20th December - London - Mark Steele

Mark Steele started his day like he was prepping for battle: five-mile run, ice-cold shower, black coffee, ten minutes meditating on the stock tickers while casting an eye absentmindedly over the London skyline.

He was on the forty-first floor, in his second home; a penthouse so surgically minimalist it could double as an operating theatre. Floor-to-ceiling windows, an indecent amount of Italian marble, and exactly one piece of art—a Warhol print, still half-wrapped in shipping plastic because he’d never bothered to hang it. The only personal effects on display were his gym shoes and endless rows of signed, first-edition hardbacks, all perfectly dusted.

He checked his wrist, platinum face ticking forward. 6:15 a.m.

On his kitchen island, the matte black phone vibrated. An incoming calendar ping, on schedule. Mark answered before the first ring completed. “Talk.”

Lena Park’s face appeared, glossy but exhausted. She had the kind of skin that only occurred in high-end magazine ads, but the tight line of her jaw said she’d been awake since yesterday. “We have movement on Silk’s price. Pre-market, up two percent. Volume is retail-heavy.”

“Get aggressive,” Mark said. “I want Silk trading under seventy by market close.”

Lena’s eyes flicked away—probably at one of her thirty open tabs—and she nodded. “Understood. About the legal action—”

Mark inhaled, slow, annoyed. “Make it personal. Target Hunter directly. Go after the London assets. Forget the lawyers, use the press.”

Lena’s smile looked surgically installed. “I’ll issue guidance to the PR team. One final thing; there’s a minor problem with the New York project. Cross’s team made noise. There’s a protest scheduled at the site.”

“Let them,” Mark said. “Police will disperse. Push permits through. If you have to convince someone, do it. Discrete wire. Any other issues?”

Lena looked down for a fraction of a second, like she’d dropped a contact lens. “There is a potential optics problem. The shelter housed at the demolition site—it's a women’s charity. They have media contacts.”

Of course they did. Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, counted to three. This is why the world needed less feeling, more execution. “Get them out by Friday. Give them a bonus for leaving early. Or threaten to call Immigration, whichever works. Efficiency, Lena. Is that all?”

A flicker in her voice, almost human. “I had an idea to delay demolition, spin it as an affordable housing initiative—”

Mark cut her off with a single raised finger. “We don’t do affordable, Lena. That’s not our brand.”

The second Lena vanished, Mark’s muscles unclenched. He glanced at his knuckles, pale from gripping the espresso cup. The pain in his left hand registered—he’d cracked the handle, hard enough to leave a fault line through the ceramic. He left the broken mug where it was. He stepped to the window and forced himself to breathe in the city’s cold morning. Farther out, construction cranes carved the horizon. It looked like progress, if you didn’t know better.

And Mark Steele knew better than most. As a child, he’d imagined his mother walking away, indifferent to the newborn left at the fire station. Then he had imagined that she was actually dead—that fiction had got him through his first year with his unyielding father—that she actually cared for him but simply couldn’t. The real answer had come to him years later—not caring at all what happened to her; all that mattered was control.

The elevator bell chimed.

He turned from the city. A courier stood on the threshold of the private lift, crisp uniform, no expression. “Delivery for Mr. Steele.”

The box was large and heavy, the label from an obscure London antiquarian. No return address. He slit the tape and lifted the lid. Velvet lining. Tissue paper, obsessively wrapped. Mark peeled it back and felt a little shot of something like awe, then instantly buried it.

A First Folio. Almost certainly not a facsimile. Mark's fingers traced the spine with a mix of reverence and skepticism. The rich, full calf leather felt supple beneath his touch. He noted the marbled endpapers, a flourish not present in the 1623 edition, and the gilt edges shimmering under the light. It was a beautiful piece, a collectible, yes, but not the original he yearned for. Tipped inside was an envelope with a note written and signed with crowquill calligraphy: “Mr. Steele, consider this a gesture of goodwill. —Evangeline Hunter, CEO, Silk Conglomerate.”

He almost laughed. A bribe, then. He imagined Hunter’s people scrabbling to find some angle that might slow him down—a rare book for a lapsed collector. Maybe it would’ve worked, once. Before Harvard, before bloodless conference rooms, before he learned to trade empathy for winning.

