Aspen smelled different in winter.
Sharper.
Colder.
Cleaner.
The air bit Charlotte’s cheeks as she stepped out of the SUV and looked up at the finished facade of Reid Aspen for the first time.
It took her breath away.
Literally and figuratively.
The glass and stone that had been skeletal on her last visit now gleamed under a pale blue sky.
Lights twinkled under the deep eaves.
Smoke curled from the main chimney.
It didn’t look like the rendering anymore.
It looked…real.
“Wow,” Milo breathed beside her, his mittened hand tucked in hers.
“Big,” he added for good measure.
“Yes,” she said, voice thick. “Very big.”
“Snow!” he shouted, tugging on her hand. “Mommy, look! Snow!”
Snow blanketed the ground in a thick, pristine layer, marred only by the paths the shovels had carved from the entrance to the driveway.
He scooped up a handful and immediately tried to stuff it into his mouth.
“No,” she said, batting his hand gently away. “Not yellow. Not from the parking lot.”
He frowned.
“This is white,” he pointed out.
“We don’t eat parking lot snow,” she said firmly. “We wait for the clean kind.”
He sighed as if she were oppressing him unjustly.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Want to see something cooler than parking lot snow?” a familiar voice called.
They turned.
Dominic walked out of the main doors, bundled in a dark parka over his usual crisp clothes, a knit hat pulled low over his ears.
Maya trailed behind him, scarf up to her nose, eyes bright.
“Dom!” Milo yelled, releasing Charlotte’s hand and barreling forward.
Dominic caught him, lifting him easily and spinning once.
Milo squealed.
“Careful,” Charlotte called, heart jumping.
“I’ve got him,” Dominic said, slowing.
He set Milo down gently.
“Ready to see your mom’s mountain?” he asked.
“Our mountain,” Charlotte corrected, stepping forward.
He smiled.
“Our mountain,” he agreed.
“Can we slide?” Milo demanded. “Is there a slide?”
“There will be,” Maya said, coming up and bending to offer him a mittened fist bump. “Inside. Warm slide.”
“Hi, Aunt Maya,” Milo said solemnly.
He’d started calling her that on FaceTime last week.
Maya had pretended to be outraged.
She’d cried in the bathroom for ten minutes after.
“Hey, kid,” she said now, voice a little thick. “You ready to test some furniture?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Okay,” Dominic said, eyes dancing. “Let’s go test.”
They walked through the front doors into the lobby.
And Charlotte’s heart nearly stopped.
It was…hers.
And not.
The double-height space she’d imagined a hundred times was real.
The fireplace soared up two stories, stone warm and inviting, a living fire crackling.
The floor was wide-plank wood, scuffed just enough to look welcoming instead of precious.
Clusters of sofas and chairs were arranged in little pods—some low and cozy near the fire, some near the wide windows that framed the mountain like a painting.
Kids ran through the space, boots squeaking faintly, parents hovering but not shushing.
To one side, the check-in counter hummed.
No fussy high desk.
Just a long slab of stone with friendly staff behind it, iPads in hand.
The scent of woodsmoke, cocoa, and something citrusy hung in the air.
“Holy shit,” Maya murmured under her breath. “We actually did it.”
“Language,” Dominic said automatically.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Holy…heck.”
Charlotte laughed, a little choked.
“How bad is it?” she asked Dominic. “Be honest.”
He glanced around.
“Needs…a few tweaks,” he said. “Sightline to the kids’ corner is slightly blocked by that plant. We should move it. The signage for the adult bar could be clearer. But overall…” He met her gaze. “It’s…beautiful.”
Her eyes stung.
She blinked.
“Mommy, look!” Milo tugged on her coat.
He pointed.
In the corner they’d fought over in so many meetings—the one she’d insisted should be “for kids, not just decor”—a small nook glowed.
A low bookshelf.
Beanbags.
A tent with twinkle lights.
A sign in playful script: *Little Explorers.*
Two kids sat inside the tent, whispering, hands full of crayons.
One of the staffers in a bright T-shirt sat cross-legged near the entrance, reading aloud from a picture book about a moose on skis.
“Can I go?” Milo breathed.
