The elevator doors slid open on the twelfth floor, and Aurora hit her like a wave.
Phones ringing. Voices overlapping. The clack of keys and the muted thump of boxes being shifted. Someone had queued up a playlist in the shared area—low, pulsing electronic that made the whole space feel like it had a heartbeat.
Sophie stepped out into it and, for a moment, just absorbed.
This was hers.
Not just in the “I work here” way.
In the “my name is on the paperwork” way.
The thought made her both taller and slightly nauseous.
“Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Jonah called from his desk, one arm raised in mock worship.
“Bow before me,” she said dryly, dropping her bag on her chair.
“I already did my morning core workout,” he replied. “I’m spent.”
Mia popped up over the edge of her cubicle like an enthusiastic meerkat. “Do we get to do another haunted mountain, or what?” she demanded.
“That,” Sophie said, “is what I’m about to go decide.”
“Miranda’s in conference room B,” Jonah said. “With contracts and that scary focused look.”
“Scary focused is my everyday,” Sophie said.
“Exactly,” he replied.
She made a face at him and headed down the hall.
Conference room B’s glass walls were already papered over with sticky notes and printouts. A diagram of the Elk Ridge estate was tacked up on one side, labeled with scribbled arrows: MAIN HALL, STUDY, CONFERENCE. Next to it, a mood board: images of minimalist stage setups, streaming platform logos, words like “immersion,” “intimacy,” “exclusivity.”
Miranda stood at the far end of the table, black pencil skirt, white blouse, hair in its usual spear of a twist, marker in hand, mid-flow.
“…if they think they’re getting a Comic-Con panel at a Bond villain lair, they’re out of their minds,” she was saying. “We’re not doing a content circus. We’re doing a curated summit.”
She turned as the door clicked.
“There she is,” she said. “Our goddess of snow logistics.”
“I really need a new title,” Sophie muttered, closing the door behind her.
The only other people in the room were Aurora’s in-house counsel, Jake, already surrounded by contracts, and a young woman Sophie didn’t know: sleek bob, sharp blazer, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“This is Priya,” Miranda said. “Our new junior producer. She’s going to help manage content deliverables for this thing. Priya, this is Sophie. She’s the reason you have a job.”
Priya’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you’re the one from the Eleanor Chase article,” she blurted. “I have that bookmarked. I made my boyfriend read it.”
Sophie blinked. “I’m… sorry?” she said.
“He needed to understand invisible labor,” Priya said fervently. “Also, you were a badass.”
Heat crept up Sophie’s neck. “We’re a team,” she said. “Badassery is a group effort.”
Miranda smirked. “And there you go being modest again,” she said. “Sit. We have terms to destroy.”
Sophie slid into a chair, notepad in hand.
Jake tapped the stack in front of him. “StreamWave’s standard event agreement,” he said. “I’ve marked at least twelve things we’re not accepting unless we suddenly want to become unpaid brand ambassadors.”
“Remind me,” Sophie said. “What are they calling this monstrosity again?”
Miranda flipped a sheet toward her.
> STREAMWAVE STORYFRONT: AN INTIMATE SUMMIT WITH NATHAN CROSS
Sophie snorted. “That’s a lot of caps,” she said.
“They wanted to call it ‘Inside the Mind of Nathan Cross,’” Miranda said. “I told them if they did, he’d set the house on fire.”
“He would,” Sophie agreed.
“Okay,” Miranda said, planting her palms on the table. “We’ve said yes in principle. Now we say what we’re saying yes *to*.”
She flicked on the wall monitor. A spreadsheet bloomed.
“Three days, same as last time,” she narrated. “Two and a half, really, with arrivals and departures. Headcount: twenty-four this time. Mix of StreamWave execs, showrunners, lead writers, and a handful of carefully selected ‘creators’ they want Nathan to bless with his presence.”
“Influencers,” Sophie translated.
“People with ring lights and merch,” Priya said. “They’re not all terrible. Some are brilliant. Some make slime videos.”
Sophie’s eyebrow arched. “Slime?”
“Don’t ask,” Priya said. “The algorithm is a dark god.”
“Non-negotiables on our side,” Miranda said briskly. “No filming Nathan’s face. No live broadcasting from Elk Ridge. All content recorded must be pre-approved by him before release. We own the on-site schedule. They own what happens with their cameras within that schedule.”
