Christmas Zootopia

Every Christmas Eve, the heir of the Marco mafia family—Adrian Marco, must follow the family tradition: Draw a name to decide whether he’s allowed to marry me. Because I, Irene Cast, am not mafia-born. Unless he draws the slip with my name on it, he can’t take me as his wife. For four years, Adrian has drawn four times. And not once did he draw my name. I always thought he fought with his family because of me— that he was willing to risk losing his position as the Don, just to choose me. Every time he failed, he held me so tightly and whispered, “It’s okay. There’s always next year.” And I loved him so much it hurt. Hurt enough that I was willing to wait, year after year. This year, I told myself: If he still doesn’t draw my name… I’ll secretly switch the result. I sneaked to the door of Adrian’s study, and heard his younger brother ask: “Don… every year you do draw Irene's name. Why do you pretend you didn’t? Is it because you still can’t let Sera go?” But he simply said, in a flat voice, “Sera needs me for something urgent. Do what you always do: swap Irene’s name for a blank one.” He walked out without looking back. Instead of swapping, he tossed the blank slip into the trash, left the one with my name on the table, and hurried after Adrian. I went inside, picked up the blank slip from the trash, and replaced the one with my name. Watching my own name fall into the garbage. Adrian…I don’t want to wait and marry you anymore. I’ll grant you your choice.

"I may be blind, Rain, but trust me, I’ll never miss the right hole or the perfect positions to put you in. My eyes don’t stop me from taking you until your legs give out. Open wide for me, wifey." Enzo Salvatore DeLuca, the ruthless billionaire mafia don, was untouchable—until the accident that stole his sight. Now, with time running out, he needs an heir to secure his legacy, and Rain is forced to take her stepsister's place as his bride. Rain always dreamed of a Christmas wedding with the perfect husband, but marrying a blind stranger wasn’t in her fantasies. How could a man who couldn’t see fulfill her wildest desires? He’d need help with everything, and she couldn’t imagine how he’d live up to the man she’d always fantasized about. What she doesn’t know is that he sees every move she makes, from the constant bite of her lips whenever he talks, to the way she walks around naked in the room, thinking he wouldn’t see her anyway, down to the way she watches him with longing whenever he’s changing. What he lacks in sight, he makes up for in raw intensity, dominance, and an ability to give her everything she never dared to ask for. He doesn’t do love. He doesn’t do gentle. But with Rain, he might just find more than the healing he never thought possible, and the revenge he had been seeking. "If you ask me, the only reason I need eyes is to see your eyes rolling back when I fuck you. But for now, baby girl, I want to hear it. Let me hear you moan for me.”

“You think coming here and apologizing solves it? Do you think it’s going to ease my pain? The pain you inflicted on me?” I yelled at him, my chest burning with all the pent up anger, waiting to be unleashed. Ashton reached out to touch me, but I slapped his hand away. Hurt flashed in his eyes, but I couldn’t care less. “I’m sorry, Helen. I promise to do better. Please, give me a second chance.” I scoffed. What a joke! “We are divorced, Ashton.” Ashton shook his head as if willing himself not to believe what I was saying. “I never sent you divorce papers, Hel. And…” he trailed off while I stared at him with creased brows. “We aren’t divorced. I never signed my part.” ***** For three years, Helen tried to be the perfect wife despite being labeled as incompetent, barren and worthless. She put up with her husband’s ignorance and mother-in-law’s insults for the sake of maintaining peace and keeping her marriage. But what she didn’t expect was a video of her husband in bed with his secretary on Christmas Eve when she planned to break the news of her pregnancy to him. And worse — His secretary threw a divorce paper which her husband had drafted at her face and asked her to beat it. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she left and returned six years later with dashing triplets. But what she didn’t expect was her husband wanting her back. As if that wasn’t enough, she was about to find out that there was more to what happened six years ago, and everything she thought she knew…were all lies. Will the holiday spirit be enough to bring them together again?

When I was seven years old, a handsome man Mom brought home gave me a box of mangoes. That day, Dad watched me happily eating the mangoes as he signed his name on the divorce agreement. Then, he jumped to his death. From that day on, mangoes became a lifelong nightmare for me. So, on our wedding day, I told my wife, Irene Johnson, "If you ever want a divorce, just give me a mango." She held me without saying a word. From that moment on, mangoes became forbidden for her as well. … On the fifth Christmas Eve after we got married, Irene's childhood sweetheart, Steven Carter, placed a mango on her desk. That same day, she announced that she was cutting ties with him and fired him from the company. That day, I felt that she was the woman destined for me. ... Six months later, I return from overseas after closing a billion-dollar deal. At the celebration dinner, Irene hands me a drink. After I drink half of it, Steven, the man who was kicked out of the company, stands behind me and grins. "Is the mango juice good?" he asks. I look at Irene in disbelief, but she is holding back a laugh. "Don't be mad. Steve insisted I play a joke on you. I didn't give you a mango, just a bottle of its juice. "But I think Steve is right. There's something wrong with you for not eating mangoes. Look at how much you enjoyed it just now!" she says. I keep a cold expression, raise my hand, and splash the remaining mango juice onto her face. Then, I turn and walk away. Some things are never a joke. Mangoes aren't, and neither is my decision to divorce.

