The first photo showed up on Twitter the next morning.
Not of him.
Of her.
Someone had snapped it from across the ballroom, the angle slightly tilted, the lighting warm.
She stood at the edge of the stage, headset in place, eyes fixed on Nathan as he spoke into the mic. Her hand was on his arm, fingers pressing into his sleeve, her body angled toward him protectively.
The caption read:
> When the *real* star of the show is the woman making sure the roof doesn’t cave in. #HealingHeartsGala #NathanCross
Sophie stared at it on her phone as she sat at her kitchen table, cereal spoon halfway to her mouth.
The tweet had a few hundred likes, a cluster of comments.
> @booknerd23: Is this the same Sophie Turner from that *Current* article?? > > @eventsqueen: She is a LEGEND. > > @thrillertrash: Wait, is Nathan Cross dating his event planner??
Her stomach flipped.
She scrolled.
More photos.
Someone had posted a short clip from the side angle.
You could see Nathan on stage, lit by the spot, and the faint silhouette of her in the wings.
When the applause hit, you could see her step slightly forward, as if ready to catch him.
The video had been retweeted by a mid-level publishing gossip account with the caption:
> Cross may hate the spotlight, but he seems very fond of his planner. 👀 #BehindTheScenes #PowerFixer
Heat crawled up her neck.
Her phone buzzed.
Lia.
LIA: Have you seen Twitter???
SOPHIE: Unfortunately yes.
LIA: They’re making you a ship name.
LIA: “Nophie.” LIA: I hate it.
SOPHIE: That’s terrible.
LIA: Or “Sathan.” LIA: Which is worse.
Despite herself, Sophie snorted.
SOPHIE: Sounds like a demon I’d be.
LIA: Accurate.
More buzzes.
Miranda.
MIRANDA: Before you panic: I’ve seen the posts. MIRANDA: It’s mostly positive. MIRANDA: “Look at this badass planner keeping Cross from bolting.” MIRANDA: BUT MIRANDA: Be prepared. A gossip blog already emailed asking for comment “on the nature of your relationship.”
Sophie dropped the spoon back into the bowl.
Milk sloshed.
Her heart hammered.
SOPHIE: Already??
MIRANDA: His name is clicks. Yours is linked to his now. MIRANDA: This was inevitable. MIRANDA: We can shut it down. “Professional relationship. No further comment.” MIRANDA: Or… we can use it.
Alarm flared.
SOPHIE: Use it HOW
MIRANDA: Not in a gross way. MIRANDA: But “the woman who can handle Nathan Cross” is a PR angle we’d be idiots not to leverage for corporate clients. MIRANDA: *If* you’re comfortable.
She rubbed her forehead.
The cereal congealed.
“Comfortable” was a big word.
She wasn’t ashamed of what was between her and Nathan. Whatever “it” was. She wasn’t proud of it either, not in a way she wanted splashed across gossip sites.
It was messy.
Raw.
Private.
She thought of him on the terrace.
I’m not asking you for anything right now. I’m just… telling you where my head is.
If the internet started screaming about them, what would that do to his head?
Her phone buzzed again.
NATHAN: Why is my name trending with the word “Satan” in it? NATHAN: Do I need to sue someone?
Her laugh came out sharp.
SOPHIE: It’s our ship name. SOPHIE: Apparently.
NATHAN: Ship name?
Of course, she thought. Of course the man who wrote twisty thrillers and lived in a glass box did not know fandom terminology.
SOPHIE: When people on the internet decide two people are romantically involved and mash their names together. SOPHIE: Usually about fictional characters. SOPHIE: Or celebrities. SOPHIE: Or your surly ass and my clipboard.
There was a pause.
NATHAN: People think we’re together? NATHAN: Based on… what? A few photos? NATHAN: And a mountain?
She winced.
She hadn’t told him about the Eleanor speculation, the way readers in comment sections had already started spinning fantasies.