“Is he okay with *any* filming this time?” Jake asked.
“Yes,” Sophie said. “Reluctantly. Audio only in some sessions, limited B-roll of the house, the grounds, backs of heads. No faces without explicit consent. Especially his.”
Jake scribbled.
“On their side, they want one main stage conversation with Nathan and their Chief Content Officer,” Miranda went on. “Two small breakout groups with ‘creators,’ a writers’ room simulation thing, and a ‘fireside chat’ that apparently they picture happening literally in front of his fireplace.”
“Do they know real fires are hot?” Sophie asked.
“They’ll learn,” Miranda said.
Sophie glanced at the estate diagram.
Three days.
Twenty-four people.
Cameras.
Fires.
Nathan.
Her chest fluttered and clenched at once.
“We also need to build in time for him not to murder anyone,” she said.
“Is that a legal term?” Jake asked.
“It should be,” she said.
They spent an hour going through the draft.
Sophie flagged anything that would make his skin crawl.
“They want ‘drop-in access’ for their social media team in all spaces,” she said at one point, frowning. “No. No one drops in on Nathan unannounced with a ring light. Or on any guest, frankly.”
“Agreed,” Miranda said. “Pre-scheduled content windows only. We’ll give them a ‘content garden’ to play in.”
Priya perked up. “We can set up a dedicated room,” she said. “Good lighting, backdrop, maybe some props. People who *want* to film can go in there. Nathan doesn’t ever have to set foot in it.”
“Perfect,” Sophie said. “Call it the Story Lab or something. Make them feel special.”
“Noted,” Priya said, typing furiously.
They circled the language about travel and liability.
“We’re adding a severe weather clause,” Jake said. “Given… history.”
“Yes,” Miranda said dryly. “Given that our lead planner has been through one blizzard in this guy’s house already, we’re not doing it blind again.”
“I’m checking forecasts anyway,” Sophie said. “I know it’s spring, but Colorado likes drama.”
“StreamWave is also asking for a ‘personal access window’ with Nathan for the CEO,” Jake said. “No cameras, just… ‘relationship-building.’ One hour.”
Sophie’s hackles rose.
“That’s vague,” she said.
“That’s threatening,” Miranda corrected. “We don’t give them unstructured, unsupervised time to make promises or demands. If they want to talk business, they can do it in a structured session with his agent present. Or Howard. Or Sophie with a taser.”
“I don’t carry a taser,” Sophie said automatically.
“You should,” Priya murmured.
They crossed it out and suggested an alternative: a thirty-minute “vision discussion,” with an agenda and a third party present.
By the time they’d bled red ink all over the contract, the outline felt… manageable.
Intense.
But not impossible.
“When do you want to loop him in?” Miranda asked as she packed up.
“Tonight,” Sophie said. “Or tomorrow. I’ll send him the redlined doc and then we can walk through the emotional landmines on a call.”
Priya arched a brow. “Emotional landmines,” she repeated. “Is that what we’re calling executives now?”
“Executives, guests, Nathan,” Sophie said. “They all have them.”
Miranda looked at her, head tilted.
“How are *you* doing?” she asked.
Sophie thought of Lia’s pros and cons list. Of the key card in her pocket. Of the way he’d said, You terrify me. In a good way.
“I’m… scared,” she admitted. “And excited. And… weirdly calm now that the decision’s made.”
“Sounds like you on any big event,” Miranda said.
“Exactly,” Sophie said. “This is… just another event.”
It was a lie.
Miranda didn’t call her on it.
“Go take a walk,” she said instead. “Clear your head before you talk to him. I need you not to sound like you’re about to recite poetry when you say ‘Stage B.’”
“I never recite poetry,” Sophie said.
“You *feel* poetry,” Miranda said. “Which is worse.”
***
She didn’t walk.
She drove.
Not far—just ten minutes, down to the riverfront park where the city’s glass and brick faced the slow, cold water.
She parked, stuffed her hands in her coat pockets, and wandered along the path.
Kids zipped by on scooters. A couple walked a dog in a ridiculous sweater. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and somebody’s distant grilling.
Her phone buzzed.
NATHAN: Are you avoiding me?
She snorted.
SOPHIE: I’m walking. SOPHIE: Some of us touch grass sometimes.
NATHAN: Gross. NATHAN: Did Miranda sacrifice the contract to the blood gods?
