RICKMAS 2024

The hospital’s event hall transformed into a winter wonderland. Strings of twinkling lights hung from the ceiling, and oversized candy canes lined the walls. A roaring artificial fireplace glowed warmly near the massive Christmas tree where Santa’s chair sat, surrounded by neatly wrapped gifts. Lionel adjusted the fake beard Rachel insisted he wear and tried not to feel too ridiculous in the oversized red suit.

But Rachel? She thrived.

Dressed in a modest but festive Mrs. Claus gown, her bonnet tied neatly under her chin, she crouched beside each child, speaking to them as though they were the only person in the room. She asked about their favorite movies, what they wanted for Christmas, and even made a few of them giggle with her animated expressions.

Lionel found himself watching her more than he should, but it was impossible not to. Her ease with the children was effortless, her energy boundless. She made each interaction feel genuine for those who needed it the most this Christmas.

A little boy, no more than five, scrambled onto Lionel’s lap. “Santa! Santa! I want a fire truck!” he squealed, his grin missing two front teeth.

Lionel chuckled, his deep baritone transforming into the jolly “Ho, ho, ho!” Rachel had coached him on earlier in the closet. “A fire truck, you say? Well, you’ve been very good this year, haven’t you?”

The boy nodded emphatically, and Lionel handed him a wrapped gift with the boy’s name on it containing the very fire truck he wished for while the photographer took a picture.

“Santa!” Rachel teased softly, leaning in conspiratorially as the boy ran off. “You’re finally getting into character.”

“You’re a surprisingly convincing Mrs. Claus,” Lionel smirked beneath the beard, his eyes gleaming. “You may be stealing my spotlight.”

“That’ll change if they actually realize who’s under the beard,” Rachel laughed, straightening her bonnet. “My job’s keeping the operation running smooth.”

As the last child stepped away with a toy in hand, the photographer approached, camera slung over her shoulder.

“Mr. and Mrs. Claus,” she chirped brightly. “Would you mind a quick photo together for the paper?”

Rachel shrugged noncommittally, but Lionel was already pulling her onto his lap.

“Wait, what are you—”

“For authenticity,” he interrupted, his eyes sparkling with something that spelled trouble.

Rachel rolled her eyes, trying to look annoyed but failing as a smile tugged at her lips. They turned toward the camera, leaning in to kiss each other’s cheeks. But somehow, their timing faltered.

Their lips brushed, soft and unintentional.

Rachel froze, her breath hitching as the camera flashed, capturing the moment just as both realized what had happened.

The photographer pulled back with a delighted grin. “Perfect! Thank you both so much!”

Rachel scrambled off his lap, cheeks aflame beneath her makeup. Lionel, however, looked far too pleased, the corner of his mouth quirking up in equally surprised amusement.

“Don’t read into it,” she muttered, smoothing her dress as she passed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lionel replied, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

Word spread fast.

By the time Lionel and Rachel stepped out of their costumes and rejoined the party as themselves, the party goers whispered in awe. The children’s parents beamed, murmuring about how even Santa seemed oddly familiar. Eventually someone pieced it together.

“Was that… Lionel Shabandar?”

“No way he’d do that.”

“He was Santa Claus?!”

Lionel, however, seemed unfazed by the growing chatter. He stood near the refreshments, speaking with the hospital’s CEO, George Armstrong, an old friend, who looked equally baffled and impressed.

“I have to admit,” George laughed heartily, shaking his head. “I never expected you to play Santa. Absolutely brilliant.”

Lionel chuckled, swirling his drink. “Desperate times, desperate measures.” Then, with a casual air, he gestured toward Rachel, now back in her originally stunning gown, deep in conversation with a couple nurses and donors across the room.

“Actually,” he continued, “you can thank Mrs. Claus over there. It was her quick thinking that kept everything on track.”

George watched on intrigued as Rachel approached, sliding next to Lionel’s side.

Lionel draped an arm lightly around her shoulders, pulling her into the conversation. “Allow me to introduce Miss Rachel Collins, an incredibly resourceful lawyer. As you can see, her talents extend far beyond the courtroom.”

Rachel blinked at the unexpected compliment but recovered quickly. “Honestly, it was worth it just to get this guy in costume.”