They called him Father. She called him forbidden. Ayana Marcus thought coming home for Christmas would be simple—a few weeks of family dinners, church services, and small-town nostalgia before returning to her real life in Boston. She didn't expect him. Father Nelson has been her father's best friend for two decades. A priest. A pillar of their tight-knit community. A man who's supposed to be untouchable, unshakeable, holy. But when Ayana returns after four years away—no longer the sheltered girl who left, but a woman who knows her own mind—everything changes. One look across her family's dinner table, and she sees it: the way his dark eyes linger a second too long, the tension in his jaw when she speaks, the white-knuckled grip on his glass when she laughs. Father Nelson isn't just her father's friend anymore. He's a man on the edge of breaking. One stolen kiss beneath the mistletoe shatters two decades of self-control. What begins as a single moment of weakness spirals into a secret affair that threatens to destroy everything—his priesthood, her family, their souls. He tells himself he's corrupting her. She knows she's awakening him. In the cold December nights, between whispered prayers and desperate touches, they discover that some sins taste like salvation. That the line between worship and desire is thinner than either imagined. That love—even forbidden, impossible, unholy love—can be the most sacred thing of all. But in a town where secrets don't stay buried and the church sees everything, their passion will cost them more than they ever imagined. He's twice her age. Her father's best friend. A man of God. She's everything he's denied himself for twenty years. And this December, they'll learn that some gifts are too dangerous to unwrap… But impossible to resist.

When I was seven, my father brought home a beautiful lady who gave me a box of mangoes. That day, my mother watched me happily eating those mangoes while she signed her name on the divorce papers. After that, she jumped off the roof of our building. From then on, mangoes became the nightmare of my life. So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Alan Holt, "If you ever want a divorce, just give me a mango." Alan pulled me into his arms, quiet. From then on, mangoes became off-limits for him, too. On Christmas Eve of our fifth year of marriage, Alan's childhood sweetheart, Larissa Fennimore, left a mango on his desk at the office. The very same day, Alan announced he was cutting ties with Larissa and fired her from the company. That day, I truly believed he was the man I was meant to be with. Half a year later, I flew back from overseas, having just closed a partnership deal worth about 200 million dollars. At the celebration dinner, Alan handed me a drink. After I had finished half the glass, his so-called childhood sweetheart, the woman who had been kicked out of the company, stood behind me with a big grin and asked, "Does the mango juice taste good?" I stared at Alan in disbelief, and he was trying hard not to laugh. "Don't be mad. Larissa insisted I played a little joke on you. I didn't actually give you a mango; I just gave you a bottle of mango juice. But I think she's right. The fact that you don't eat mangoes is a real problem. You were really enjoying that juice just now." My face went cold. I lifted my hand and threw the rest of the mango juice in his face, then turned around and walked away. Some things are never a joke. I wouldn't kid around with mangoes or divorce.

On Christmas Eve, my father got the man I had secretly loved for ten years drunk and sent him to my bed. When I woke up the next morning, Roy pulled away from my attempt at a good-morning kiss. His voice was cold and distant as he agreed to marry me. After the wedding, Roy wasted no time submitting a transfer request. He took an overseas post and left. He did not return for five years. I gave birth to our daughter, Eve, alone and waited for him to come back home. When I heard that Roy had finally applied to return to a domestic position, I was overjoyed. I spent days preparing, imagining our first reunion as husband and wife. But even when the clock struck midnight, he still hadn't come home. Our daughter, ever so thoughtful, placed her most treasured possession—a photograph of Roy—into my hands. "Don't cry, Mommy," she said softly. "Look, Daddy's right here." I tried to convince myself that his absence was due to a delayed flight. But later that night, while watching the news, I saw him. He was on a crowded city street, holding a young girl in his arms. Beside him stood a woman, her smile soft and warm. Facing the camera, Roy said, "Being with them is my greatest wish." At that moment, something inside me broke. I wrote up the divorce papers, packed our things, and planned to take Eve to change her identity. I didn't want him anymore. The day before we left, a man I had never met came to see me. He was Roy's father. "You could call me Dad," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "But I'd rather you call me Ryan." I told him everything about the past five years—how I had waited, how I had hoped. When I finished, he laughed softly, an unusual warmth in his voice. "If it was just business," he said, "perhaps your father should have tied a bow around me and sent me to your bed instead. But I hold my liquor well—if I ever end up wrapped in a bow, you can be sure it's by choice."