The office was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only came on Christmas Eve. Outside the high-rise windows of Maxwell Industries, snowflakes danced like feathers, gently layering the city in white. Inside the corner office on the 32nd floor, warm yellow lights glowed, illuminating a meticulously kept desk where CEO Nathaniel Blake sat, hunched over a screen that no longer held his attention.
It was 7:40 p.m., and the entire building had emptied out hours ago.
Nathaniel exhaled, rubbing his temples as the numbers on the quarterly report blurred. His assistant, Melanie, had begged him to go home earlier that afternoon.
“Sir, everyone’s already left. It’s Christmas Eve—don’t you have anyone to celebrate with?”
He had offered a stiff smile. “Not this year, Melanie. Enjoy your evening.”
And now here he was, a man with a $20 million penthouse uptown, a private chef, and a collection of watches worth more than most homes—spending Christmas Eve alone.
Again.
His fingers hovered over the mouse, then fell to the desk. The silence was oppressive. His phone vibrated once. A photo message. From his ex-wife, Olivia.
It was of their son, Jordan, smiling brightly in front of a decorated tree, holding a gingerbread house. The caption read:
“Merry Christmas, Daddy! I saved you a gumdrop!”
Nathaniel smiled faintly. He hadn’t seen Jordan in over a month. Business trips. Board meetings. Negotiations in Singapore, Zurich, and São Paulo.
Work always came first.
Nathaniel leaned back in his chair and stared at the twinkling lights of the city. From up here, it all looked peaceful. Perfect. But deep down, he knew he was missing something.
No, everything.
Downstairs, the janitorial team had just finished mopping the lobby. A soft hum echoed from an old radio tucked beside the security desk, playing Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. Behind the reception desk stood a young woman in a red coat, clutching the hand of a small boy.
“Are you sure it’s okay, Mommy?” the boy whispered, peering around with wide eyes.
“Yes, sweetie,” she replied, brushing snowflakes from his curls. “I just need to grab something from the mailroom. We won’t be long.”
The boy nodded, but his gaze drifted upward toward the glittering Christmas tree in the lobby. Then his eyes landed on the sleek silver elevator.
“Mommy,” he tugged at her hand. “Can we go up there? Maybe Santa’s visiting the top floor!”
She laughed softly. “No, honey, that’s just for the executives.”
But before she could stop him, the boy darted toward the elevator, pressing the button with excitement. With a soft ding, the doors slid open. He turned and grinned.
“Come on! Let’s just see!”
Back on the 32nd floor, Nathaniel stood by the window, watching the snow fall. He was about to pour himself a glass of scotch when he heard it.
A soft knock.
He froze.
No one should be here.
Another knock, and then—very softly—a child’s voice.
“Hello?”
He opened the door cautiously and blinked.
Standing in the hallway was a little boy, no older than six, with rosy cheeks and a knitted blue scarf. Behind him, slightly out of breath, was a woman—clearly his mother.
“I am so sorry,” she said immediately, her face flushed. “He ran ahead—I didn’t mean to bother anyone.”
Nathaniel looked at the boy, who stared back at him with curious eyes.
“Hi,” the boy said, smiling. “Are you Santa’s boss?”
Nathaniel blinked. “Uh… not exactly.”
“You’re up really high, and Mommy said only big bosses work at the top.”
“Well, she’s not wrong,” Nathaniel replied, surprised at the warm feeling bubbling up in his chest.
The woman stepped forward. “Again, I apologize. We were just dropping off a holiday card for someone in the mailroom. I didn’t realize—”
“No harm done,” Nathaniel interrupted, holding the door open wider. “Would you… like to come in for a moment? It’s cold in the hallway.”
She hesitated. “Oh, we don’t want to intrude.”
But her son had already stepped inside.
“It smells like pine in here!” he said, twirling. “Where’s your tree?”
Nathaniel chuckled. “I don’t have one.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “What? No Christmas tree?”Nathaniel shook his head. “Not this year.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, the boy said:
“Would you like to join us for dinner?”
Nathaniel looked at him, stunned.
His mother’s eyes widened. “Eli!”
But the boy, Eli, continued. “We’re just having chicken and potatoes. Not fancy like this place. But Mommy made a pie, too! She makes the best pie.”
Nathaniel was quiet for a long moment.
His throat felt tight.
No one had invited him to Christmas dinner in years.
“I… I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said.
“You wouldn’t,” Eli said, as if it were obvious. “There’s always room for one more.”
That evening, Nathaniel Blake—CEO of Maxwell Industries, man of steel reputation and cold efficiency—found himself seated at a modest wooden table in a cozy one-bedroom apartment three blocks from his office.
Eli proudly handed him a paper napkin with Santa stickers on it.
His mother—Sophie, he learned—served warm roasted chicken, buttery potatoes, and green beans sautéed with garlic. Nothing extravagant. But it was the best meal Nathaniel had eaten in years.
They lit candles and shared stories.
Eli talked about his school play, where he played a tree.
Sophie confessed that she used to be an executive assistant before being laid off the previous year. Now she worked part-time as a receptionist to make ends meet.
Nathaniel listened.
Really listened.
He laughed. Genuinely. Not the polite chuckles he gave during boardroom banter, but the kind that made his eyes crinkle.
When dessert came—a simple apple pie with cinnamon—Nathaniel took a bite and closed his eyes.
“This,” he said, “tastes like Christmas.”
After dinner, they played a board game. Eli insisted on explaining all the rules. Nathaniel lost terribly, but didn’t mind.
Later, when it was time for bed, Eli hugged him.
“Next year, don’t wait alone in the office. Just come straight over. Okay?”
Nathaniel’s voice wavered. “Okay.”
Three months later, Sophie walked into the Maxwell Industries building—not as a receptionist, but as the new executive assistant to the CEO.
And on Christmas Eve, one year later, the 32nd floor was no longer quiet.
There was a tree in the corner, handmade ornaments hanging from its branches.
Eli, now seven, was helping hang stockings near the windows.
Nathaniel stood beside Sophie, watching the city lights twinkle beneath a soft blanket of snow.
“You kept your promise,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Because a little voice reminded me of what really matters.”
And just like that, Christmas was never lonely again.
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This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.