The world belonged to Damien Stone, or so he liked to believe it would. From the heights of his glass-walled office in the Stone Industries Tower, the city stretched below like a vast chessboard, its millions of inhabitants reduced to mere pawns in his view. It was a winter morning in late December—gray, slate-colored clouds hovered low over the skyline, and snowflakes fell intermittently, dusting the streets with deceptive innocence.

To Damien, the snowfall was just another inconvenience.

He stood with his back to the room, his silhouette cutting a severe figure against the skyline. Six-foot-three, lean but broad-shouldered, he could have been carved from marble. Even his posture was precise—spine straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely behind him. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, paired with a crisp white shirt and a deep blue tie that hinted at navy only when the light hit it just right. Damien Stone did not believe in excess. He believed in control, in sharp edges, in results.

Behind him, the morning staff meeting had begun in quiet dread.

The Stone Industries executive team sat around the gleaming black conference table, though no one dared meet his gaze. Damien had not yet spoken, but his silence carried more weight than a thousand lectures. On the far wall, a digital clock ticked away the seconds—each one more deafening than the last—until, finally, Damien turned around.

“Four percent,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a blade sliding out of its sheath.

His piercing blue eyes swept across the room, resting on each executive just long enough to remind them of their vulnerability. No one ever forgot that Damien Stone seemed to know everything.

“We are a few days out from quarter’s end,” he continued, “and projections still fall short by nearly four percent. Four percent.”

As he repeated the number, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The snow outside the glass looked almost balmy compared to the chill emanating from Damien.

“Our clients don’t care about excuses. And more importantly, I don’t care about excuses. Results are the only thing that matter. What’s the plan?”

Gregory Madsen, Chief Financial Officer, cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Madsen was a man in his mid-fifties who had survived a decade under Damien’s thumb—no small feat—but today, even he seemed to struggle for words.

“We’ve identified the gap primarily in the acquisitions pipeline,” Madsen offered hesitantly. “We’ve had a delay in closing the Montgomery account, but—”

“A delay?” Damien cut him off sharply. “Montgomery should have signed ten days ago.”

“Well, sir,” Madsen stammered, “Montgomery has expressed concerns about—about the timing.”

“Concerns about the timing?” Damien repeated, the mockery in his voice unmistakable. “Are we talking about the timing of the contract? Or the timing of Christmas?”

No one answered. The word hung in the air like a curse. Christmas.

Damien’s gaze narrowed, and his voice grew colder still. “Because I don’t particularly care what day it is, what month it is, or what sacred tradition Montgomery’s executives might have in their pathetic, sentimental little lives. The only thing that matters is the bottom line. Do I make myself clear?”

A chorus of murmured Yes, sirs followed.

Damien straightened his tie. “Madsen, if you can’t close Montgomery, I’ll find someone who can. If you’re not up to it, perhaps I should call in Wallace from Legal?”

“No, sir. I’ll handle it.”

“You’d better.”

Damien turned his back to them once again, dismissing the entire room with a shift of his shoulders and a wave of his hand. Slowly, they filed out, moving like men and women who had narrowly escaped a guillotine. Only his assistant, Victoria Hale, lingered behind.

“Sir,” she began quietly, “you have a call with Senator Parker at eleven, and the Hong Kong office needs you to sign off on the restructuring proposal before end of day.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Fine.”

“And, Mr. Stone?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Your schedule is clear for the evening. I thought you might want to know.”

“Is there a reason I need to know?”

Victoria hesitated for half a second—enough to make him frown.

“Well, sir, I understand it’s the annual corporate holiday gala this evening. The board asked if you planned to attend.”

Damien turned fully now, his expression unreadable. Victoria had been his assistant for five years, and she knew better than anyone how little he cared for the holidays. Still, she delivered the message like clockwork, as she had every year.

“Send my regrets,” he said flatly.

“Yes, Mr. Stone.”

As she left, Damien returned to his window. The snowfall had thickened, swirling between the skyscrapers, blanketing the streets below. People down there would be laughing and drinking hot chocolate. Somewhere, children were singing carols and couples were shopping for gifts—foolish traditions that humans clung to as though they meant something. Damien Stone had no use for any of it.

