How Constantine Stole Christmas

Clara

The pre-dawn darkness hid my covert operation as I crept into Krino Corp, clutching a cardboard box labeled “Office Supplies” like it contained state secrets instead of carefully chosen holiday decorations. A week before Thanksgiving, the city of Evergreen Heights was just beginning to show signs of the upcoming holiday season. Subtle hints of festivity that my boss would probably try to ban if he could.

“Phase One of Operation Holiday Joy,” I whispered to myself, carefully setting the box on my desk. “Slow and steady wins the Christmas war.”

Through the glass walls of Constantine’s empty office, I could see the city awakening, street lights still twinkling against the purple-gray sky. I’d arrived an hour earlier than usual, determined to implement my strategic plan to gradually introduce holiday cheer into our sterile corporate environment.

“Okay, Clara,” I muttered, unpacking my contraband. “Start small. Nothing too obvious.”

From the box, I withdrew my first weapons in this festive infiltration: a small crystal paperweight with a subtle snowflake design, a cream-colored mouse pad with the faintest pattern of falling leaves, and a photo frame decorated with delicate silver swirls that could pass for abstract art if you didn’t look too closely.

I arranged these items on my desk. After a year as Constantine Krino’s assistant, I knew exactly how he felt about holiday decorations. Or any decorations, really. The man treated joy like it was a communicable disease that might infect his precious profit margins.

“But this year will be different,” I promised myself, adjusting the paperweight so it caught the growing morning light. “Baby steps. Like training a grumpy cat to accept affection.”

The elevator dinged in the distance, and my heart jumped to my throat. It was too early for Constantine. He had never arrived before seven, but still, I quickly shoved the empty box under my desk, trying to look as innocent as possible as Sarah from accounting rounded the corner.

“Someone’s early,” she grinned, then noticed my new desk accessories. Her eyes widened with understanding. “Oh my god, you’re actually doing it? Operation Holiday Infiltration is a go?”

“Shh!” I glanced nervously at the elevator. “Phase One only. Subtle. Sophisticated. Nothing that screams ‘Christmas’ yet.”

Sarah leaned closer, examining my strategic deployment of winter-adjacent decor. “Very sneaky. Very... what did he call it last year? ’Professionally appropriate.’” She mimicked Constantine’s deep, disapproving tone.

“Exactly. He can’t object to a simple snowflake paperweight. It’s winter-themed office supplies, not a full-scale Santa’s workshop.”

But even as I said it, I felt that familiar flutter of anxiety in my stomach. Constantine had an uncanny ability to detect even the slightest hint of festivity. Last year, he’d made Nathan from IT remove a red and green striped tie because it looked “too seasonal.”

The morning light grew stronger. Soon, other employees would start arriving. Soon, Constantine would stride in with his perfect suits and cold eyes and...

“Stop it,” I told myself firmly, straightening the frame one last time. “You’ve faced down board members and angry clients. You can handle one grumpy CEO with a holiday allergy.”

But as I settled into my morning routine, I couldn’t help glancing at the elevator every few minutes, my heart racing each time the doors opened. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about decorations or holiday spirit.

It was about the way Constantine made me feel. Frustrated, challenged, and annoyingly attracted. Even when he was being an absolute Grinch. And somehow, I suspected this holiday season was going to test both our limits in ways neither of us expected.

The rhythmic tapping of my keyboard was interrupted by the distinct sound of expensive Italian leather shoes on the floor. My heart skipped. I’d know that purposeful stride anywhere. Constantine was early.

I kept my eyes fixed on my screen, trying to appear completely absorbed in work rather than hyperaware of my newly decorated desk. Through my peripheral vision, I watched him approach, his tall frame casting a shadow across my workspace.

The footsteps stopped. Silence stretched for one heartbeat, two, three...

“Ms. Saulnier.”

I looked up, meeting ice-blue eyes that were currently fixed on my snowflake paperweight with the intensity usually reserved for quarterly reports. Constantine stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his dark hair immaculate, his jaw set in what I’d come to think of as his “disapproving CEO” expression.

