Mom cleared her throat, and I realized she was crying. “I’m so happy to be here with you.” She pulled us both into a hug, awkward with the mugs but perfect anyway. “My brilliant girls. My fierce, stubborn, wonderful girls.”
We stayed like that for a long moment—three generations of Hartwell women who’d lived very different lives, but were all connected.
“Alright,” Grandma Rose declared eventually, pulling back and dabbing at her eyes. “Enough sentiment. We have a case to win and approximately thirty-six hours to do it.”
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And Sylvie?” She paused. “Those men. They’re good for you. I can see it. Don’t let fear make you push them away.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “I’m learning. We all are.”
“Good. Now come on. These new contracts aren’t going to write themselves.”
I grabbed our empty mugs and stood to set them aside. As I did, I caught sight of Kenai, his head bent close to Taimyr’s as they reviewed something. Aleksi was on the phone, speaking rapid Finnish—probably gathering more testimonies.
Grandma was right. Theyweregood for me. And I was good for them too.
Time to prove that together, we could take down anyone.
Time to win this thing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sylvie
The North Pole was nothing like the cozy workshop of children’s stories. Glass towers pierced the Arctic sky, their surfaces reflecting the aurora borealis in what would’ve been a beautiful display—if I didn’t know what lay beneath. Inside the executive conference room, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the operation below: endless assembly lines where elves, reindeer, and all manner of magical beings moved with manic energy.
Jólnir—Santa Claus—sat at the head of a mahogany table that could’ve graced any Manhattan boardroom, his iconic red suit replaced by a perfectly tailored burgundy ensemble. The jolly old elf of legend was nowhere to be seen. Steel-gray eyes scanned the room above a neatly trimmed beard, and hairstreaked white was slicked back from his peaked hairline. Every inch of him radiated power. Literally. I might’ve been human, but the magic rolling off him was palpable.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of a seasoned CEO addressing restless shareholders. “And lady.” His gaze flicked to me with dismissive politeness. “I understand you have some…concerns about our current operational framework.”
Kenai, Taimyr, and Aleksi flanked me, immaculate in the business attire we’d procured for this meeting. But beneath their civilized façades, I sensed the wildness—the way Kenai’s fingers drummed against his thigh, how Taimyr’s shoulders remained coiled despite his calm, the dangerous stillness masking Aleksi’s rage.
We’d prepared as much as we could for this moment. Even with years of experience, I still felt that familiar flicker of doubt that came with every new negotiation—but I wasn’t alone this time. This was for them—for everything they’d fought for. Failure wasn’t an option.
I didn’t intend to lose. I reached for them through our bond, and they reached back—an unbreakable force. Together, we’d built an ironclad case for workers’ rights in a realm where magic had trumped jurisprudence. But no longer.
“Concerns is an understatement,” I replied, setting my leather portfolio on the table with a deliberate smack. The sound echoed like a gauntlet thrown. “What we have here is a systematic violation of basic labor rights that would make any employment attorney salivate.”
Santa’s brows rose—the first crack in his practiced composure. “I’m sorry, Miss…?”
“Hartwell. Sylvie Marie Hartwell, Esquire. Employment law specialist at Blackstone & Associates.” I opened the portfolio, spreading documents across the polished surface like cards in ahigh-stakes game. “I represent the United Arctic Reindeer Clans in their petition for recognition as an official labor union.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Around the table, Santa’s advisors—elves in sharp suits, more corporate lawyer than toy maker—shifted uneasily.
“How charming,” he offered, smiling like a wolf. “A human lawyer. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, what exactly do you think you understand about our operation here?”
“I recognize exploitation when I see it.” I slid the first document forward. “Eighteen-hour shifts during peak season without overtime compensation. Hazardous working conditions with inadequate safety protocols. Housing that violates established occupancy standards. And that’s only the beginning.”
Kenai leaned forward, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. “Last year alone, we lost twelve reindeer to preventable accidents—twelve members of our clan who won’t be returning to their families.”
“Tragic, of course,” Santa said, not looking up from the documents. “But the Christmas operation requires certain…sacrifices. The children of the world depend on us.”
“The children of the world depend on employees who are treated with basic human dignity,” I countered. “Or in this case, basic reindeer dignity.”
“Now, now.” Santa’s voice took on that saccharine tone I recognized from every bad boss I’d ever faced down. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding here. You’re not employees—you’repartnersin a magical tradition that spans centuries.”
I felt Taimyr tense beside me, his usually steady demeanor cracking. This was a classic move, the appeal to tradition and duty. The same tactic every exploitative employer fell back on when confronted with inconvenient truths.
