Nathan Cross watched the snowfall from the cantilevered glass study that everyone kept calling a “masterpiece,” as if bricks and glass and steel meant anything beyond being a very expensive, very fragile cage.
The snow came down in thick, steady curtains, the kind that erased edges. The pines below bowed under the weight. The valley beyond had disappeared hours ago, the world reduced to the immediate slope of the mountain and the blanketing white.
It was beautiful, in the way that dangerous things often were.
He stood barefoot on the heated concrete, black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, jeans hanging a little loose on his hips. He needed to eat more. He forgot, sometimes. Days blurred when he was in a book. Time became elastic.
His coffee had gone cold on the desk behind him. His laptop chimed with a new email. He ignored both.
Outside, a single plow truck ground its way up the private road that snaked to the estate gate, an orange beetle moving through white powder. The men in it were smart enough to call it quits once the accumulation hit a certain point. Storms like this weren’t uncommon at this elevation, not in February, but this one had teeth.
He lifted a hand and dragged it down his face, rough stubble rasping against his palm.
“You’re staring at it again,” a voice said from behind him. “It won’t make it stop.”
Nathan turned his head.
Howard stood in the doorway of the study, tablet in hand, wire-rim glasses perched on his narrow nose. He was in his usual uniform: charcoal wool trousers, navy sweater, gray hair smoothed back like silver silk. He was technically an employee, had been for six years, but he carried himself with the unflappable air of a man who’d grown up around money and knew exactly how little it impressed him.
“It’s my house,” Nathan said. “I can stare at whatever I want.”
“Glare, you mean.”
“Semantics.”
Howard walked to the edge of the glass wall and looked out. “They say it’s going to dump another foot overnight. The roads might become... challenging.”
“They’ll keep plowing.”
“For a while.” Howard’s tone gave nothing away. “The guests’ flights are all still on schedule for tomorrow, but I had a note from the transportation company. They’re concerned about the drive Saturday afternoon if this keeps up.”
“They’ll manage,” Nathan said. “They’re adults. They can handle some snow.”
“Mmm.” Howard scrolled through something on his tablet. “Even adults get cranky when trapped.”
Nathan’s mouth tightened. “We’re not going to be trapped.”
“Of course not.”
The silence that followed made the unsaid hang heavier in the air.
Nathan pushed away from the window, fingers drumming once against the glass before he dropped his hand.
“Any updates?” he asked. “Problems? Complaints? People backing out?”
“No complaints yet,” Howard said. “It’s difficult to complain about an all-expenses-paid weekend in a private estate.”
“They’ll find a way.”
“That they will.” Howard’s eyes flicked up. “We heard from Ms. Turner. The planner.”
The name jolted through him more than it should have. He had an almost physical image of it now, the way it had looked on the email: Sophie Turner.
For some reason, his brain had wanted to make her “Sophia.” More dramatic. More old-world. But Sophie suited the crisp, no-nonsense emails she’d been sending in the last twenty-four hours. Efficient. Precise. A little wry around the edges, if he read between the lines of her punctuation.
“She’s set?” he asked, returning to his desk.
“As set as anyone can be with forty-eight hours’ notice.” Howard followed. “She seems competent. The caterers are confirmed. The equipment is all on schedule. She’ll arrive tomorrow late morning.”
Nathan sat, the leather chair creaking softly. The manuscript on his laptop hovered where he’d left it—Chapter 37, a body on the floor of a glass room very much like this one. He should have been working. He *needed* to be working. His latest book had been due two months ago. His editor sent polite, increasingly panicked check-ins that he mostly ignored.
The summit had been a concession. A distraction. A calculated move to keep everyone calmer while he missed deadlines. Had he agreed too quickly? Inviting people into his space was the last thing he wanted.
But the numbers didn’t lie. The streaming deals had poured in money, but the costs had poured it out just as fast. Lawyers, managers, the property itself. Elk Ridge hadn’t been cheap. Maintaining it wasn’t either.
