RICKMAS 2024

The private car slid to a stop outside their accommodations, a grand hotel that exuded wealth from every polished marble corner. Rachel sullenly stepped out, adjusting her coat against the chilly December wind. Judith, Gordon, and Philip walked ahead, their suits stiff and their expressions carefully neutral, as though they were already playing some sort of high-stakes game. 

Rachel gazed up at the ornate facade, unimpressed. “Swanky,” she muttered under her breath, though she said it just loud enough for Gordon to hear. If she had to choose one of them be stuck on a desert island with, it’d be Gordon.

He smirked. “Try to contain your excitement.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” Rachel deadpanned. “Nothing gets me going like overpriced rooms and complimentary sparkling water.”

Judith shot her a sharp look, but Rachel smiled like a good girl, breezing into the hotel lobby. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the soft hum of soft Muzak played in the background. Staff in tailored uniforms greeted them with practiced smiles.

The concierge checked them in without issue, damn near stumbling over themselves once Judith informed them they were to meet with the Lionel Shabandar. By the time she was handed her room key, Rachel wanted to bash her head into the marble counter.

“Shall we meet for dinner at seven?” Gordon suggested.

“Depends,” Rachel replied. “Will I be allowed to enjoy my meal or are we gonna strategize?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“I’ll pass,” Rachel declined, thankful they were all on different floors. Shabandar had the power to group them together. This was done on purpose. Rich people were some of the pettiest people alive. “Don’t worry—I’ll be ready for the meeting tomorrow. Unless Judith feels the need to pick my outfit.”

Judith opened her mouth, but Rachel ducked out the elevator, suitcase in tow.

Her hotel room was every bit as luxurious as she’d expected: plush carpet, a bed piled high with pillows, and a large flat screen TV. Rachel dropped her bag by the door and flopped onto the bed, kicking off her shoes with a satisfied groan.

She lasted all of ten minutes before restlessness set in.

Sitting around listening to Philip and Judith debate semantics while Gordon presided over dinner wasn’t her idea of a productive evening. She was in fucking London. Instead, she swapped her business casual attire for a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and a thick scarf, then slipped out the hotel unnoticed.

The crisp evening air was a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the boardroom—or, in this case, the marble-clad lobby. Rachel wandered aimlessly at first, taking in the sights of London.

She grabbed a cup of coffee from a small café and found herself near the Thames, where the lights of the city reflected off the water. For the first time since the assignment had been dropped in her lap, she felt the tension ease from her shoulders.

Everything would be fine.

From the top floor of a discreet office building in Mayfair, Lionel Shabandar stood by the window, his sharp eyes fixed on the tablet in his hand. His right-hand man, Emerson, hovered nearby, reading the brief on the firm’s team aloud.

“Gordon Stonestreet, senior partner. Conservative, cautious, predictable. Judith Llewellyn, corporate specialist. Assertive but not particularly creative. Philip Monroe, background in mergers and acquisitions. Solid, unremarkable.”

Lionel tapped the screen, flipping to the image of the fourth member of the team. “And her?”

Emerson hesitated. “Rachel Collins. Junior partner. Midwest upbringing, graduate of Chicago Law, now based in New York. Known for being sharp and… unconventional.”

Lionel smirked, scrolling through the sparse notes. There wasn’t much on her, not compared to the others. No board memberships, no elite club affiliations. But the picture in the file intrigued him. She wasn’t wearing the polite, forced smile of a career schmoozer. There was something unapologetic in her gaze, striking, like she couldn’t spare a single fuck.

“Unconventional,” Lionel repeated, his tone amused. “I assume that’s a polite way of saying pain in the ass?”

“Possibly,” Emerson admitted. “But she’s new to this level of negotiation.”

“So they decide to throw her to the lion’s den?” Lionel scoffed. He turned back to the window, looking out over the city lights. “Amateurs.”

Still, his curiosity was piqued. The other three were exactly what he expected: buttoned-up, predictable, and desperate to impress. But Rachel Collins? She was different, a wildcard to keep him on his toes.

“She’s smart, sir,” Emerson cautioned. “High success rate.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, more to himself than his assistant.

Emerson nodded and stepped out, leaving Lionel alone with his thoughts for a moment. He leaned against the window, watching the glittering city below. He’d seen plenty of people come to him thinking they had the upper hand, thinking they could outmaneuver him. Did they truly think Miss Collins could conquer him?

Below, London twinkled with festive lights, the streets bustling with holiday shoppers and carolers, all wrapped in the illusory glow of Christmas cheer. Lionel drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk, his gaze fixed on the garish display of a department store across the street. Animated reindeer pranced in the windows while smiling mannequins, dressed in the latest winter fashion.

Christmas was a season built on lies. The forced goodwill, insincere greetings, and cheap ribbons wrapped around expensive obligations—it was all a facade. People were no kinder in December than they were in July; they just wore brighter masks.

On his desk sat an untouched neatly wrapped box, its red ribbon gleaming under the fluorescent light. It was from one of his subordinates, a carefully selected bottle of whiskey meant to curry favor.