Mark flipped the title page. Under “Twelfth Night,” a rectangular scrap of parchment glimmered like a gold tooth. It was the size of a boarding pass, thick as a bandage, and shimmered if you looked at it from the corner of your eye. Probably a trap, he thought, half-joking. He held the parchment up to the light. There was nothing—no watermark, no inscription. Just a palm-sized shimmer, flecked with pinpoints of color. His thumb brushed its edge and for a moment he felt—what, a static shock? A tickle? Whatever. He shoved it back between the pages.

He placed the book in a glass display case, but as he did, his eyes caught something on the lowest shelf. There, out of order, was a slightly scruffy romance hardback. The kind with gold embossing and a couple mid-clinch on the dust jacket. Mark rolled his eyes. Lena, probably. She used to like to “decorate” his shelf with shit she found at charity shops—her way of reminding him to get a life. Mark thumbed through the novel, ready to pitch it. But on the copyright page, he saw it: first edition, full number line, and a handwritten note on the flyleaf—To M, from L, keep believing in happily ever after. He hesitated, book hovering over the bin.

Fuck it. He was still a collector at heart. He shelved it in the appropriate place by the author’s name.

He sat, opened his laptop, and resumed reading the numbers as if nothing had changed. The first Folio watched him from the display case, silent and perfect. The shimmer in its pages was almost an afterthought. But as Mark crunched his models, he felt the uninvited warmth of a memory: his mother, gone, and the blankness she left behind. He blinked, jaw locked, and powered through.

21st December - London - Angel Valentine

Angelique Valentine did her hair in the cracked bathroom mirror, a cigarette dangling between her lips and a cheap supermarket Pinot Gris sweating on the windowsill. The flat was three rooms, if you were feeling generous: bathroom, kitchen that doubled as a living room, and two bedrooms.

Angel sat on the rim of the tub adding babylights to her blonde hair. Maud Winters limped in, an ineffective brace around her knee. “You missed a spot,” Maud said, pointing with her toothbrush.

Angel grinned. “That’s the look. Street-rat chic.” She wiped her hands and flicked the cigarette into the toilet with perfect ballet precision.

“You have an audition tonight?” Maud asked, dabbing at the bags under her eyes with a tea bag that had seen better days.

“Not an audition. Just work,” Angel said. “Big spender’s in town. Management wants us on our best behavior.” She checked her roots.

Maud’s eyebrow arched. “You’re not going to tell me who, are you.”

“Wouldn’t want to jinx it.” Angel ran a streak of black eyeliner across her left lid. “You need anything before I go?”

Maud smiled in that tired, lopsided way that said she knew more than she let on. “Bring me a croissant. And don’t get arrested.”

Angel smirked. “No promises.” She grabbed her leather jacket from the coat hook, checked the lining for pepper spray and a condom, then gave Maud’s hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t wait up.”

The Licorice Elephant was nestled between a vape shop and a boutique pet crematorium. Outside, it looked almost respectable—a black box with frosted windows, brass elephant above the door, doorman in black. Inside, it was three floors of velvet, lacquer, and the thick scent of bergamot and honey. The main stage was set in a horseshoe, red velvet curtains pooling onto the floor.

Backstage, the changing room was a hive of hairspray, mesh, and double-sided tape. Ruby Tuesday—half-dressed, half-cocked—sat on the edge of the vanity, downing a protein shake and glowering at her phone.

“Nice of you to show, Valentine,” Ruby said, flipping her auburn ponytail. “Thought you’d given up on us mere mortals.”

Angel shrugged out of her jacket and let it drop to the tile. “I had to dig your dignity out of the Lost and Found first.”

Ruby scowled. “That’s rich, coming from the girl who still uses paper towels for makeup removal.”

“Better than whatever you call that discount bronzer,” Angel said. She eyed Ruby’s costume—black mesh leotard, glitter overkill, tiger stripes of body paint trailing over her hipbone. “What’s the theme tonight? Escapee from the zoo?”

“It’s ‘Burlesque Jungle.’” Ruby rolled her eyes. “Management’s idea. Supposed to class up the place.”

Angel gave Ruby the side eye. “Because nothing says sophistication like being pawed by drunk city boys in discount suits.”

“Speaking of pawing, Cross wants you in VIP,” Ruby said frowning. “Now.”