SOPHIE: It’s bled on. SOPHIE: In a good way. SOPHIE: Can you talk later? 8? Long one.
NATHAN: You sound like my therapist. NATHAN: “Can you talk later? It’s going to be painful.” NATHAN: Yes.
She stared at the river.
She thought of the last time she’d stood in a liminal space like this, about to change something.
The night before the first summit, watching a news alert about a storm.
Tonight, there was no storm warning.
Just a sense of… tipping.
She went back to the office, powered through some emails, let the day grind down.
At 7:55, she was home, sweatpants on, hair in a bun, laptop open on her coffee table.
She clicked the video icon.
He answered on the second ring.
“Look at you,” he said instead of hello. “Domestic.”
“You’ve seen my couch before,” she said. “It’s not news.”
“I never get used to it,” he said. “You in a… soft environment. Makes me think you’re human.”
“You sound disappointed,” she said.
He sat at his desk, the familiar shelves behind him. H.G. Fluffcraft’s ears peeked over the edge of a stack of galleys.
On the wall, above his monitor, she saw the calendar printout again.
More boxes filled in now.
More scribbles.
“What did Miranda do to the contract?” he asked.
She shared her screen.
Red marks bloomed.
“Highlights,” she said. “We pushed back on their social team access. No drop-ins. Content room only. We slashed the CEO ‘access window’ down to thirty minutes with guardrails. We added weather clauses. And we framed your main sessions as conversations, not interrogations.”
He squinted.
“‘Intimate fireside chat,’” he read. “I hate that word. Intimate.”
“You love that word,” she said. “You write it all over your books. Just with more murder.”
“In fiction, it’s fine,” he said. “In corporate speak, it’s code for ‘we’re going to make you cry on camera.’”
“No crying on camera,” she said. “Promise. Unless you want to.”
He shot her a look.
“Don’t,” he said. “My fans already think I’m secretly soft. Eleanor did enough damage.”
“She told the truth,” Sophie said.
He muttered something, then refocused.
“Twenty-four people,” he said. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know,” she said. “We’re capping it there. No plus-ones. No ‘surprise guest drop-ins.’”
“Thank God,” he said.
He was doing the thing he did when he was truly anxious: tapping his thumb against his index finger, like he was sending Morse code.
She caught it.
“You can say no,” she reminded him quietly.
He looked at her.
“And undo your decision?” he said. “Make all this work pointless? Kill Miranda’s dreams of Scrooge McDuck vaults?”
“She’ll survive,” Sophie said. “So will I. This isn’t a gun to your head, Nathan.”
“No,” he said. “But it feels… important.”
“How so?” she asked.
“First summit was… survival,” he said slowly. “Second will be… choice.”
She stilled.
He went on.
“I agreed to the first one because my agent and publisher were panicking about my… retreat,” he said. “Sales dipping, deadlines slipping. I thought if I did one big, painful PR move, they’d shut up for a while.”
“And did they?” she asked.
“For about five minutes,” he said. “Then they wanted more. That’s the thing about giving people access—they get greedy.”
She nodded.
“Eleanor’s piece wasn’t greedy,” he said. “She saw… more than I wanted. But she painted it in a way that… felt okay. And she put you in it. Not as scenery. As… structure.”
Her throat tightened.
“So this,” he continued, nodding at the contract, “feels like… deciding. To do things on those terms. Not on theirs. To do another summit, but with you having more power from the start. With me walking in knowing what I’m doing, not just flinching.”
“Intention,” she said.
He grimaced. “There’s that therapy word again.”
“Your therapist’s good,” she said. “You should listen to him more.”
“I do,” he said. “Against my will.”
They went through the schedule.
She laid out blocks: welcome dinner Friday night, main stage conversation Saturday morning, breakouts Saturday afternoon, a Sunday morning “writers’ lab,” a closing circle.
He grumbled at “closing circle” until she rebranded it as “debrief.”
“I’m not sitting on a floor with executives holding hands,” he said.
“You’re sitting in a very expensive chair with executives holding their egos,” she said. “Very different.”
He snorted.
As they moved squares and arrows around, the grid of the days took shape.
He watched her cursor with the same intensity he’d watched snowflakes.
“You really do see time in boxes, don’t you?” he said.
“It’s how I keep roofs up,” she said.
He went still, just for a second.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We do it like this.”
