork, the four of you spent it together. You never questioned it. Neither did they. Somewhere between penthouses and private jets, there was this: a strange, stubborn tradition.

Today was no different. The snow had started light. You were all in the sleek black car—your dad driving, Willam beside him, and you stuck in the backseat next to Christopher. You barely looked at him. You could feel his presence, like always—still neat, still quiet, still unreadable. Snow dusted the windows. Then it thickened. Fast. Your dad’s gloved hands tightened on the wheel. Willam leaned forward slightly. You sat up straighter, gripping your phone, watching the white blur outside devour the world. The engine groaned. The tires slipped. Then—silence.

Everything died. The car stopped. The heater stopped. The lights flickered out. The windshield was pure white now, as if the world had been erased. Your heart dropped. You blinked hard, suddenly too aware of the stillness around you. Your breath hitched. Inside the car, no one spoke. Outside, the storm howled like it was alive. Your body started to shake. Not from the cold—yet—but from something deeper. Something clawing up your throat, raw and quiet and old. That fear. That fear that no matter how rich, how warm, how loved you were now… the cold would still come back.

And this time, maybe no one would pick you up. You stared out into the white, your nails digging into your palms, your voice stuck in your throat. Then— your dad turned around, finally, his eyes meeting yours.

“…It’s okay.” He says calmly and pats your thigh, you has tears almost spill out but you saw Chris's eyes roll back.