“Yes,” she said. “Shoes off in the tent, okay?”
He nodded vigorously, already tugging at a boot.
“Here,” Dominic said, crouching to help.
He eased off both boots, lined them neatly by the tent.
Milo dove in, joining the other kids with the instant ease of that age.
Charlotte watched him, heart fit to burst.
“This started as a sketch on your kitchen table,” Maya said quietly beside her. “You realize that, right? This…all of it.”
Charlotte swallowed hard.
“I had help,” she said.
“Don’t minimize,” Maya warned. “It’s annoying.”
Dominic straightened.
“Welcome to Reid Aspen,” he said dryly. “Please try not to cry on the rugs. They’re new.”
She laughed, even as a tear slid down anyway.
“Shut up,” she said.
He brushed it away with a knuckle before she could.
“Happy opening,” he murmured.
“This isn’t opening,” she said. “This is…soft opening. Friends and family. The press doesn’t come for another week.”
“Press will come whether we invite them or not,” he said. “Might as well give them hors d’oeuvres.”
“Speak of the devil,” Maya muttered, nodding toward the far side of the lobby.
Serena stood there with a clipboard and a Bluetooth headset, orchestrating a small group of local influencers like a general.
Lila leaned against a column, camera around her neck this time, eyes taking everything in with her usual unnerving acuity.
And, next to her, wearing a fur-lined coat and an expression that mixed skepticism with grudging appreciation, was Eleanor.
Charlotte’s spine went instinctively straighter.
“Time to face the queen,” Dominic murmured.
“Don’t call her that,” Charlotte said. “She’ll get ideas.”
He smirked.
They crossed the lobby.
Eleanor’s gaze swept the space as they approached.
If she was impressed, she didn’t show it easily.
“Mother,” Charlotte said. “Welcome to Aspen.”
Eleanor’s eyes finally came to rest on her.
“You didn’t ruin it,” she said.
It was, Charlotte knew, high praise.
“Thank you,” she said dryly.
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to Dominic.
“Mr. Steele,” she said. “I see you haven’t turned it into a nightclub.”
“Give me time,” he replied. “We haven’t opened the rooftop yet.”
Her mouth twitched.
Lila lowered her camera.
“If you two are done sharpening your knives, I’d love a shot of all three generations,” she said. “If only for my own gratification.”
“Absolutely not,” Eleanor said immediately.
“Just from behind,” Lila added. “Looking out at the slopes. Hands. Coats. No faces. For the book, not the paper.”
“Book?” Charlotte repeated.
“Future,” Lila said vaguely. “Trust me, you’ll want documentation when you’re old and bitter. I’ll keep it under lock and key until then.”
“Charming,” Dominic said.
Charlotte hesitated.
Then she thought of Milo in his tent.
Of the faceless hand photo in the article.
Of the way small, oblique glimpses had allowed them to invite the world in without giving it everything.
“Okay,” she said. “One.”
Eleanor shot her a look.
“Don’t whine,” Charlotte said under her breath. “You’ll survive.”
They stood at the wide windows, mountain stretching out in front of them.
Lila directed them gently.
“Eleanor in the middle,” she said. “Charlotte on one side. Dominic on the other.”
They complied.
Lila snapped.
“Now hands,” she said. “All three. On the glass.”
Charlotte pressed her palm to the cold window.
Felt the weight of her mother’s hand settle next to hers.
Then Dominic’s.
The reflection in the glass—three hands, three generations of stubbornness—made something knot in her throat.
“Got it,” Lila said. “You can go back to pretending you don’t like each other now.”
Eleanor sniffed.
“I have never pretended,” she said.
***
The day unfolded in a blur.
They did walkthroughs with staff.
Tested the kids’ menu in the restaurant.
Introduced Milo to hot chocolate that was roughly eighty percent whipped cream.
Dominic argued with a bartender about the ratio of marshmallows to cocoa in the adults’ version.
“This is critical,” he said. “We’re setting expectations for the entire mountain.”
“Your priorities are…admirable,” Charlotte said.
In the afternoon, a handful of select press arrived.
Not the gossip vultures.
Travel writers.
Design blogs.
