The Forbidden Santa

Ivy.

“Say thank you.”

His voice slid through my headphones low and smooth, distorted just enough to hide who he was, but not enough to hide what he could do to me.

The comments on my livestream moved too fast to read properly.

Tips. Requests. Men trying too hard to be noticed.

But my eyes only searched for one username.

BigDaddyP.

A donation notification flashed across my screen.

$5,000.

My stomach tightened.

The room around me glowed warm from the fairy lights hanging behind my bed, everything carefully arranged to look effortless. The red satin robe slipping off one shoulder. The untouched wine glass beside me. The soft music in the background.

It was all fake intimacy.

That was the job.

“Thank you,” I said softly, smiling at the camera even though my face already hurt from pretending for the last hour.

Another notification appeared almost instantly.

$10,000.

The chat exploded.

I swallowed hard.

He always did this. Dropped into my streams quietly, sat behind that black mask in the dark, and somehow controlled the entire room without trying.

He never begged for attention like the others.

Never spammed comments. Never acted desperate.

That was what made him dangerous.

“Stand up,” he said calmly.

I stood before I could think better of it.

The robe slid higher against my thighs as I moved away from the bed. My apartment was freezing, but heat still crawled slowly across my skin under his attention.

“Turn around.”

The chat went wild immediately.

I rolled my eyes playfully for the viewers before slowly turning.

“Now get on your knees.”

My breath caught a little.

Not because the request shocked me anymore.

That was probably the worst part.

It should have.

Still, something about hearing commands from him always felt different from the others. Less like performance. More like he genuinely expected me to listen.

And embarrassingly enough, I usually did.

I lowered myself carefully onto the rug beside the bed.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit harder than it should have.

I hated that he could do that to me with two words.

The viewers thought this was roleplay. Teasing. Entertainment.

But with him, it never completely felt fake.

“Hands on the bed,” he said softly.

I obeyed again before my pride could stop me.

Another donation flashed across the screen.

$15,000.

Jesus Christ.

The room tilted slightly.

No normal person spent money like this on a woman they’d never met.

The smart part of me understood that.

The lonely part loved it anyway.

Loved him anyway.

Which was pathetic considering I didn’t even know what his real face looked like.

“You lied to them again tonight.”

The smile on my face tightened.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I teased lightly.

His chuckle crackled through my headphones, low and rough.

Dangerous.

“You always touch your necklace when you lie.”

My fingers dropped instantly from the chain around my throat.

The chat thought the moment was funny.

It wasn’t.

Because he was right.

Again.

“How was work today?” he asked.

I knew what he was doing.

The viewers thought he was helping build the fantasy. The successful corporate daughter with a secret wild side.

But he knew the truth.

Or enough of it to make me nervous.

“It was exhausting,” I answered lightly.

“You hate lying to your father.”

My breath caught.

For a second I forgot thousands of people were still watching me.

He had never mentioned my father before.

Never.

I forced out a laugh. “You’re getting very psychoanalytic tonight.”

“You sounded sad earlier.”

The softness in his voice unsettled me more than the commands ever did.

Because somehow he always noticed things nobody else did.

Even through screens. Even through fake names. Even through practiced smiles.

He knew when my confidence was fake.

He knew when I was pretending not to wait for him to log in every night.

And God, I hated how true that was.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “is your father still bragging about his successful little businesswoman?”

Heat rushed straight to my face.

My father bragged about me constantly.

His smart independent daughter with a glamorous consulting career. The one making connections with luxury brands and wealthy clients.

Meanwhile I spent most nights half-dressed in front of a camera talking strangers into emptying their bank accounts.

“He’s proud of you,” BigDaddyP continued. “Golf club dinners. Expensive memberships. Telling everyone how brilliant his daughter is.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I sat up slightly.

“How do you know about the golf club?”

Silence answered me.

Heavy silence.

Then another donation flashed.

$20,000.

My chest tightened painfully.

He was hiding something tonight.

I could feel it.

“What do you want for Christmas?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked.

“What?”

“If you could have anything.”

The question caught me off guard.

I should’ve said something normal.

A vacation. A better apartment. Freedom from this double life.

Instead the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“I want Santa to personally pay me a visit.”

Silence filled the room.

Then his laugh came through the speakers low and dark enough to make my stomach flip.

“So needy tonight.”

Heat spread instantly through me.

Before I could answer, another notification appeared on my screen.

Incoming call: Dad.

I frowned immediately.

At this hour?

“Give me one second, guys,” I murmured before muting myself.

The second I answered, my father’s loud excited voice filled my ear.

“Ivy! Finally.”

I blinked. “Dad?”

“Listen carefully. I need you at the house tonight.”

My stomach sank.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight. And wear something decent for once.”

I rolled my eyes automatically. “You say that like I dress like a stripper.”

If only he knew.

“This is important,” he continued. “My friend’s son is flying in for Christmas.”

“What friend?”

“Patrick Laurent.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar.

“He was supposed to surprise us for the holidays, but your mother and I already booked that Aspen trip this weekend. So you’ll host him instead.”

Something about the way he said man instead of boy made me pause.

“And Ivy?”

“Yeah?”

“Behave yourself. This isn’t just anybody.”

I laughed softly. “Who is he? A prince?”

My father snorted.

“Bigger. The man’s one of the most famous actors in the country.”

I sat upright immediately.

Patrick Laurent.

The Patrick Laurent.

Oscar-winning actor. Magazine covers. Interviews everywhere.

Older than me by at least fifteen years. Wealthy. Untouchable. Beautiful in that cold intimidating way famous men sometimes were.

“Oh my God.”

My father sounded smug now. “Exactly. So clean up your attitude before you get here.”

“I—”

A voice crackled softly through my headphones behind me.

Low. Calm. Familiar.

“Ivy.”

My blood froze.

Slowly, I turned back toward my laptop s

creen.

The livestream was still running.

The masked man sat motionless in the darkness.

Watching me.

Then quietly:

“Go welcome your Christmas present.”