“Truly a miracle.” George shook her hand, smiling warmly. “Well, whatever the reason, you both made this event unforgettable. Thank you.”

“Anytime, sir.”

“I don’t suppose you have a card on you?” George asked candidly, passing her one of his. “You seem to be quite the asset. If you’re ever in the market for a change of scenery, we could certainly use someone of your caliber.”

Rachel hesitated, surprised by the request. She glanced at Lionel, who stood at her side, silent but visibly pleased. Slowly, she reached into her clutch and handed over a business card.

Smiling, George pocketed the card. “I mean it. You’ve got presence, poise, and a remarkable ability to stay calm under pressure. Don’t let that go unnoticed.”

Lionel’s smirk widened as he felt Rachel stiffen slightly under his arm, unsure how to respond to such praise. He gave her an encouraging wink as he finished his flute of cheap champagne.

“You’re quite good at saving the day, Miss Collins.” Lionel leaned closer, his voice low and teasing. “Careful, or I might start expecting it.”

Rachel shot him a look but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t get used to it, Shabandar.”

“Too late,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with amusement before he excused himself to corner the hospital CEO away from prying ears.

“A word, George?”

George still smiling, turned to Lionel expectantly. “What’s on your mind?”

Lionel snagged another glass of champagne from a passing tray, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “You’d be a fool not to hire her, you know.”

“Your latest plaything, is she?”

Lionel’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh, no,” he said, his voice laced with something almost reverent. “A woman like that goes beyond plaything.”

George tilted his head, intrigued by the rare sincerity in Lionel’s tone. They’d rubbed elbows for years, he’d met countless of Lionel’s passing fancies. The dynamic with this woman was different.

“She’s clever, grounded, and doesn’t give a damn about who I am,” Lionel continued, his gaze briefly flickering toward Rachel, now chatting with a couple different CEO’s like she was born to do so. “Trust me, she’s worth far more than any corner office. If she were on my team, I wouldn’t waste her talent babysitting clients, that’s for damn sure.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Do more than that,” Lionel said with a rare seriousness, finishing his drink. “If you don’t snatch her up, someone else will.”

As Lionel turned back toward Rachel, he couldn’t help the swell of satisfaction that wasn’t entirely self-serving for once. Yes, he enjoyed having Rachel around—her sharp tongue and even sharper mind—but this wasn’t about keeping her tethered to him. Not entirely.

It was about seeing her shine.

By the following morning, Lionel Shabandar’s face—complete with a bushy white beard and a red Santa suit—was plastered across every major news outlet. The headline on the front page of The Times read:

“Santa’s Surprise: Billionaire Shabandar’s Holiday Spirit Sparks Record Donations”

The centerpiece of the article was the photo: Lionel in full Santa Claus regalia, Rachel perched on his lap in her Mrs. Claus gown, their lips locked in what appeared to be a perfectly staged Christmas kiss. The camera had captured the moment with breathtaking clarity—her surprise, his faint smirk, and the undeniable chemistry that leaped off the page.

It was everywhere.

News anchors praised Lionel for his “unexpected humanity,” while social media was ablaze with hashtags like #SantaShabandar and #MrsClausMystery. Comment sections buzzed with speculation. Lionel’s publicists, blindsided by the story’s viral spread, scrambled to keep up with the influx of calls and interview requests.

And the donations poured in.

By noon, the hospital reported record-breaking figures, the phones ringing off the hook with people eager to contribute to the children’s cause. Corporations pledged staggering sums, and individual donors sent heartfelt messages alongside their contributions.

The PR department at Shabandar Media hadn’t seen anything like it. What started as a low-key charity appearance had exploded into a viral moment, shining a light not only on the hospital’s work but also on Lionel himself. In short, a public relations wet dream.

For once, Lionel wasn’t the subject of scathing exposés or tabloid scandals. Instead, the media painted him as a surprising holiday hero: a man who’d put aside his reputation as a ruthless mogul to don a red suit and bring joy to those who needed it most.

Lionel’s office was quieter than usual as he skimmed through the headlines that morning, his expression a mix of amusement and faint disbelief. 

“‘Santa Shabandar spreads joy and generosity,’” he read aloud, his tone dry as he glanced at the grinning PR director sitting across from him. “You people must be loving this.”