The mention of Vincent Cross was enough to freeze a vein or two. Angel made a show of stretching, but her mind was already sifting escape routes. She walked through the maze of mirrors, heels silent on the carpet. Vincent Cross stood in the VIP booth, glass of bourbon in one hand, iPad in the other. He didn’t bother to look up when she entered.

He set the bourbon down. “Sit.”

She did, crossing her legs so the hem of her dress slid up just enough. Cross didn’t blink.

“I have a guest in three days time,” he said. “Christmas Eve party. You’ll be his date but he doesn’t know it yet. I’ve been told you’re just his type so it won’t be a problem.” He pushed a photo towards her. It showed a man, probably in his late 30s, dressed in a power suit.

Angel bit her lip, slow and showy. “You need me to babysit one of your degenerates?”

“This isn’t negotiable.” Cross handed her a black envelope. Inside: a hotel name written on an invitation card, the amount she would be paid written on a heavy piece of paper, and three crisp hundreds. “This is just the bonus. Consider it a signing fee. You’ll get the rest once it’s done.”

Angel thumbed the money, her excitement growing—it was well over a thousand pounds for just a night’s work. But she kept her face blank. “And if I say no?”

Cross’s smile was pure acid. “You won’t. But just to clarify—” He tapped his iPad and turned it toward her. The paused video frame showed Angel, two years ago, naked and half-high, riding a stranger’s lap in the Elephant’s champagne room.

Angel exhaled through her nose. “You’re running out of threats, Vince. That tape’s so old it’s basically an antique.”

Cross waved her off. “Say hello to your crippled friend for me. Seems to me like she could use a helping hand from someone she pulled off the streets.”

Angel’s fists curled but she forced herself to smile. “This is the last time. And I want to be paid up front—all of it.”

“Done!” Cross said. He smiled and pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket, and handed it to her with the confidence of a man who knew that would be her answer all along. “Wear something nice, and hold off on the fags for a few days?”

She walked back through the club, past the main stage—where Ruby was mid-leap, body arched like a bow, crowd roaring approval—and out onto the smoking patio. She lit a cigarette and stared at the glowing end. She had four months of rent riding on tomorrow. Clearly, the money meant nothing to Cross. And there was Maud’s treatment, maybe a better brace for her knee. Maybe, if she played it right, a little something for herself. The smoke burned her throat, but she welcomed it. It was the only thing tonight that felt honest.

24th December - London - Mark and Angel

Three days later, Christmas Eve blanketed London in slush and fairy lights. Mark Steele stood on the edge of the Ritz’s marble ballroom, pretending not to loathe everyone in it. The event was Silk Conglomerate’s “Yuletide Charity Masquerade,” which meant a thousand quid a plate, open bar, and enough sexual harassment under the mistletoe to keep the tabloids busy through New Year’s.

He sipped his gin neat and watched the room reflect off crystal chandeliers. Women in gold-threaded dresses and gossamer masks. Men in tuxedos and predatory grins, circling each other like sharks in a Bond film.

A champagne tray drifted past. Mark declined, nodding to the server with automatic courtesy. His gray suit was understated perfection, tailored to move like a second skin, but the custom Venetian mask itched at his nose. “Festive,” Lena Park had said when she delivered it, as if Mark could give less of a shit about pageantry. Still, the anonymity made it easier to stare.

Evangeline Hunter held court by the ice sculpture, every bit the billionaire queen. She wore deep emerald, her mask a filigree of silver, and her voice carried to every corner of the room. Mark locked eyes with her across the dance floor. She raised her glass, gave him a smile that said: You’ll never get my company. He raised his glass in return, smiling back: Watch me.

The DJ started “Santa Baby.” Mark checked his watch, counting the minutes until he could leave without causing offense. He looked for the rarest commodity in the room—something interesting.

He found it at the far end of the bar. She leaned against the lacquer, sipping whiskey and scanning the room with unhurried confidence. Little Black dress, backless. A narrow tattoo down her spine and mask so simple it made everyone else’s look like drag. Blonde, athletic, and lean. Her eyes flickered over Mark and kept moving. Someone had clearly read his mind since she was exactly his type; what he needed tonight. Not just beautiful, but dangerous; the kind who made you regret underestimating her.

Mark waited until she drained her glass, then sidled up, half a step too close. “You look bored,” he said.

She barely glanced at him. “That’s because I am.” Her accent was East London, but polished, like she’d sanded off most of the vowels.