Lionel had no illusions about these gestures. They weren’t acts of generosity; they were calculated investments. And yet, each year, he played his part, sending out equally meaningless gifts to people deemed worth of remaining in his orbit. It was an unspoken agreement: deceptive kindness masquerading as tradition.

He picked up the whiskey, turning it over in his hands. A fine vintage, no doubt chosen with care, but it reeked of obligation. Sighing, he set it down and leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over his temple.

Emerson returned, sensing a shift in Lionel’s mood. “Sir, the final meeting agenda for tomorrow is ready,” he said, setting a folder on the desk.

“Good,” Lionel replied, his tone clipped.

Emerson hesitated, then glanced toward the stack of unopened gifts. “You don’t seem much in the holiday spirit.”

“Spirit?” Lionel snorted, gesturing to the pile. “This is a contest. A display of who can give the most extravagant bribe under the guise of good cheer. Take it if you want, Emerson. I won’t miss it.”

Emerson raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He’d worked for Shabandar Media long enough to realize Lionel’s occasional cynicism regarding the season wasn’t anything so morose.

“Christmas,” Lionel continued, “isn’t about kindness. It’s a performance. Leverage, Emerson. Debts to be collected. I’d know, I’ve employed the same tactics. What other obligations do I have this week?”

“The charity luncheon for the children’s hospital Tuesday,” Emerson replied, jotting down another note on his way out.

For a long moment, Lionel stood in the quiet, the faint hum of the city his only companion. Sitting down, Lionel straightened his tie and returned to work. Kindness was about power. And power, Lionel knew, was the only thing worth believing in.

Taking his rightful place at the head of the long, gleaming table, Lionel steepled his fingers as he listened to the three senior partners from the American firm drone on about synergies and growth opportunities. Or rather half-listened. His expression was polite, even engaged, but inside, he was utterly detached, observing the room as if he were watching a particularly dull play.

Judith, Gordon, and Philip were predictably eager, leaning forward with smiles that bordered on desperation. Lionel had seen their type countless times before—polished, competent, utterly unremarkable. They spoke in turns, each trying to outdo the other in their praise of him and their vision for the partnership.

But it wasn’t them he was paying attention to.

Rachel Collins sat near the end of the table, perfectly poised, but unmistakably detached. She didn’t fidget or glance at her phone like someone bored; she was too controlled for that. Instead, she sat with her hands clasped lightly on the table, her sharp gaze bouncing between her colleagues and Lionel with faint amusement.

She wasn’t laughing at them, not overtly. No, her sarcasm was a quiet, disciplined thing, wrapped in subtle expressions and the occasional quirk of her lips. It was masterful, really.

As Philip rambled on about Lionel’s reputation, Lionel caught Rachel glancing at her coffee cup as though considering whether to drink it or use it as a means of escape. She blinked once, her expression smoothing to something politely neutral.

He hid his amusement behind a thoughtful nod, letting the others finish their point before turning his attention fully to her.

“Miss Collins,” Lionel said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the air. “You’ve been awfully quiet. What’s your take?”

The room stilled. Judith and Philip exchanged nervous glances as Gordon winced for the impending carnage, clearly unsure whether to intervene. 

Rachel met Lionel’s gaze, her head tilting ever so slightly, like she was deciding just how much trouble she wanted to cause. Lionel hoped for a lot.

“My take?”

Lionel smiled faintly, gesturing for her to continue. “Surely you have some insight. You are here for a reason, aren’t you?”

Something flashed in her eyes—just a flicker—but it was enough to tell Lionel she caught the meat of his question.

“Of course,” Rachel said smoothly, making a show of leaning her forearms on the conference table, putting her ample, yet tastefully covered chest on display. “I’m here because my firm thought I’d make a good impression. I even found a box of hair coloring in my room. Blonde. Very thoughtful.”

Her voice was perfectly even, but the subtle emphasis on thought wasn’t lost on Lionel. Judith stiffened like a child caught misbehaving and it all fell into place. A ham fisted attempt to distract him with a pretty girl. Insulting, honestly. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands as he studied Rachel.

“And do you believe they were right?” he asked, his tone light but probing.

Rachel smiled, a sharp, contained thing. “Blonde’s not my color.”

Lionel chuckled, the sound low and genuine. This was fun. “I like your confidence, Miss Collins.”

“It’s one of my better qualities.”

Judith, desperate to regain control of the meeting, cut in with a laugh that was just a tad too forced. “Rachel’s quite the joker, life of the party. But she’s an excellent negotiator. One of our best, actually.”

Rachel offered a feral little grin, one that told Lionel all he needed to know about their dynamic. Pleased to have ruffled the other woman’s feathers, Rachel returned her attention to her printout of the presentation.

Interesting.

Fifteen minutes later, Lionel had had enough of the scripted pleasantries and stopped Philip, he believed.

“Thank you,” Lionel said, his tone cool but decisive. “I think I’ve heard enough for now.”