He wasn’t about to run out of money—that would be melodramatic even for him—but the margins were slimmer than anyone would assume. His last book had sold well, but not as rabidly as the ones before. People moved on. Trends shifted. The idea that he might have done his best work already sat on his chest some nights like a weight.
So he’d agreed. A three-day summit. A way to remind the industry who he was, what he could bring. A way to reassure them that he wasn’t going full J.D. Salinger and vanishing.
He regretted it already.
“What do we know about her?” he asked.
Howard’s eyebrows rose a millimeter. “Ms. Turner?”
“Yes. You did your usual background check?”
“Of course.” Howard tapped on his tablet. “Thirty-two. Based in Denver. Senior planner at Aurora Events, a boutique firm. No criminal record. Good reviews. Social media presence minimal—mostly photos of cocktails and her best friend, and one very distressed pothos plant.”
“Is she competent?” he asked.
“I said she’s senior planner.” Howard looked faintly offended on the woman’s behalf. “She spearheaded several high-profile events last year. A high-stakes wedding that nearly imploded, corporate events. She’s known for being unflappable.”
“We’ll see,” Nathan muttered.
“You specifically requested her,” Howard reminded him.
“Because she handled that crypto disaster thing.” He gestured vaguely. “The one where the CEO got arrested mid-conference.”
Howard’s mouth twitched, his version of a grin. “You did find that entertaining.”
“She rerouted four hundred furious attendees into a replacement program within four hours. That takes coordination.” He rubbed his temple. “If we’re doing this circus, I want someone who can deal with flaming hoops.”
“Flaming hoops,” Howard said mildly, “are not on the schedule. Yet.”
“If I have to sit in a room and make nice with a streamer executive, you can be damned sure I’m calling it a flaming hoop.”
Howard inclined his head. “Noted.”
Nathan cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet study.
“Is she going to expect... me?” he asked, hating how that sounded.
“Expect you?”
“To... be friendly. Approachable. Whatever. People like that. In her line of work.”
“People like warmth,” Howard agreed. “But she also likes getting paid. You’re her client. She’ll adapt.”
He wasn’t sure why, but that soothed him.
“I don’t want her underfoot,” he added. “This isn’t—” He cut himself off. “She can coordinate with you. If there’s something I absolutely need to show up for, you let me know. Otherwise—”
“I’ve made that clear to her,” Howard said. “She understands you prefer to remain focused on your work.”
Nathan glanced at the laptop. The words blurred. His focus had fled hours ago, maybe days.
“This whole thing is a mistake,” he muttered.
“One you can’t take back now,” Howard said, not unkindly. “Not with flights booked and egos primed.”
He grimaced. “It was supposed to be easier. Rent the house, let them talk about their little projects, shake a few hands, sign a few books, done.”
“‘Little projects,’” Howard murmured. “You say that now. In five years, one of those little projects will win an award you pretend not to care about.”
“Snob,” Nathan said.
“Says the man who turns down ninety percent of Hollywood offers because the scripts ‘lack nuance.’”
Nathan opened his mouth, then closed it. “They *do* lack nuance.”
“Yes, well. You lack variety in your insults. It’s become a problem.”
Nathan’s lips twitched despite himself.
This was why Howard had lasted six years. Everyone else who’d tried to work for Nathan had given up within months. They’d called him difficult, intense, mercurial. They weren’t wrong. But Howard had seen something beyond the prickly edges and decided—for reasons Nathan still didn’t quite understand—to stay.
“Anything else?” Nathan asked, because if he thought too hard about that he’d get uncomfortable.
“Two small items.” Howard consulted his tablet. “The generator servicemen confirmed full function. Given the forecast, if the power lines go down, we’ll be prepared.”
“Good.”
“And the kitchen staff would like to know if you have any special requests regarding your own meals during the summit, given that the guests’ preferences have been—”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Whatever.”
“You do care,” Howard said conversationally, “about food that is not fussy and does not involve foam.”
