Prc Holidays Novels & Stories

On Christmas night, my husband, Finnick Carson, can't spend the holidays with me because he's on a business trip. In order to make it up to me, he's specifically ordered a Christmas feast from a fancy restaurant and has it delivered to our home. But when I open the box containing the feast, I'm shell-shocked by what I see. Not only an array of seafood—that I'm allergic to—is arranged in containers, but there's also a kid's meal set included in the feast. When the deliveryman sees the food, he apologizes to me and tells me that he's mixed up the two meals that Finnick has ordered. This leaves me feeling uneasy. Why would my husband order two meals? So, I decide to find my way to the delivery address that the other meal is meant for. Shockingly enough, I see Finnick standing in a villa's backyard while picking candies from a Christmas tree with a mother and a son. The little boy then rushes into his arms happily. "Daddy, I'd like an amusement park for my birthday gift this year!" Finnick pinches his cheek gently. "Okay. I'll give your mommy a set of jewelry, too." The woman cuddles with him happily. "You're so nice to us, honey!" Having recorded the entire scene quietly, I send it to my lawyer. "Help me expedite my divorce so that my husband can reunite with his family as soon as possible."

My wife had risen through the ranks of the Confidential Bureau, becoming its youngest team leader—all thanks to the "voice" of the baby boy in her womb, who could somehow identify traitors from within. When the holidays came, I went to visit her. But the moment I arrived, I heard the voice of that unborn child in her belly. "Ah, it's Bad Daddy! He's the one who's been secretly selling off the core technology!" I froze, stunned. Before I could even speak, my wife raised her gun and fired. The bullet tore through my shoulder. "Who did you sell the technology to? Talk!" Through the searing pain, I struggled to explain. "I don't even know what technology you're talking about. How could I possibly—" Her expression turned glacial. Without a word, she lifted the gun again and pulled the trigger, blowing my head apart. "Mommy is amazing! Bad Daddy is finally gone. The stolen data is all hidden on that USB drive." Even as I died, I couldn't understand how I had become a traitor. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day of the visit. This time, I took the initiative. I pulled out the USB drive and handed it to my wife. "If this is the evidence you want," I said, "go ahead, shoot me."

On New Year’s Eve, my fiancee, Delilah Carrington, left me to freeze to death in subzero snow. As my body went numb, she was wrapped in the military coat I had found for her, curled up in Everett Kingsley’s arms while eating the holiday groceries I had paid for. When I opened my eyes again, I was back before everything fell apart. So when she called—cold, demanding, rattling off a shopping list like I owed her—I hung up, blocked her number, and made my move. I sealed off Blackridge Logistics Hub, the largest logistics hub in the country. Stockpiling supplies? Pointless. Because my coworkers and I had more packages than we could ever open: seafood delicacies, premium cigars, top-shelf liquor, and industrial generators. Hundreds of millions of shipments meant for the holidays were now all mine. Inside a warehouse kept at a steady 26°C, I ate wagyu steak and watched the world collapse through surveillance feeds. I witnessed Delilah’s entire family tear each other apart over half a moldy pack of crackers. I thought I could live like this forever. I was wrong. In the apocalypse, the most dangerous thing isn’t what’s waiting outside. It’s the people who refuse to stop playing the hero.

Three years ago, Alicia Brown walked away from the only man who had ever made her feel undone. After a reckless one-night stand with a powerful stranger, she slipped out of his hotel suite, convinced that disappearing was the only way to protect her heart. No names or contact information were exchanged—only a connection so consuming it frightened her. She never imagined fate would bring her back to him. Until she steps into her best friend’s home for the holidays… and comes face-to-face with Rhys Connell. Her best friend’s father. The same man who gave her the most unforgettable night of her life. Wealthy. Controlled. Devastatingly composed. Rhys is a widowed billionaire with a reputation for discipline and emotional restraint, a man who would do anything to protect his daughter. The moment their eyes meet, the past ignites. He remembers the girl who trembled beneath his touch, the girl who vanished without a trace. And the only woman who has haunted him for three years. Now she is under his roof, laughing beside his daughter, and staying in the same house with him. Wanting her once was a secret. Wanting her now is betrayal. But Rhys has never been a man who forgets what belongs to him. And Alicia is about to learn that walking away from him once does not mean she was ever truly free.

On Christmas Eve, Gabriel Caldwell, my three-year boyfriend, invites me to go home with him for a nice feast and to spend the holidays together. But before I can even get a bite, I get drugged instead. "If I can't pay them any money at this rate, they'll chop my hand off, Evelyn! Seriously, I don't have any choices left but to deliver you to them! "Don't blame me for this, Evelyn. Blame yourself for having such rotten luck in life by looking just like the woman of Mr. Kensington's dreams. "By then, my debt is cleared, and you might live an extremely cushy life as a rich man's wife! Isn't this a win-win situation for us?" While I'm still groggy from the drugs' effects, I get delivered to an extremely familiar-looking estate by Gabriel's family. First things first, if I'm not mistaken, this must be my uncle, Sebastian Kensington's estate. Secondly, my uncle adores his older sister—my mom—so much to the point that he's never fallen for any other woman except her in this lifetime. And last but not least, all my dad did back then was roll his eyes at my mom once before Uncle Sebastian had him sent to a faraway continent. Well then, I wonder who's the one that'll be cursed with rotten luck after they deliver me to my uncle's hands? Gosh, it's so hard to guess!