“Are you sure?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said. “But I’m willing.”
“That’s enough,” she said.
He looked at her, like he wanted to say something else.
Didn’t.
Instead, he changed tack.
“You know they’re going to bring cameras,” he said. “Even with your limits. Even with your content room. There’s going to be… footage. Of the house. Of the rooms. Of… you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“And… of us,” he added.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
“Yes,” she said again.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I don’t hate that,” he said. “And that terrifies me.”
She swallowed.
“We can control a lot,” she said. “Not everything. But a lot. Who’s filming what. Where. When. We can set lines. We can enforce them.”
“And the lines between us?” he asked quietly. “Can we enforce those?”
Her mouth dried.
“I don’t… know,” she said. “I know we can try. I know we need to… name them. Before we get up there.”
“Name them,” he echoed. “Okay.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Rule one,” he said. “You’re there as a professional. My consultant. Not my… emotional crutch.”
“Agreed,” she said. “I’m not your therapist. Or your mom.”
He made a face. “Stop saying that word.”
“Then stop acting like a teenager,” she retorted.
He huffed.
“Rule two,” she said. “We don’t… sleep together.”
The words felt like sand in her mouth.
His jaw clenched.
“During the summit,” he clarified. “Or… ever?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“During the summit,” she said. “Anything that happens between us needs to happen when I’m not on your payroll in that intense a way. When I’m not… responsible for your emotional and logistical well-being in a glass box.”
He exhaled, hard.
“Okay,” he said. “During the summit. No sex.”
Her stomach flipped at his casual use of the word, graphic by its existence alone.
“Or… anything that looks like… more than we can handle,” she added, cheeks heating.
He raised a brow.
“You mean no making out in the pantry while executives refresh their coffee,” he said.
“Exactly,” she said.
“Tease,” he muttered.
She scoffed.
“Rule three,” he said. “We’re honest. If something crosses a line. If something hurts. We don’t… swallow it for the sake of the event.”
“That one’s going to be hard,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he said. “We’re both very good at compartmentalizing when there’s a job to do.”
She thought of herself in the first summit, smoothing her hair before walking into his study even when she’d been exhausted.
“I don’t want to… use you,” he said. “As a… coping mechanism. A panic button. A person I cling to when the room gets loud.”
“I don’t want to be used that way,” she said. “Not… unconsciously.”
He nodded slowly.
“But I also don’t want you to shut me out if you’re spiraling,” she added. “We can find a… middle. Where you have other tools, and I’m one of them. Not the only one.”
He smiled, small.
“You really did read that Brené book,” he said.
“Shut up,” she said again.
Silence stretched.
Comfortable.
Charged.
“You realize,” he said at last, “that we just had a… relationship talk. For a relationship we’re pretending we’re not in.”
Her chest squeezed.
“We’re not pretending,” she said quietly. “We’re… naming a thing we haven’t had time to define. Because we keep putting it under stage lights with other people watching.”
He watched her.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Yeah?” she whispered.
“When this summit is over,” he said, “and the last exec leaves, and the last camera shuts off… we’re going to have that definition talk.”
Her pulse jumped.
“With no catering,” she said, trying for light and almost making it.
“With no catering,” he agreed. “Just… us. And whatever’s left.”
Her throat was suddenly tight.
“Okay,” she said. “Deal.”
“Shake on it?” he said.
He held out his hand to the camera.
She rolled her eyes, but she lifted her own, pressing her palm to the screen.
It was absurd.
It was also, weirdly, grounding.
“Deal,” she said.
They lingered like that for a second.
Then he dropped his hand.
“Send me the final contract,” he said gruffly. “I’ll pretend to read it and let Howard actually do it.”
“Good delegation,” she said.
“I’m learning from the best,” he replied.
She wanted to say more.
She didn’t.
“Goodnight, Nathan,” she said instead.
“Goodnight, Sophie,” he answered.
She ended the call and sat there, staring at her reflection in the dark screen.
Her own eyes looked back at her.
Steady.
Scared.
Determined.
Terms set.
Conditions accepted.
Now came the hard part.
Execution.
On the mountain.
And in whatever “us” was waiting on the other side.
***
Three weeks later, she was back on the familiar mountain road.
The SUV hummed under her hands, loaded with labeled crates and garment bags. The sky was a crisp, deceitful blue, the peaks dusted with snow like powdered sugar.