Nathan shuddered. “No foam. Or deconstructed anything. If something’s deconstructed, they should put it back together before they put it on the plate.”
Howard made a note. “I’ll convey your... firm opinion.”
“Anything else?”
“Just this.” Howard hesitated. “The weather, Nathan.”
Nathan rolled his shoulders. “It’s snow.”
“Snow that may make leaving difficult for a day or two.”
“They’ll survive an extra day in a luxury house if it comes to that.”
He heard the brittle edge in his own voice. Trapped, Howard had said. The word snagged.
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Howard said quietly.
Nathan’s jaw clenched.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I know you *can* be fine,” Howard said. “But being trapped in here with fourteen people... it might test you.”
“I’m not the one with a problem,” Nathan snapped.
Howard didn’t flinch. “You have a complicated relationship with closed spaces and strangers. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I don’t—”
His mind flashed, traitor, to another storm, another house, another time. The memory was so visceral he almost smelled it: wet wool, cheap beer, the metallic tang of blood. The scream he hadn’t been able to stop.
He pushed up from the chair so fast it rolled back and hit the credenza with a thud.
“Drop it,” he said.
Howard’s gaze was steady. “Very well.”
“Get them in and out,” Nathan said. “No delays. Coordinate with the drivers. If the storm gets too bad, we move the summit later, we start early, whatever. On time, in, out. No one gets stuck. You hear me?”
“Yes,” Howard said. “I hear you.”
Nathan dug his fingers into the edge of the desk until the wood bit into his skin.
He hated storms.
He hated power lines that could snap and roads that could disappear and the way snow could muffle sound until it felt like being buried alive.
He hated inviting strangers into his space, into his carefully controlled quiet. He hated the idea of them banging around his halls, laughing, complaining, leaving fingerprints on glass.
But he hated something else more: the idea of becoming irrelevant. Of watching his sales slip and his name fade while younger, hungrier writers took up the oxygen.
He exhaled, slow. “Tell me about the guests again.”
Howard obliged, running through the list. There were the writers—two hot new thriller names, a midlist crime author with a cult following. The streamer executives—a buttoned-up woman from LA with immaculate blazers, a younger guy known for his buzzwords. A couple of foreign buyers, a British broadcaster, a literary critic with a reputation for eviscerating people and then making them thank her for it.
“And Ms. Turner?” he asked, cutting in when Howard paused.
“Arriving by car at eleven tomorrow,” Howard said. “Coming alone, with the first wave of equipment. The rest follows in the afternoon.” He glanced at him over the tablet. “You want to know what she looks like.”
Nathan stiffened. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Howard’s lips quirked. “Average height. Brown hair. Not a blonde, for a change.”
He scowled. “What does that mean?”
“Half your readers seem to be blondes, at least if the fan event photos were anything to go by. This will be refreshingly normal.”
“She’s not a fan.”
“She hasn’t mentioned your books, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He hadn’t realized that *was* what he was asking until Howard said it.
Something in his chest eased a fraction.
“Good,” he muttered.
“Intimidated?”
“At a wedding convention in Las Vegas?” he said. “By an event planner who probably thinks I’m just another arrogant client with too many opinions and not enough manners? Yes, I’m sure she’s quaking in her boots.”
Howard’s eyes twinkled. “She sent a note about the weather this morning.”
Nathan tensed. “What kind of note?”
“She inquired about the plow schedule. Sensible. She appears more worried about her equipment trucks than about herself.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Are you going to be nice to her?” Howard asked.
“I’m always nice.”
“One of these days, you’ll say that with a straight face.”
Nathan turned back to the window. The plow had disappeared around the last bend. Snow swirled in its wake, erasing its tracks within minutes.
“Get this storm out of my summit,” he muttered.
“I’ll do my best,” Howard said dryly. “But some things are beyond even my considerable control.”
He left, his quiet footsteps swallowed by the thick rug in the hall.