When I return to my hometown for the holidays, my brother-in-law, Tyler Atwood, has completely forgotten to hide his latest social media post from me. "Ugh, Arlene is really vain! Her room is filled with useless things like figurines and dolls! They are such an eyesore! "My daughter wants to play with them, and yet Arlene claims that those figurines are limited-edition. Since she refuses to let Celeste play with them, she can forget about keeping them!" Tyler even starts chatting with the commenters in the comment section. "Once we're done with Christmas dinner, I'll lock the door and let Celeste smash everything she sees there. If they break, I'll just claim that Celeste doesn't know any better. What, is Arlene going to take what a five-year-old does seriously? "When the time comes, I'll just guilt-trip her and cry even louder. Let's see who my in-laws will help by then!" As soon as I park the car in the courtyard, I hear loud smashing noises coming from the second floor. My niece, Celeste Atwood, screams excitedly at the top of her lungs. "That meanie's things are all dead now! I'm going to break them all!" That's when Tyler welcomes me at the door with a fake smile plastered on his face. "You're back, Arlene! Celeste is helping you clean your room at the moment. She really is a nice kid. She knows that you like things clean, so she insists on cleaning your room for you."

My husband, Henry Gibbons, is a man with a heart of gold. He has sponsored Felicity Lambert, an impoverished female college student who has come from the mountains, and yet I've never seen this person before. During the New Year holidays, Henry has traveled to the mountains to give Felicity some well-needed resources, but he ends up getting trapped there because of a blizzard. My heart aches for him, so I've shared the local news while praying for his quick return. But that's when I come across a video clip featuring a comic convention on the trending list. Henry, who claims that he's trapped in the mountains, can be seen wearing a cosplaying outfit. In the video, he's kneeling on the floor while helping a scantily-dressed young woman tie the bells to her ankles. The woman titters as she pats him on the head. "Thank you, Henry!" The caption of the video reads, "Daddy's love is the salvation meant for me and me only." I tap into the uploader's profile picture. The pinned post is a photo of the luxurious goods meant to be flaunted to the Internet. A pregnancy report sits next to those goods as well. "Daddy has told me that once that hag of a wife dies, these things will be mine!" In the comment section, Henry's smurf account has responded, "Be patient, my little minx. Her time will be up soon." At that moment, I find myself staring down at the New Year's dinner that I've just whipped up. Then, I dump everything into the trash can without hesitation.

When I go home for the holidays, I find out that my dad has installed a facial recognition machine at the front door. "You'll have to pay an entry fee of 50 thousand dollars. Will you be paying by card or payment code?" I thought my dad was joking at first. As I laugh, I attempt to walk through the front door while pushing my luggage forward. But my mom passes me a price list with an icy look. "That'll be 200 dollars for dragging stuff across the floor. You'll also be charged 1,000 dollars per hour for using up the air." I'm stunned by her words. "Mom, stop messing around already!" But when I walk into the house, I realize that the air inside has disappeared. Unable to breathe, my face soon turns bright red out of suffocation as I kneel down on the floor. My mom huffs coldly again. "If you want to live, then pay up!" With great difficulty, I dig out my phone and pay the fees. Once the transaction is done, I can feel air rushing through my nostrils and into my lungs. For a few moments, I pant heavily. As I stare at my cold-looking parents, I finally feel that something is off. So, I scramble up to my feet and rush for the door. But that's when I find out that the front door is already welded shut. There's a payment code pasted on the door as well as a message. "Exit fee. One million dollars."

Laila Jones has spent eight years building a quiet, beautiful life for herself and her daughter, Malaya. After her high school boyfriend caved to his racist grandfather and chose football and family approval over her and their unborn baby, Laila left Ohio, moved south, and raised Malaya on her own. Now Malaya is eight, there’s a daddy–daughter dance coming up, and her one Christmas wish is simple—and heartbreaking: she wants to meet her dad. Going home for the holidays was hard enough. Running into Jordan Hall, now the golden-boy quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals, is worse. He’s famous, gorgeous, and acting like he has the right to look at her with regret. Laila is ready to avoid him, yell at him, or both. What she doesn’t know is that after his grandfather’s death, Jordan discovered every letter she ever sent—proof that she kept their baby, begged him to come, and raised their daughter without him. The truth wrecks him, and this Christmas, he’s determined to fight for the family he should have had all along. But Laila isn’t interested in being anyone’s redemption arc. Especially not while his nasty fiancée is calling her a liar to the press and the internet is tearing her apart. As secrets unravel and emotions explode in front of cameras, Laila and Jordan have to decide what matters more: anger, pride, and old wounds…or the little girl who still believes Christmas wishes can come true.

During the school holidays, I took my daughter to a park. I had barely entered the park entrance with my daughter when a supercar crossed the solid line and rear-ended us. The man who jumped out came storming toward me, furious. "Do you even know how to drive? Do you know how much this car costs? You can't afford it even if you went bankrupt!" I was about to argue back since he was clearly the one breaking traffic rules. But I froze. That car looked painfully familiar. Wasn't that the supercar my mother gave me the first year I took over the Milton Group? Even the license plate was identical. My wife, Hazel Bishop, had told me the engine was broken and that she'd sent it to the dealership for repairs. I met the man's arrogant stare. "Is this car really yours?" He paused, then grinned smugly. "My wife bought it for me. It's limited-edition. Someone like you wouldn't understand. Go call your family and sell your house. You owe me 200 thousand dollars." Sneering, he added, "Don't try anything clever. My wife's the GM of Milton Group. She has serious connections. She'll be here any minute." I let out a cold laugh. So Hazel canceled on our daughter today, not because of a business meeting, but because she was out spending the holiday with her lover and his kid instead.