He had learned long ago that compassion was a weakness—one that people exploited, and one that he would never again afford himself.

Damien’s disdain for sentiment was not new.

As a child, he had grown up in a household where Christmas cheer was a luxury no one could afford. His father had been a bitter, broken man, drowning his failures in a bottle, and his mother had spent her last years clinging to hope where there was none.

“Compassion is for the weak, Damien,” his father had told him once. “You show them a crack, they’ll take everything from you.”

He had been twelve years old when he internalized that truth. That year, his mother’s last Christmas, she had used the last of her money to buy him a toy car—small and red, with white racing stripes. It wasn’t much, but her eyes had been bright as she handed it to him on Christmas morning.

His father smashed it against the wall before he could even play with it.

“You think that’ll make him strong? You think that will help him in life?” his father roared at her. “You’re making him soft!”

The memory had been carved into him like a scar. Love was a vulnerability. So were hope, charity, and all those fragile notions that people clung to in the name of “goodness.” Damien had no room for them.

By the time he turned eighteen, he had walked out of that house for good. By twenty-two, he’d made his first million. At thirty, he founded Stone Industries, building an empire through sheer will and ruthless precision.

Now, at thirty-nine, Damien Stone was a man feared in boardrooms across the globe.

By evening, the city had transformed. The snowfall that Damien had dismissed as an inconvenience now blanketed the streets, softening their edges with pristine white. Storefronts glowed with strings of lights, and wreaths adorned the lampposts along Fifth Avenue. New York City was a canvas of holiday cheer, and Damien found it insufferable.

The Stone Industries Tower remained untouched by any such decor. Damien forbade it. There would be no trees, no wreaths, no twinkling lights cluttering his corridors. He did not want employees wasting time on frivolities. Productivity was what mattered.

He descended the elevator alone after hours, his footsteps echoing across the marble lobby. It was nearly deserted, save for a lone janitor cleaning the far corner. As Damien walked past, he barely registered the man’s presence. The janitor—small, hunched, and dressed in ill-fitting coveralls—glanced up hesitantly.

“Good evening, Mr. Stone.”

Damien didn’t respond. He was already focused on the gleaming black sedan waiting outside.

In the backseat of the car, Damien allowed himself a moment of silence as his driver pulled into the traffic. He looked out the window, watching the holiday lights blur past. People moved with purpose through the streets—holding shopping bags, clutching gloved hands, smiling through scarves and snowflakes.

His lip curled slightly.

“What a waste,” he muttered.

Damien’s penthouse on the Upper East Side was the pinnacle of minimalist luxury. Sleek lines, black marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unbroken view of the city skyline. The space was immaculate, as though no one truly lived there—and in many ways, no one did. Damien Stone occupied it, but he did not live in it.

He loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of Scotch from the bar cart near the window. The drink burned pleasantly as he swallowed, and for a fleeting moment, Damien allowed himself to savor it. Outside, the city glittered, and below him, people celebrated a holiday that meant nothing.

The sound of his phone vibrating shattered the quiet.

He set down his glass and crossed the room.

“Stone.”

“Mr. Stone,” came the familiar voice of Victoria. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“Then don’t.”

She hesitated. “It’s the Montgomery deal, sir. I just received word from Madsen—Montgomery’s CEO has requested an extension until after the holidays.”

Damien’s jaw tightened. “An extension.”

“Yes, sir. He said his team is away for the week and—”

“I don’t care where his team is,” Damien snapped. “If Montgomery wants to play hardball, they’ll learn what hardball feels like.”

“But sir, it is Christmas Eve tomorrow. Perhaps—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply, “say that word to me again.”

“Of course, Mr. Stone,” Victoria replied softly. “I’ll call Legal and get Madsen on it.”

He hung up without another word, the muscles in his jaw taut.

Damien stared out at the city once more, glass of Scotch back in hand, and watched the lights flicker in the distance. The world was soft—bent on celebrating meaningless traditions, on filling itself with warmth while ignoring the truth that the strong survived and the weak fell.

He had no time for compassion.

He would never afford himself that weakness.