Keep Your Merry Christmas to Yourself

The moment I sent the message, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders.

Before long, my phone started vibrating nonstop. The group chat was flooded with unread messages, but I didn't bother opening any of them.

Then, Mamma's call came through for the third time.

This time, I answered.

"Cristina, do you really have to break my heart like this?"

Her voice was trembling. "Why are you giving us back those things? Giada is having a heart attack because of it! She's in the hospital now! She's your sister. Did you even think about how your action would affect her?"

As I listened to her familiar words, my eyes stung, but no tears came.

This again.

Giada's poor health and fragile heart had always been her shield against criticism.

She had congenital heart disease, so my parents had to care for her, and I was sent away to boarding school at a young age.

And because of her, I was forced to learn how to survive independently before I even knew how to connect with my family.

Later, when I went abroad for high school, I struggled with the language barrier and felt overwhelmed.

But they scolded me for not calling often enough, for not being close enough to them, and for not having Giada's "gentle" nature.

In the past, I craved their love, and I would apologize. But I wouldn't do that anymore.

I gently interrupted Mamma's sobs. "Donna Soave, please stop crying."

The crying suddenly stopped.

I gave her a second to process the unfamiliar name, then spoke calmly again. "When you say these things, did you ever think that it might hurt me too?"

The line went silent.

Without waiting for her response, I hung up and turned off the phone.

The next morning, I packed my suitcase and moved into a single apartment near the office.

At the company's morning meeting, the director made a major announcement. One of our top Fennaris partners had opened a lead position on a core project overseas, with a one-year term.

Landing it would mean stepping directly into the international design scene. More importantly, it would mean that I could finally escape the control of the Soave and Dominici families.

But the director's next words were like a bucket of cold water.

"To ensure candidates are unaffected by domestic financial circumstances, applicants must provide proof of assets. Specifically, they must have 300 thousand dollars in an overseas account."

300 thousand dollars?

I checked my bank balance.

After deducting rent and other expenses, I didn't even have a fraction of that amount.

As a professional designer, my income wasn't low. But with every paycheck, I spent it all on expensive gifts for the Soaves and Ivano.

I had naively believed that if I gave everything without holding back, I'd get something in return one day.

But now I realized that if I weren't favored, nothing I did would matter.

Could I ask them for 300 thousand dollars?

No way.

From that day on, I stripped my life down to the bare essentials.

I spent my days at the office, buried in countless design sketches and revisions. At night, I took on side jobs, accepting every project I could find.

I worked through the nights, too exhausted to even lift my arms.

But when the money I earned with sweat hit my account, I felt at peace.

I thought I could escape their high-society world. But little did I know, someone wasn't willing to let me go.

That early morning, after finishing my side job, I sat in my rented room eating a cold piece of bread.

My friend, Debora Barbati, sent me a short video from a party.

The camera was focused on Giada.

She stood gracefully in the banquet hall, pretending to be concerned as she said, "Cristina hasn't come home in days. I'm so worried about her."

Not far away, Ivano was raising his glass, but his hand suddenly froze in midair. He frowned. "What's going on?"

Giada lowered her eyes, her voice growing softer. "I heard she's working multiple jobs. It's so hard for her. Do you think she's spent all her money? It's all our fault. If we had gone with her to Iberion during Christmas, she wouldn't have left. Should we help her out?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as they exchanged loaded glances.

The video cut off there.

Debora sent an angry voice message. "Cristina, did you hear that? What nonsense is she talking about?"

I sighed softly and swallowed the last bite of dry bread.

Giada always knew how to step on me just enough to make herself seem kind. With just a few words, she turned my efforts into a childish tantrum.

And of course, Ivano believed her.

As expected, the next second, my phone buzzed with a wire transfer notification. Ivano had given me one million dollars.

His message followed immediately, every line of text dripping with condescending arrogance.

"You're my future Donna. Your hands are for wearing rings, not doing dirty work. Stop testing my limits by degrading yourself like this. Come get your Donna ring back when you're done playing."

I locked my phone, ignoring the million-dollar transfer.

The next day, I went to the office as usual and took on another side job after work.

Two weeks later, at an anonymous initial review meeting, my main design draft, Midnight Sun, was projected onto the big screen.