Her GPS petered out at the same bend.
NO SERVICE blinked smugly on her phone.
“Of course,” she said aloud.
She wasn’t alone this time.
Mia drove the second loaded SUV behind her, visible in the rearview mirror, tongue stuck out in concentration.
They’d timed it so they’d arrive a full day before any StreamWave people, to prep the house, run cables, test networks, and—most importantly—to give Sophie and Nathan time to recalibrate before the circus rolled in.
Her hands tightened on the wheel as the Cross Estate came into view around the last curve.
It looked… the same.
Angular.
Glass.
Solid against the clear sky.
The memories hit like a scent.
Her first arrival, heart in her throat.
The blizzard whiteout.
The power flicker at 3:17 a.m.
The key card.
The kiss.
Heat washed through her and was chased, almost immediately, by a wave of something like grief.
For the version of herself who’d walked up these steps the first time, unaware of how much would change.
“At least this time we have forecasts,” she muttered, pulling up to the gate.
The gatehouse door opened.
Howard stepped out, as composed as always, gray hair neat, coat immaculate.
“Ms. Turner,” he said. “Welcome back to the asylum.”
She laughed, relief loosening her shoulders.
“Good to be back in the padded rooms,” she said.
He shook Mia’s hand when she climbed out of the second SUV.
“You’ve brought reinforcements,” he observed.
“You think I’d face StreamWave alone?” Sophie said. “Please.”
“Rafe’s already in the kitchen threatening the produce,” Howard said. “The A/V crew from town is setting up in the conference room. The generator’s been serviced twice. And Mr. Cross has been… pacing.”
“Pacing?” she repeated.
“A very wide circuit of the study,” Howard said. “He’s worn a path in the rug. I may send him the bill.”
Her heart gave a stupid little leap.
“Let me unload,” she said. “Then I’ll go… unpave the rug.”
Howard’s mouth twitched. “Do that,” he said. “It’s antique.”
They carried boxes in through the big glass doors, the foyer echoing with the thud of crate on polished floor.
Mia’s eyes were wide, taking it all in.
“This is insane,” she whispered. “He lives in a Bond lair.”
“He works in a Bond lair,” Sophie corrected. “He lives… in his head.”
“Hot,” Mia murmured.
Sophie shot her a look.
“Don’t,” she said.
“What? I’m just appreciating the architecture,” Mia said innocently.
“Appreciate the Ethernet ports instead,” Sophie said. “We’re going to need them.”
They stowed supplies in the service corridors, checked guest rooms, fluffed pillows.
At some point, Sophie realized she was circling the study hall like it had gravity.
She made herself stop.
Made herself walk toward it.
The glass door was half-frosted at the bottom, clear at the top.
Through it, she saw the familiar silhouette: tall, slightly hunched at the window, hands in his pockets.
Her heart thudded.
She knocked once.
He turned.
For a split second, his expression was naked.
Relief.
Then the usual defenses slid in.
Annoyance.
Curiosity.
Something that looked alarmingly like hope.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Nathan,” she replied.
He stepped back to let her in.
The room smelled faintly of coffee and whatever fancy soap he used.
The view was postcard-clear today—no whiteout, just a sweep of blue sky and distant, glittering peaks.
“It’s sunnier than last time,” she said, because she didn’t know where else to start.
“No blizzard,” he said. “Yet.”
“Don’t jinx it,” she scolded.
He watched her with that unnerving focus.
“You’re here,” he said softly.
“You say that like you doubted it,” she said.
“I doubted myself,” he said. “Not you.”
The words hit like small, heavy stones.
“I signed a contract,” she said lightly. “We don’t break those.”
“Even if your heart tries to?” he asked.
Her throat tightened.
“Especially then,” she said.
Silence fell.
It wasn’t empty.
It was… thick.
Charged.
“You look…” he began, then stopped, as if the words were fighting him.
“Like I’ve been on a highway for two hours with Mia’s Spotify playlist behind me?” she supplied.
His mouth quirked.
“Like you belong here,” he said instead.
Heat climbed up her neck.
“Professionally,” she said quickly.
“Of course,” he lied.
She took in the room to steady herself.
The desk was more cluttered this time—stacks of printed pages, a notebook open, pen stabbed through the spiral. On the shelf, between books, she spotted a small framed photo she hadn’t seen before: a boy about ten, gap-toothed, squinting into the sun, a fishing pole over his shoulder. Another boy beside him, taller, grinning wide.