Judith straightened, alarmed. “Mr. Shabandar, I—”

He raised an eyebrow, cutting her off. “I’d like to speak with Miss Collins. Alone.”

The partners froze, their surprise barely concealed. Rachel blinked, the only indication that she, too, was caught off guard.

Finally.

Judith recovered quickly, though her smile was tight. “Of course. We’ll just…step out for a moment.”

As the door closed behind them, Lionel turned his full attention to Rachel. She didn’t fidget or look away, but her calm had shifted slightly. Lionel noted it with satisfaction.

“Care to explain why you’re really here?” he asked, his voice low and conversational.

Rachel leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “You mean why I was brought here, or why I agreed to come?”

“Both.”

Rachel tilted her head, mulling how to answer. “I was brought here because some at my firm thought having a young, moderately attractive woman in the room would sweeten the deal. And I came because I don’t say no to an international assignment, no matter how absurd the premise.”

Lionel grinned, genuinely delighted. “Honest to a fault, aren’t you?”

“Depends,” Rachel replied dryly. “You handle it better than most.”

Lionel chuckled, running a hand along the edge of the table. “And yet, you seem unimpressed. Not many people sit across from me with this much indifference.”

“I’m sure it’s a novel experience for you.”

“Oh, it is,” Lionel admitted, his smile widening. “Breaks the monotony. Which is why I dismissed your coworkers.”

Rachel met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not going to stroke your ego, Mr. Shabandar. Though I expect they’re hoping I stroke something else of yours.”

Lionel laughed, a deep, rich sound that echoed in the room. “I think I like you, Miss Collins.”

Lionel pressed a button on the desk, summoning the others back into the room. Judith, Gordon, and Philip returned, their expressions wary.

“I’ve made a decision,” Lionel said as they settled back into their seats.

The partners straightened, eager, but Lionel’s next words sent them reeling.

“You make an interesting offer.” Lionel rested his hands on his desk. “But I need time to consider, you understand. Miss Collins has graciously accepted an invitation to be my guest to a charity luncheon Tuesday. We’ll reconvene after that.”

Rachel blinked, her composed facade almost slipping, but remained silent. Gordon cleared his throat.

“Your guest?”

“Of course,” Lionel said, his tone smooth. “If I’m going to move forward, I’ll need to understand your firm’s perspective better. And I believe Rachel will be… uniquely insightful.”

Judith opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Rachel, however, wasn’t so easily silenced.

“I’m not sure that’s the best use of my time,” she offered. “Maybe you should take Judith.”

“Oh no, you.” Lionel’s smile was razor-sharp. “It’ll be an enlightening experience for all parties.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick, but Lionel was already rising from his chair, signaling the meeting was over.

“Until then, Miss Collins,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She’d been prepared for the worst. Lionel Shabandar’s reputation preceded him—a billionaire with an ego as vast as his fortune and a tendency to treat business meetings as playgrounds for his legendary charm. She’d walked into the meeting braced for indulgent smirks, thinly veiled innuendo, and some casually sexist remark about her presence at the table. Instead, what she got was… well, something entirely unexpected.

He laughed. Genuinely.

Rachel hadn’t meant to say the line about stroking something else. It’d slipped out, half from frustration, half from the bitter humor she used to survive previous boardroom deals. She’d expected a sharp turn, a crude comment in return, or, at the very least, for him to take it as an invitation to be insufferable.

But Lionel had merely leaned back in his chair, his rich laughter reverberating through the room like warm bourbon, and looked at her with something that could only be described as delight.

And then, nothing.

No proposition. No sleazy quip. Just an amused, “I think I like you,” said with the kind of restrained entertainment that unnerved her more than any overt flirtation.

Rachel didn’t know what to make of it.

As the others shuffled back into the room, Rachel kept her composure, though her thoughts churned beneath her calm exterior. Lionel had barely spared the senior partners another glance, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the man had been studying her the entire time, not with lechery, but with… interest. Genuine interest.

That threw her off more than the alternative.

His type, smug, shallow, probably patronizing, came a dime of dozen. She’d prepared for that. Instead, Lionel seemed entertained by her, as if she were an odd curiousity. It wasn’t the gaze of a man simply looking to get his way; it was the gaze of someone who enjoyed the challenge.

And that, frankly, was dangerous.

As the meeting wrapped up, Lionel informed them that she’d be his guest to a charity function, the bastard. Rachel quickly schooled her expression when Judith, Gordon, and Philip whipped their heads toward her. She couldn’t let them know he’d gotten the best of her.

Even now, with Lionel politely but firmly ushering them out of the room, Rachel couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t done toying with her. Yet there had been no suggestive glances, no greasy compliments, no air of entitlement.

He wasn’t trying to unnerve her with power. He did it with ease.

As they exited the conference room, Judith pulled her aside, whispering in frantic tones about how to handle the change in plans, completely oblivious to Rachel’s attempt to throw her to the lion minutes before. Rachel nodded along, offering the occasional noncommittal hum, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Lionel Shabandar had surprised her. And she hated that.

What’s his angle? she wondered, trailing behind the group.

Because there was always an angle.