A minuscule crew from a business channel doing a segment on “legacy brands evolving.”
They’d all, of course, read the profile.
Serena had insisted on it.
“Let them come pre-briefed,” she’d said. “Then they can ask smarter questions.”
It worked.
Mostly.
“Yes,” Charlotte said to one journalist. “We designed Aspen with families in mind. Not at the expense of our adult guests, but alongside them. Luxury isn’t about excluding kids from sightlines anymore. It’s about making sure everyone feels…seen.”
“Yes,” Dominic said to another. “The partnership is unusual. That’s why it works. They bring fifty years of cachet. We bring a willingness to throw out parts of the rulebook that don’t serve the next fifty.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said through gritted teeth when someone inevitably asked about her grandson. “He is…charming. And already more famous than any of us, apparently.”
Milo, mercifully, stayed mostly oblivious.
He toddled from kids’ corner to sledding hill to nap time with Mila, his world bounded by snowbanks and cartoons, not headlines.
In quieter moments, Charlotte would catch sight of him across the lobby.
Once, he sat on the floor near the fireplace, lining up his dinosaurs in marching order.
Dominic sat beside him, mimicking the parade with tiny wooden knights from the lobby toy basket.
They were talking earnestly about *which* dinosaur would win in a snowball fight.
She stood in the archway for a full minute, unnoticed, letting the image sink into some deep, unarticulated place in her chest.
Later, as the sky bruised purple and the first stars pricked through the thin mountain atmosphere, she and Dominic slipped out onto one of the side terraces, steam from their mugs of mulled wine curling white in the cold.
“Successful day,” he said.
“I didn’t fall on my face in front of CNBC,” she said. “I’m counting that as a win.”
“You were…good,” he said genuinely. “You sounded…like you were born for this.”
“Liar,” she said.
“Truth,” he insisted.
She stared out at the slope.
Snowcats trundled in the distance, grooming the runs for the morning.
Lights from neighboring properties winked like far-off ships.
“I’m…happy,” she said, a little startled to realize it as she said it. “In a way that feels…different.”
“Different how?” he asked.
“Not…performative,” she said. “Not just ‘yay, numbers.’ Like…something in me that’s been waiting a long time is finally…walking into the room.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“That’s…good,” he said softly. “You deserve that.”
She glanced at him.
“You do too,” she said.
He smiled, small.
“I’m getting there,” he said. “One dinosaur at a time.”
They stood in silence for a while.
Then he said, “He called me ‘Dad’ today.”
Her heart stuttered.
“What?” she asked.
“In the sledding hill,” he said. “You were talking to that travel vlogger with the ridiculous hat. Mila took him up once. He came down, ran over to me, and yelled, ‘Dad, did you see?’”
Her breath caught.
“And you…?” she asked.
“I…almost fell over,” he admitted. “Then I said, ‘I did, bud. You were amazing.’ And Mila gave me this look like if I made it weird she’d murder me.”
“How did he…?” She trailed off.
“Kids make their own connections,” he said. “We can…influence. But we can’t…dictate.”
Her mind flashed back to the night in the kitchen when he’d asked if he could have a daddy “later.”
Later was apparently…now.
“How do you…feel?” she asked.
He let out a breath that clouded white in the air.
“Like someone handed me a priceless antique and I’m terrified of dropping it,” he said. “And also like…everything before this was…pre-season.”
She swallowed.
“For what?” she asked.
“For my…actual life,” he said.
Tears pricked her eyes.
“You’re going to make me cry on my own terrace,” she muttered.
“I promise not to tell CNBC,” he said.
She laughed through the wetness.
Then, impulsively, she stepped closer.
Slipped her free hand into his.
He looked down at their joined fingers.
Then up at her.
“Is this…allowed?” he asked quietly.
“For the next five minutes,” she said. “Until I remember all the reasons it’s not.”
He smiled.
“Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
He squeezed her hand.
They watched the snowcats move.
The stars brighten.
The soft opening of the hotel that had started as an idea in her chest and now stood, solid, messy, imperfect, warm, behind them.
And for once, the cracks in her life didn’t feel like faults waiting to break.
They felt like seams.
Stitched, carefully, into something that might actually hold.
***