“Good morning, Mr. Krino,” I said brightly, channeling my best professional optimism. “The Wilson contract revisions are ready for your review, and I’ve already scheduled the morning meeting for…”

“What,” he interrupted, picking up the paperweight with two fingers like it might bite him, “is this?”

“A paperweight, sir. For... weighing papers.”

His eyebrow arched dangerously. “A snowflake paperweight.”

“Well, it is winter,” I offered, trying to keep my voice light. “And technically, snowflakes are just frozen water crystals. Very scientific. Not festive at all.”

“And this?” He gestured to the mouse pad. “Are these not autumn leaves?”

“Abstract shapes, Mr. Krino. Very modern. Very corporate.”

Constantine’s eyes narrowed as they swept across my desk, cataloging each new addition. I could practically see him connecting the dots, realizing this was a calculated move rather than random decoration.

“Ms. Saulnier,” his voice dropped to that low, dangerous tone that never failed to send shivers down my spine, “are you attempting to... festively infiltrate my office?”

“I would never, sir.”

“Because I distinctly remember our discussion last year about maintaining a professional atmosphere free from seasonal distractions.”

I straightened in my chair, meeting his gaze. “With all due respect, sir, a few subtle winter-themed office supplies hardly constitute a distraction. Studies show that a personalized workspace actually increases productivity and…”

“Remove them.”

“But…”

“Now, Ms. Saulnier.” He placed the paperweight back on my desk with deliberate care. “And Ms. Saulnier? If I see anything resembling a holiday decoration in this office, subtle or otherwise, there will be consequences.”

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw something flicker behind his icy facade. But then he turned away, striding into his office with that predatory grace that made him look like a panther in a business suit.

I stared at my subtle decorations, feeling defeated. Through the glass walls, I could see Constantine watching me, waiting to see if I’d comply.

Slowly, deliberately, I opened my desk drawer. The paperweight went first, then the mouse pad. But as I reached for the photo frame, an idea struck me. I left it in place, its silver swirls catching the morning light.

Constantine’s office door opened. “Ms. Saulnier.”

“The frame stays,” I said, not looking up. “It’s not seasonal, it’s geometric. Unless you’re planning to ban circles and squares as well?”

A pause. I could feel his presence in front of me, could smell his expensive cologne. Something woodsy and masculine that definitely didn’t make my pulse race.

“The morning meeting starts in ten minutes,” he said finally. “Try to keep your rebellious streak in check until then.”

As his door closed again, I allowed myself a small smile. Phase One might not have been a complete success, but I’d managed to keep one piece of subtle festivity. More importantly, I’d stood my ground.

Baby steps, I reminded myself, running a finger along the frame’s silver swirls. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Constantine Krino’s frozen heart wouldn’t thaw overnight.

But as I gathered my materials for the morning meeting, I couldn’t help wondering what other “consequences” my boss had in mind for future holiday infractions. And why did that thought make my cheeks flush?

The conference room filled quickly, everyone trying to claim seats as far from Constantine’s usual position as possible. I took my place to his right, notebook ready, trying not to notice how his cologne seemed stronger in the enclosed space.

David slipped into the chair beside me, offering a sympathetic smile. “Heard about the decoration debacle,” he whispered. “Very brave of you.”

“Or very stupid,” I muttered back, just as Constantine entered the room.

Silence fell immediately. He carried himself with the kind of authority that demanded attention, his presence filling the space like a winter storm. As he began reviewing the quarterly projections, I found my pen moving automatically, taking notes while my mind wandered to less professional observations. Like how the morning light emphasized the sharp angle of his jaw, or how his hands moved with precise grace as he gestured to various charts.

“These numbers are pathetic,” Constantine’s voice cut through my inappropriate thoughts. “Marketing’s projections are overly optimistic, Finance’s risk assessment is inadequate, and IT’s infrastructure proposals are...” he paused, fixing Nathan with a glacial stare, “disappointing.”

I watched Nathan shrink in his chair, probably regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. Under the table, David’s foot nudged mine in silent solidarity.

