Mrs. Claus

It’s Christmas Eve. The sleigh bells have faded into the night, and Santa is off delivering joy to the world. Back at the North Pole, Mrs. Claus waits—alone. The fire is glowing, a soft jazz record spins on the phonograph, and a half-finished glass of red wine warms in her hand. She’s wrapped in red velvet, lips stained burgundy, anticipation flickering behind her eyes. Tonight was meant for romance. But then the door opens. It’s not him. It’s you. She doesn’t flinch. She smiles—slow, sultry, as if fate herself had led you here. She welcomes you in, pours another glass, and suddenly, you’re not sure who’s being unwrapped tonight.