She’d pretended the internet didn’t exist.
SOPHIE: Based on you looking like you were going to pass out and me grabbing your arm. SOPHIE: And, yes, on some assumptions from the articles. SOPHIE: The gossip blogs smell blood.
NATHAN: Fabulous. NATHAN: I hate this.
SOPHIE: I know. SOPHIE: We can ignore it. Not feed it. It’ll die down.
NATHAN: Lies. NATHAN: The internet never dies. NATHAN: What does Miranda think?
Even in a mini-panic, he was strategic.
SOPHIE: Use it. Carefully. SOPHIE: Or do a flat denial. SOPHIE: “Professional relationship. No further comment.”
NATHAN: Which do you want?
Her breath caught.
He was putting it on her.
SOPHIE: I want to protect you. SOPHIE: And Aurora. SOPHIE: And my sanity.
NATHAN: That’s not an answer.
She stared at the screen.
What *did* she want?
Part of her—deep, secret—liked that people saw something between them. That strangers noticed the way she looked at him, the way he responded. It made her feel… less crazy.
Another part wanted to crawl under her bed and stay there until the internet moved on to the next scandal.
SOPHIE: I don’t want our… mess to be a meme. SOPHIE: I also don’t want to pretend we’re nothing.
The second sentence surprised her even as she typed it.
There it was.
Naked.
True.
His reply was slower this time.
NATHAN: I don’t want to pretend either. NATHAN: But I also don’t want you to get… burned. NATHAN: Professionally. NATHAN: Or personally.
She exhaled.
SOPHIE: Then we split the difference. SOPHIE: We don’t comment on “us.” SOPHIE: We comment on trust. SOPHIE: On what it takes to do our jobs together without killing each other.
NATHAN: That sounds like therapy-speak.
SOPHIE: It’s spin. SOPHIE: Let them think what they want. SOPHIE: We know what’s true. SOPHIE: Or we’re figuring it out.
Silence.
Her chest hurt.
NATHAN: Fine. NATHAN: Tell Miranda I’ll back whatever line you take. NATHAN: If anyone asks me, I’ll say, “Sophie Turner is the only reason I leave my house. Draw your own conclusions.”
Her heart slammed.
SOPHIE: DO NOT SAY THAT.
NATHAN: Why? NATHAN: It’s true.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
SOPHIE: Because they will draw conclusions. SOPHIE: And some of them will be… right. SOPHIE: And I’m not ready for that.
There.
Another truth.
He didn’t reply right away.
When he did, his tone had shifted.
NATHAN: Okay. NATHAN: I’ll be… boring. NATHAN: “Sophie Turner is a consummate professional and I trust her with my life.” NATHAN: Better?
Warmth spread, tangled with anxiety.
SOPHIE: Yes. SOPHIE: Terrifying, but better.
She called Miranda.
They crafted a statement together.
> Aurora Events confirms that Sophie Turner works with Mr. Cross in a professional capacity as an event planner and consultant. We’re proud of the work we’ve done together on the Elk Ridge summit and the Healing Hearts Gala. > > Sophie’s job is to make sure events run smoothly and safely, whether that’s for a reclusive author, a tech company, or a couple on their wedding day. > > We won’t be commenting on her personal life.
It wasn’t exactly a denial.
It wasn’t an admission.
It was… a line.
They sent it to the gossip blog that had asked for comment, copied to a couple of other outlets preemptively.
Some ran it as is.
Others speculated anyway.
> “No comment on her personal life” 👀
> “Of course they’re not going to say they’re dating…”
Sophie closed the tabs.
She couldn’t live like that—doomscrolling her own name, parsing strangers’ projections.
She went to work.
Weddings, retreats, launches.
Life.
Nathan kept texting.
More, if anything.
NATHAN: Woke up from a nightmare about chandeliers. Thanks. NATHAN: Howard says you’ve ruined ballrooms for me.
SOPHIE: You’re welcome. SOPHIE: There are worse things.