“Ms. Saulnier.”

I straightened instinctively. “Yes, Mr. Krino?”

“The Wilson contract analysis. Share it with the team.”

Swallowing hard, I pulled up the relevant documents on the projection screen. “Our initial analysis shows promising growth potential in the Asian markets, particularly…”

“Wrong.” Constantine stood, moving behind my chair. “Your analysis is based on outdated models and wishful thinking. Just like your attempt at holiday decoration was based on misguided optimism.”

Heat crept up my neck as several colleagues exchanged knowing looks. David shifted beside me, clearly wanting to intervene but knowing better.

“The models are industry standard,” I argued, proud that my voice remained steady despite Constantine’s proximity. “And if you’d review the supplementary data…”

“I have.” He leaned over my shoulder to point at the screen, his chest barely brushing my back. “Your conclusions ignore several key risk factors, much like you ignored my previous warnings about seasonal distractions.”

The room felt suddenly warmer, and I was acutely aware of every point where we almost touched. His breath stirred my hair slightly as he continued critiquing my work, but I found myself focusing more on his presence than his words.

“Do you understand, Ms. Saulnier?”

“Yes,” I managed, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was agreeing to. “I’ll revise the analysis.”

“Good.” He straightened, returning to his seat. “And perhaps this time you can channel your creative energy into actual work.”

A few people chuckled nervously, but I caught David’s frown. He knew, as I did, that Constantine’s criticism wasn’t entirely professional. This was punishment for my earlier defiance.

As the meeting continued, I tried to focus on the discussion of market trends and profit margins. But my mind kept drifting to the moment Constantine had leaned over me. The warmth of him, the subtle scratch of his wool suit against my shoulder, the way his voice had dropped lower when he was close enough that only I could hear:

“We’ll discuss your insubordination later.”

The promise in those words shouldn’t have made my pulse quicken. He was my boss, a notorious Grinch, and currently making everyone in the room question their career choices. But something about the intensity in his eyes when he looked at me, the way his criticism always seemed tinged with something else...

“Clara,” David whispered, nudging me again. “Meeting’s over.”

I blinked, realizing the room was already emptying. Constantine stood by the door, watching me with a blank expression.

“My office,” he said as I passed. “This afternoon. With the revised Wilson report.”

David squeezed my shoulder supportively. “Want me to accidentally start a small fire to distract him?”

“Thanks, but I think I’m in enough trouble already.” I gathered my things, trying to ignore the flutter of anticipation in my stomach.

Because that’s all it was. Anticipation of a professional reprimand. Not excited about being alone with Constantine. Definitely not curious about what other “consequences” he might have in mind.

Right?

The break room buzzed with sympathetic energy as I collapsed into a chair, my morning confrontation with Constantine having left me emotionally drained but oddly energized.

“So,” Sarah leaned forward conspiratorially, “spill. How bad was the decoration drama?”

“About as well as you’d expect,” I sighed, picking at my salad. “He treated my snowflake paperweight like it was a personal attack on corporate productivity.”

“That man needs therapy,” Jenny from HR declared, joining our table. “Or a really good kiss. Possibly both.”

I choked on my water, trying not to think about Constantine and kissing in the same sentence. “He needs to realize that a little holiday spirit won’t bankrupt the company.”

“Speaking of holiday spirit,” Sarah lowered her voice, “what’s Phase Two of Operation Holiday Joy?”

I glanced around the break room nervously before pulling out my phone to show them my carefully crafted plan. “Subtle string lights behind the filing cabinets next week. They’ll create a soft ambient glow. Very professional, very mood-enhancing.”

“Very likely to get us all fired,” Jenny muttered, but she was smiling.

“Remember last year?” Sarah asked, stealing one of my cherry tomatoes. “When he made the cleaning staff remove that tiny wreath someone had hung in the lobby?”

“Or when he scheduled mandatory overtime on Christmas Eve?” Jenny added.

“This year will be different,” I insisted, though my confidence wavered as I remembered how intense he’d been this morning. “We just need to be strategic. Start small, build gradually...”

