I can’t remember a time when I ever wanted December to end. I would relive Christmas every day if I could—never take my decorations down or watch a movie other than Love Actually. But this season took a turn and I don’t feel that same cheer I felt a few weeks ago.

I’m ready for this year to be over too.

I take a few deep breaths, count to three, and walk back into the dining room. My table of hotel investors are waiting patiently for me.

“Are there any questions?”

“I have a few.” He has salt and pepper hair and dark brown eyes that he hasn’t taken off my chest. “What perfume are you wearing? You smell delicious.”

“I don’t think I’m on the menu.” I laugh because that’s what I do when I’m uncomfortable.

And then he laughs too and so does the entire table.

“Benny and I have been trying to guess how old you are. I say twenty-five. He seems to think you’re younger.”

“I am,” I say.

“How young?”

I cough. “Do you have any questions about the menu?”

“No,” he says. “Just about you.”

I freeze when his hand slides over my back, jerking me forward.

“Ivan said you were his best waitress.”

“That was nice of him,” I say. “But I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he laughs and he smacks my ass lightly before grabbing a handful of it. “We’re just having a little fun.”

I try to pull away, but he holds me there. “I’d like to take your order if you’re ready.”

“Yes, I’ll take you on this table with your legs spread.”

I feel it bubbling deep inside of me, brewing long before I was old enough to realize what it was. Always passive. Always polite. An uncomfortable giggle and a quick glance around the room. It was an unwanted kiss on the playground at eight years old. It was a bra snap in seventh grade. A boob graze in eighth. It was a tongue shoved down my throat during a dare. A cat call at fourteen. An uncomfortable hand job at fifteen. A frat house of guys calling me a slut. A boss who asks me to show a little more skin. It’s Levi Booker pushing me into a couch. It’s fifteen years of silence.

I’m done being passive and polite.

I’m tired of being quiet.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I snap. “I’m not some rag doll you can do with what you please. I’m a person. I deserve to be respected. Get your fucking hands off of me.”

“You’re feisty.” He pulls me closer and the table laughs.

“Let me go, you vile piece of shit.” I manage to grab his glass of Merlot and throw it in his face.

“Who do you think—”