She knew, without asking, who they were.
He caught her looking.
“Howard found that in a box,” he said quietly. “Sent it to a framer without telling me.”
She moved closer, the glass cool under her fingertips as she touched the frame lightly.
“You kept it,” she said.
“I almost didn’t,” he admitted. “Then I decided… he should be here.”
Both of them, she thought.
The boy who’d stood under a collapsing roof.
And the one who’d made it out.
“Hi, Ethan,” she murmured under her breath.
Nathan inhaled sharply.
She straightened and turned.
He was closer than she’d realized.
Close enough that she could see the faint shadow under his eyes, the furrow between his brows, the way his hair curled a little over his collar.
Close enough to remember, viscerally, the way his mouth had felt on hers in cold air.
Rule two, she reminded herself.
During the summit, no sex.
No more than we can handle.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
He eyed her hands, then her face.
“Do we…” he began, then stopped.
She understood anyway.
“We can… hug,” she said, voice low. “As a… hello.”
Professional, she told herself.
Friends do that.
Consultants and clients… sometimes.
“Right,” he said. “Hello-hug.”
It was both the stupidest and most accurate phrase she’d heard in weeks.
She stepped in.
He met her halfway.
His arms went around her, slow, as if giving her a chance to abort.
She didn’t.
She slid hers around his waist, palms flattening against the fine fabric of his shirt.
His body was warm.
Solid.
He smelled like soap and ink and something darker.
His chin brushed the top of her head.
For a second—one long, suspended second—they just breathed.
In.
Out.
She felt his ribs expand against her cheek.
Felt the rapid thud of his heart.
Felt her own, racing, trying to sync.
His hand splayed between her shoulder blades.
Not pressing.
Just… there.
She could have stood like that for hours.
She shouldn’t.
She stepped back.
So did he.
The air between them crackled.
“Hi,” she said, because her brain had apparently shorted.
“Hi,” he echoed, a little hoarse.
Silence.
He cleared his throat.
“House is… ready,” he said. “Howard’s been running emergency drills. The generator is terrified of him now.”
“Good,” she said. “We’re bringing twenty-four devices that will cry if the Wi-Fi hiccups.”
He grimaced.
“StreamWave sent over their attendance list,” he went on. “Howard printed it. There are… a lot of names with blue checkmarks.”
“We’ll handle them,” she said. “Just like last time. Only with more camera discipline.”
“You really think we can stop them from filming my face?” he asked skeptically.
“If they point a camera at you without consent, I’ll break their ring lights,” she said.
He smiled then, sudden and real.
“I believe you,” he said.
She exhaled.
“Rafe’s in the kitchen?” she asked.
“Threatening lettuce,” he confirmed.
“And your calendar?” she asked. “Still on the wall?”
He gestured toward the blank wall behind the desk.
Her breath caught.
A new calendar hung there.
This one was hand-drawn: blocks ruled and labeled, but with more white space.
He’d written SUMMIT in big letters over three days.
Underneath, in smaller scrawl: Don’t forget to breathe.
Her throat went hot.
“Who wrote that?” she asked, nodding at the note.
He shrugged, uncomfortable.
“Me,” he said. “Your voice… in my head.”
“Taller,” she said softly.
He huffed.
“You should go check the guest rooms,” he said, voice roughening. “Before Mia hangs fairy lights in them.”
“She’d do that,” Sophie said.
“I’ve seen her Pinterest,” he replied.
She grinned.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll… see you at dinner?”
“Seven,” he said. “No executives. Just… crew. Staff. Us.”
Us.
The word hung.
“Good,” she said. “We need to eat before we feed the content machine.”
She turned to go.
“Hey, Sophie,” he called.
She looked back.
“Yeah?”
“You were right,” he said. “About… regret.”
Her chest tightened.
“Not going to the summit would have gnawed at me,” he said. “Not seeing what we could do. This is… better.”
She swallowed.
“Better,” she echoed.
“Terrifying,” he added.
“Obviously,” she said.
They shared a small, crooked smile.
Then she left the study.
The hallway felt shorter than last time.
The house felt less like a stranger.
Her heart, however, was just as confused.
Maybe more.
But she’d made her choice.
Now came the hard part.
Living with it.
And with him.
Under this roof.
Again.