“Like training a wild animal,” Sarah nodded sagely.

“More like trying to melt an iceberg with a matchstick,” Jenny countered.

I thought about Constantine’s reaction to my decorations, the way his eyes had lingered on each item, how he’d stood so close during the meeting... “Maybe the ice isn’t as thick as we think.”

“Oh?” Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “And what makes you say that?”

“Just... observations from working with him for a year.” I focused intently on my salad, hoping they couldn’t see my blush. “He’s not completely heartless. He’s just...”

“Emotionally constipated?” Jenny suggested.

“Professionally challenged when it comes to joy?” Sarah added.

“Complicated,” I finished, remembering the brief flash of something almost like amusement in his eyes this morning. “There’s more to him than just the Ice King persona.”

“Mhm,” Sarah exchanged knowing looks with Jenny. “And I’m sure your interest in melting his frozen heart is purely professional.”

“Of course it is!” I protested too quickly. “I just think everyone deserves to experience the joy of the holiday season. Even grumpy CEOs who treat Christmas like a conspiracy.”

“Right,” Jenny patted my hand. “And the fact that he fills out a suit like a model has nothing to do with it.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but my phone buzzed with a message from Constantine:

“My office. Now. Bring the Wilson contract revisions.”

“Duty calls,” I stood, gathering my things. “Try not to plot any holiday rebellion while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Sarah grinned. “But Clara? Be careful. The ice might be thinner than we think, but that just makes it more dangerous when it breaks.”

I nodded, heading for Constantine’s office with her words echoing in my mind. Because she was right. This wasn’t just about holiday decorations anymore. This was about the way my heart raced every time he said my name, how I noticed every tiny crack in his frozen facade, how I wanted to be the one to show him that feeling things, even holiday joy, wasn’t a weakness.

But as I approached his office, I pushed those thoughts aside. Professional. I needed to stay professional.

Even if his cologne did make me dizzy in the best possible way.

Constantine’s office felt colder than usual as I entered, though maybe that was just my imagination. He stood by the window, his back to me, cutting an imposing figure against the afternoon sky.

“Close the door, Ms. Saulnier.”

I did as instructed, my heart beating fast. The click of the latch seemed unusually loud in the tense silence.

“Your determination to introduce holiday elements into this office is...” he turned slowly, fixing me with those intense blue eyes, “concerning.”

“Is it concerning for the company’s productivity,” I found myself asking, “or for your personal comfort zone?”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Ms. Saulnier. You’re approaching insubordination again.”

“Again? Was the snowflake paperweight my first offense, or was it the abstract leaf pattern that really crossed the line?”

He moved away from the window, closing the distance between us with measured steps. “You know exactly what you’re doing. This isn’t about office supplies.”

“No,” I agreed, lifting my chin. “It’s about joy. Community. Things that matter beyond profit margins and market projections.”

“And you think you know what matters to this company? To me?” He was closer now, close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny specks of darker blue in his eyes.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that you’re afraid.”

His eyebrow arched. “Afraid?”

“Of feeling something. Of letting people in. Of admitting that maybe a little Christmas spirit wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. But then his expression changed, his face hardening into its usual mask.

“Your psychological analysis, while creative, is unnecessary.” He turned away, creating distance between us. “Remove the frame from your desk. That’s an order, not a suggestion.”

“Mr. Krino…”

“And Ms. Saulnier?” He glanced back, and for a second, I could have sworn I saw a hint of softness in his eyes. “Next time you plan a covert operation, perhaps don’t label a box of decorations as ‘office supplies.’”

My mouth fell open.

“I see everything in my office, Clara.” The use of my first name was surprising. “Remember that before you implement Phase Two of whatever holiday scheme you’re planning.”

I stared at him, caught between embarrassment and admiration. He’d known about my plan all along. How did he know? Did he have cameras installed on our floor?

“Fine,” I said finally, moving toward the door. “The frame goes. But this isn’t over, Mr. Krino.”

“No,” he agreed, “I don’t suppose it is.”

As I left his office, my mind was already racing with new ideas, because now, this was war.

Game on.