“Sir,” the director said, barely suppressing a grin, “this is the single best PR boost we’ve ever had. Donations are through the roof. Public perception? Through the chimney, I should say. Our stock is up too. You’re a holiday sensation!”

Lionel smirked, tossing the paper onto his desk. “Holiday sensation. That’s a new one.”

“And the photo—”

“Ah, yes. The photo.” Lionel’s tone was casual, but something else lurked underneath. The cameras never bothered him before, it was a phenomenal photo, but a part of him wished their moment hadn’t been in the limelight. An odd feeling given his previous dalliances.

The director hesitated. “It’s a good thing, sir. Really. People love the mystery around Mrs. Claus. There’s already speculation about whether she’s a new… relationship of yours.”

Lionel raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Shall we address it?”

Lionel leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest. “Let them speculate. It adds to the charm, doesn’t it?” 

Rachel sat cross-legged on her hotel bed, staring at her phone in horror. Every news site, every social media feed, every push notification—it was all the same thing. The photo.

She groaned, burying her face in her hands, repeating her new mantra, “this wasn’t part of the plan.” 

Her assistant, Becky, had called twice already, cackling at Rachel’s implausible explanation. Judith and Philip, Gordon insisted on a play by play, their horrified expressions at Rachel’s ordering of Lord Shabandar to dress as Santa shifting to utter delight at the “obvious” PR move gracing their feeds the next day. Rachel had already muted the work group chat.

But all Rachel could think about was the moment Lionel Shabandar pulled her into his lap. His sturdy arms anchoring her in place. The way the kiss had happened entirely by accident. The way it hadn’t felt accidental at all.

With nothing better to do, she doom-scrolled various feeds, ignoring the flush of heat creeping up her neck. Unsurprisingly, internet sleuths quickly discovered her identity, ensuring this viral moment would followed her for a lifetime. Her crowning achievement. She had no idea how a single, accidental kiss had spiraled into what seemed to be everyone’s new favorite Christmas story. And apparently, her chemistry with Lionel Shabandar was now a global topic of debate.

“The way Santa and Mrs. Claus are looking at each other in that picture…”

“Rachel Collins, I don’t know who you are, but that kiss gave more chemistry than my entire dating history.”

“Santa Shabandar really said, ‘Mrs. Claus, but make her a boss.’ The way they both OWNED that event, literally crying rn.”

Rachel sat up straighter, her heart racing as she stumbled on a thread dissecting the photo in nauseating detail.

“Look at the hand placement. Lionel’s got his arm firmly around her waist, but Rachel’s leaning in too. This isn’t just PR! they’re FEELING it.”

“Man looks like he just found religion. This isn’t staged.”

“Exactly! Rachel’s energy is giving ‘I don’t care who you are,’ and Lionel’s giving, ‘I don’t care who I am as long as I can keep looking at you.’”

“Plot twist: Lionel’s the one simping for her. You can see it in his eyes. He’s gone.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped, and she scrolled further. These people were nuts, projecting hyperbole into something that wasn’t there…right?

“You can’t fake the way Lionel was watching her with those kids. The verdict: not PR.”

“Let’s be honest: Rachel’s the first person who’s probably told Lionel ‘no’ in years, and now he’s obsessed. This is the plot of a modern fairytale.”

Tired of being ignored, Becky sent a meme. The now infamous kiss captioned with “Santa and Mrs. Claus but they run a multi-million dollar empire on the side.” Rachel shot off a quick reply to send it to the Louvre.

“This is insane.”

Rachel flopped back onto the bed, covering her face with a pillow. And Becky’s commentary definitely definitely didn’t help. But the comments kept pouring in and Rachel was a glutton for punishment.

“I didn’t know Lionel Shabandar could look this relaxed and genuinely happy. What sorcery is this and how do I learn it?”

“Lionel’s been seen with models, actresses, heiresses, but this lawyer? She might actually outsmart him. And I’m here for it!”

“This Santa-Mrs. Claus moment just cured my seasonal depression. I demand a Hallmark movie starring these two NOW”

Rachel tossed her phone onto the mattress, rubbing her temples. How had she gone from an overworked lawyer trying to keep her head down to half the internet’s new favorite power couple? It wasn’t like she’d signed up for this, and yet, here she was: dissected, memed, and hashtagged into oblivion.