He signaled the bartender for another whiskey, neat. “You here for the charity, or the open bar?”

She took the fresh glass, sipped. “I’m here for the freak show. Same as you, I’d bet.”

Mark allowed himself a smile. “You don’t seem like the usual party hire.”

She turned, giving him the full force of her gaze. “I’m not. But tonight, I play nice.”

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Tonight? Call me Angel.”

He almost laughed. “Of course. And is that what you are?”

“Depends who’s paying.” She lifted her mask just enough to show the slash of a smile, then replaced it.

He recognized the game—flirting as fencing, every question a feint, every answer a counter.

“Mark,” he said, extending a hand.

“Angel,” she said again, shaking his hand with unexpected strength.

“You know the CEO?” he asked, nodding toward Hunter.

Angel gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Know her, been threatened by her, same difference. She’s got a thing for drama.”

“Don’t we all,” Mark said. “So what’s your real gig?”

She lowered her voice. “I dance. But not for free.”

He looked her over, openly now. “Let me guess: modern, not classical.”

“Both.” She leaned in, eyes sharp. “You?”

“Finance,” Mark said. “But only for the suffering.”

“Saint,” she teased.

He shook his head. “Long since excommunicated.”

She drained her whiskey. “So, Mark. Want to get out of here before someone asks us to polka?”

He almost choked. “You read my mind.”

They slipped through the throng of twirling couples, weaving their way to the exit. Angel’s stilettos clicked a steady beat against the polished marble floor, each step echoing her confidence. A sleek black car awaited them. Once inside, the driver navigated the London streets back to Mark’s place while he leaned back, stealing glances at Angel as she stared out into the night, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of passing streetlamps.

When they arrived at his penthouse, Mark exited first, holding the door open for her. Angel glided past him, her eyes scanning the lavish suite with the practiced vigilance of a hawk.

She shrugged off her coat, and kicked off her shoes. “So what now?”
He closed the door behind him. “That’s up to you.”

She crossed to the window, looked down at the city, her back to him. “You could have had any girl back there,” she said. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t care,” he said. “And because I like knowing I could be in danger.”

She turned, smiling. “Smart boy.”

He crossed the room in two steps, hands at her hips. She didn’t flinch. She let him kiss her, hard, a dare as much as a welcome. She tasted like whiskey and cinnamon gum, and her tongue met his with the same competitive energy as her banter.

He pressed her against the window, city lights blurring behind her. Her hands were already at his tie, tugging it loose, the knot coming apart like an unraveling deal. She slipped her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, nails biting just enough to make him want more.

She pushed him onto the bed, landing on top in a graceful tumble, knees on either side of his chest. She peeled her dress over her head, and the tattoos continued: a geometric pattern on her left inner thigh and a lotus motif at her sacrum. Her body was cut with muscle, but soft in the ways that counted.

He ran his hands along her thighs, up to the inside; then traced it with his thumb causing her to bite her lip. She reached for the condom in his jacket pocket before he could even move. “Efficient,” she said.

“Always,” he replied.

She rode him with practiced grace, every movement controlled, perfect, yet utterly wild. She moaned in his ear, her hair in his face, hands pressed flat against his chest. For a moment, he let himself feel it—her power, his surrender, the melting of all his defenses. She came first, then again, her body shaking around him. When he finished, she rolled off, breathing hard, chest slicked with sweat and pride.

He lay back. “Who are you really?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
She looked at him sideways, hair plastered to her forehead. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She got up, dressed with military efficiency, smoothed her hair, and checked the contents of her purse.

Mark lay back on the bed watching her. “You don’t have to leave.”

She laughed. “I’m going before you kick me out.”

He watched her slip her shoes back on, the curve of her calf, the impossible ease with which she returned to armor.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

She shrugged, opening the door. “If you’re lucky, Mark.”

When the door clicked shut, Mark stared at the imprint she’d left on the sheets: a faint outline, a smudge of lipstick, and the tiniest flake of gold from her mask. He poured himself a drink, sat on the window ledge, and for once, let his mind go blank.

When he opened them again, he noticed a faint glow emanating from the display case. It was the weird rectangular parchment from the First Folio, sticking out from the top edge like a flare receding in its strength. He’d forgotten it was there. Mark smiled to himself, an uncharacteristically warm feeling blooming in his chest.

The world outside pulsed with possibility.