He sent photos of pages again, of his cat biting his ankle, of an attempt at cooking risotto that had ended in disaster.
NATHAN: How do you make rice not glue? NATHAN: Rafe made it look easy. NATHAN: Liar.
She sent him a step-by-step voice note, walking him through stirring and stock and patience.
He replied with a triumphant photo of something that looked… edible.
NATHAN: If this writing thing fails, I can become your sous-chef. NATHAN: “Nathan Cross, professional stirrer.”
SOPHIE: You’d set the kitchen on fire. SOPHIE: But I appreciate the thought.
They talked on video once a week, calendars and chaos and, sometimes, nothing of consequence.
She saw more of his house.
Not just the study.
A glimpse of his kitchen, cluttered with coffee cups and a bowl of fruit. A spare bedroom turned half gym, half storage. The corner of a bookshelf with a lopsided plant.
He saw more of her life.
Her tiny kitchen with its mismatched mugs. The way she paced when she thought. The way her couch tried to eat her whenever she sat on it.
It was… intimacy by installment.
Slow.
Cumulative.
And not quite enough.
She knew they were skirting something.
She also knew they couldn’t leap into it without thinking.
Too much was tangled.
His fame. Her job. Their reputations. The clients watching. The gossip.
Still.
On nights when she lay in bed, phone dark on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling, she could feel the pull.
Like Elk Ridge’s gravity tugging at her from hundreds of miles away.
The key card lived in her bedside drawer now.
She’d moved it from her pocket after waking up one morning with an imprint on her thigh and the uneasy feeling that she’d sleepwalk to his house if she wasn’t careful.
Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she opened the drawer and looked at it.
She never picked it up.
Not yet.
***
The next test came from a less predictable place.
A new client.
Miranda slid the file across Sophie’s desk one Thursday afternoon.
“Read,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”
It was a proposal from a global streaming platform.
They wanted to host a three-day content summit.
At Elk Ridge.
With Nathan as the centerpiece.
“They want to do it again,” Miranda said, sitting. “But bigger. Executives, showrunners, influencers. Panels, previews, exclusive announcements. They want you. They want us. They’re offering more money than we made last quarter.”
Sophie felt her pulse spike.
“Elk Ridge,” she said.
“Yes,” Miranda said.
“With him,” Sophie said.
“Obviously,” Miranda said. “It’s his house.”
Her skin prickled.
Part of her—event planner, partner, professional—thrummed with excitement.
Logistics, challenges, prestige.
Part of her—woman who’d stood on a terrace with him under stars—thrummed with something else.
Temptation.
Danger.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Miranda said quietly.
Sophie looked up, startled.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re not obligated to go back there,” Miranda said. “You did your time on the mountain. You nearly had a heart attack in a blizzard. You turned our whole company around. If you want to pass this to Jonah or Mia and run point from here, we can do that.”
Sophie’s throat tightened.
“You’d let me… not go?” she asked.
Miranda shrugged.
“I need you at the strategic level,” she said. “Not necessarily at every front line. And I’m not blind. I see… the lines there. Between you and him. If this is too… charged, I’m not throwing you into it without asking.”
Her eyes stung.
“You’re going to make me cry,” she muttered.
“Don’t,” Miranda said. “I have a reputation.”
Sophie stared at the proposal.
She thought of Elk Ridge’s glass walls.
Of the study.
Of his hands on the keyboard.
Of his hand on her arm at the gala.
Of the kiss.
Of the key.
She thought of how far they’d come.
From storm to gala.
From ghost to man.
From client to… something.
She thought of the summit that had changed her life.
Of what another one could do—for Aurora, for his career, for their… whatever.
She thought, too, of the danger.
The longer they danced around this, the deeper she fell.
Did going back to the mountain accelerate that?
Almost certainly.
Did staying away fix it?
Almost certainly not.
“I need to… think,” she said.