The worst part? Every time she thought about Lionel’s teasing grin or the way his voice had softened when he talked about the children’s hospital, her stomach fluttered.

She hated it.

Well, not entirely. But wasn’t that worse? The idea that she might actually enjoy his attention—that was unsettling. Lionel Shabandar was a master manipulator. He had the charm, the looks, the money. He could probably convince a rock to roll itself uphill if he tried hard enough. Could it be? Was the internet not entirely wrong?

Or had Lionel Shabandar played her like a fiddle?

A sharp knock at the door startled her, breaking the spiral of her thoughts. Rachel frowned. She wasn’t expecting room service and her three pimps knew not to bother her. Tugging on her old Kansas State hoodie, she crossed the room and peeked through the peephole.

Lionel.

Her stomach dropped—and then, annoyingly, fluttered again. She took a second to steel herself before opening the door.

“Well, this is unexpected,” she said, leaning against the frame.

Lionel stood there, dressed in a perfectly tailored coat and scarf, holding a small box wrapped in sleek, understated paper. “I thought I’d stop by,” he greeted casually, though the glint in his eye betrayed a deeper purpose. “May I come in?”

Rachel stepped aside, watching as he entered the room. Even in a luxurious hotel suite, Lionel’s presence made it feel a touch more opulent. He placed the box on the coffee table, turning to face her once more.

“I must admit,” he smirked, gesturing to her hoodie and sweatpants. “I find this look rather endearing, Mrs. Claus.”

Mrs. Claus

Rachel blinked. “This?” She plucked the near threadbare purple fabric. “I’ve been wearing this hoodie since college. It’s barely holding together.”

“Precisely.” Lionel’s eyes twinkled as he shrugged out of his coat. “Anyone can look stunning in  formalwear. Why do you think we do it? But this… this is real. I like it.”

“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing at the gift.

“A token of my appreciation,” Lionel replied smoothly. “For saving the day yesterday. And, of course, for tolerating my company.”

Rachel snorted. “You’re not exactly a burden, Mr. Shabandar.”

His lips quirked. “Lionel, please. After everything we’ve been through, I believe we’re past formalities.”

Rachel gave him a skeptical look but moved to the table and picked up the box. The wrapping was impeccable, and she felt a pang of curiosity as she slipped the ribbon off and opened it.

Inside was a simple, elegant pen—smooth black lacquer with a gold trim. She lifted it from the box, her fingers brushing over the engraved initials: R.C.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “this is surprisingly tasteful. I half-expected diamond-encrusted something or other.”

Lionel chuckled, settling into one of the chairs. “I thought about it. But you don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d appreciate ostentation for the sake of it.”

“You thought right.” Rachel set the pen back in its box and crossed her arms, regarding him. “So, what’s the real reason for this visit? Couldn’t have just been to give me a pen.”

Lionel leaned back, giving her a long, measured look. “Perhaps I wanted to see how you were holding up. I imagine being thrust into the public eye wasn’t exactly on your to-do list.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Concerned for my well-being? You?”

something akin to hurt flashed across his features, gone as quick as it came. “Is that so hard to believe?”

She tilted her head, considering him. There was something about his tone—genuine, not the usual polished charm he wielded like a weapon. “A little, yeah. You don’t strike me as the type to check in on people.”

Lionel’s grin returned, sly and unrepentant. “You’re right. I don’t. But you’re not exactly most people.”

The compliment was so casually delivered that it left Rachel momentarily off-balance. The tension in the room thickened, unspoken words crackling between them like static electricity. Rachel tried to ignore the way his eyes lingered on hers, but it was impossible.

“Well,” she said briskly, breaking the spell, “thank you for the pen. I’ll be sure to sign all my binding legal documents with it.”

“Good,” Lionel said, rising to his feet. “I’ll consider it a partnership of sorts.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “You do know you’re not subtle, right?”

“Subtlety is overrated.”

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before flicking back up. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and Rachel felt her breath hitch. She found herself wanting the inevitable kiss.

“Enjoy your evening, Miss Collins,” he said, his voice low and rich.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Rachel standing in the middle of the room, staring after him like an idiot. She looked down at the pen again, her fingers tracing the initials engraved on its surface.

This was bad. Really bad. Because for the first time in her career—and maybe her life—Rachel wasn’t entirely sure she could keep her guard up.