“Take two days,” Miranda said. “The streamer wants an answer by Monday. And Soph?”
“Yeah?” she said.
“Whatever you decide,” Miranda said, “I have your back.”
Emotion rose.
She nodded.
When Miranda left, she sat there, staring at the folder.
Her phone buzzed.
As if he’d sensed the shift.
NATHAN: My editor says I turned in “the best messy draft I’ve seen from you in years.” NATHAN: I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. NATHAN: Are we celebrating or do I need to sulk?
She stared at the screen.
She could stall.
She could let Miranda handle the streaming proposal and loop him in later.
Or she could… start as they meant to go on.
Honest.
Messy.
Together.
She typed:
SOPHIE: Both celebrating and sulking sound on-brand. SOPHIE: Also SOPHIE: A streamer wants to do a summit at your place. SOPHIE: Again. SOPHIE: With me. SOPHIE: Thoughts?
The dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started.
NATHAN: I told Howard to kill that before it got to you. NATHAN: He failed.
She blinked.
He *knew*.
SOPHIE: You knew?? SOPHIE: And you didn’t tell me?
NATHAN: I was… trying to be noble. NATHAN: Kill it quietly. NATHAN: Not drag you back up here unless you wanted it.
Her heart did something painful.
SOPHIE: And what do *you* want?
A long pause.
NATHAN: The selfish part of me wants you here. NATHAN: Your brain. Your eyes. Your… everything. NATHAN: The part of me that’s trying to be less of an asshole knows it might not be healthy. NATHAN: For you. NATHAN: For me. NATHAN: For this… whatever we’re doing.
Her breath came shallow.
SOPHIE: We’re both adults. SOPHIE: We can handle working together. SOPHIE: Again.
NATHAN: “Handle” is a strong word.
She smiled, despite the crash of adrenaline.
SOPHIE: Are you… scared? SOPHIE: Of the summit. SOPHIE: Or of *me*?
Three dots.
Then:
NATHAN: Yes.
Her laugh came out half-strangled.
She typed carefully.
SOPHIE: I haven’t decided yet. SOPHIE: Miranda gave me an out. SOPHIE: I can send Jonah in my place and run it from here. SOPHIE: Or I can come. SOPHIE: And we both deal with… the fallout. SOPHIE: Whatever it is.
His reply was immediate.
NATHAN: I don’t want to be the reason you say no. NATHAN: Or the reason you say yes. NATHAN: That’s… the line.
Her chest ached.
He was learning.
So was she.
SOPHIE: I’ll make the call. SOPHIE: For me. SOPHIE: For Aurora. SOPHIE: For whether I think I can handle your grumpy ass for three more days.
NATHAN: You’ve handled worse. NATHAN: Crypto bros. Brides with live tigers. NATHAN: One more summit won’t kill you. NATHAN: Probably.
She sat there, phone in hand, staring at the folder.
Elk Ridge.
The mountain.
The glass house.
The man.
The fault lines.
They weren’t going away.
They were only going to deepen.
Whether on a mountain or in a city or over a screen.
She could run.
Or she could stand where she was, feel the tremors, and decide whether to build or bail.
Her hand shook slightly as she typed.
SOPHIE: I’ll let you know. SOPHIE: Monday.
NATHAN: Okay. NATHAN: Whatever you decide. NATHAN: I’ll live with it. NATHAN: Even if it makes me hate calendar blocks forever.
She exhaled, slow.
She closed the folder.
For the first time since she’d driven down the mountain, she let herself admit it fully:
She wanted him.
She also wanted her work, her company, her sense of self.
The question wasn’t whether she could have both.
The question was whether they could build something—with scaffolding and exits and honesty—that could hold without caving in.
She had until Monday.
Two days.
Seventy-two hours.
The same amount of time she’d had before the first summit.
The universe, she thought wryly, had a sense of symmetry.
This time, there was no blizzard.
But the storm inside her was very, very real.
---