Nathan remained at the window long after the study lights clicked on automatically in the encroaching dusk. His reflection in the glass was a faint silhouette: messy dark hair, stubbled jaw, shoulders drawn tight.
He was not a monster. He was not a ghost.
He was a man who’d made a life between pages because the real world had proven, early and decisively, that it was not to be trusted.
The summit was a necessary evil.
The storm was an unwelcome complication.
And the woman driving into both was a variable he hadn’t planned on.
He didn’t like variables.
***
The first time he’d learned what it meant to be trapped, he’d been nineteen.
It had been a different storm, an ice storm that had turned the small town outside Kansas City into a glass sculpture overnight. The party had been at a farmhouse ten miles outside town. The keg had been cheap, the heaters overworked, the laughter too loud.
He remembered the way the power had gone out. The way the music had cut off in a strangled squeal. The way the dark had dropped, thick and absolute, except for the strobes of lightning.
He remembered the scramble for flashlights, the shouted jokes.
He remembered the crack.
The farmhouse roof, already strained by years of neglect and a heavy load of ice, had given way under the weight of the storm. It had buckled over the living room.
It had buckled over him and Ethan.
Nathan had relived that sound in a hundred nightmares and forty-three therapy sessions: the groan of timbers, the shriek of nails, the scream he hadn’t recognized as his own. The crush of cold and weight. The sudden, suffocating darkness as beams and insulation and shards of ceiling pinned him.
The way Ethan’s hand had been there, gripping his.
The way the hand had gone slack.
He forced his mind away from the rest.
It wasn’t useful. It didn’t help.
He’d turned that memory into pages, eventually. He’d mined it for terror and claustrophobia, painted it onto fictional buildings with fictional people. Readers had devoured it, praised the “raw authenticity.” They’d called him brave for confronting fear head-on.
They hadn’t seen the way his fingers shook every time the power flickered now.
He’d built Elk Ridge with redundancies. Backup generators. Multiple exits. Smart glass that tinted with a touch so he never felt sealed in.
He’d sworn he would never feel trapped again.
Yet here he was, inviting a crowd of strangers and a storm into his sanctuary.
“You’re an idiot,” he told his reflection.
It stared back, unimpressed.
His laptop chimed again. Another email from his editor’s assistant, no doubt. Another “gentle nudge.” He let it ride.
Instead, he walked to the bookshelf built into the far wall and scanned the spines. He found what he was looking for: an Aurora Events brochure, printed on thick matte paper.
He’d requested it after the crypto conference, when he’d read an article about how the event had imploded and somehow still earned praise for its organization.
The brochure had a photo of a woman on the back. It wasn’t technically a portrait of her, but a shot of her from the side at an event, headset on, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes on a clipboard. She had a pen tucked behind one ear. Her brown hair had fallen out of its twist and curled around her face. She was frowning slightly, concentrating.
He hadn’t lingered on the photo.
Not exactly.
He’d just noticed.
He flipped the brochure over now, studying it.
He tried to imagine her here, navigating his glass halls, ticking boxes on a list, smoothing the feathers of his guests while studiously ignoring the man at the center.
He tried—and failed—to imagine her as dangerous.
An unwelcome thought slid through: *Maybe that’s what makes her dangerous.*
He snorted at himself and tossed the brochure back on the shelf.
He didn’t do this. He didn’t anticipate people. He anticipated plot twists, character arcs, narrative tension.
He didn’t anticipate women.
Not anymore.
His last experiment with that had ended with an email from a lawyer and a payout that had made his accountant wince.
He grabbed his mug, took a swallow of cold coffee, grimaced, and headed downstairs in search of something stronger.
By the time he returned to his study with a glass of whiskey, the snow had intensified. The world was gone.
For a second, the sight pressed in on all sides, white and silent and absolute.
His stomach lurched.
He made himself stand there and look at it. Breathe through it. His therapist would have been proud, or horrified, or both.
“It’s just weather,” he said aloud.
His voice bounced weirdly off the glass.
In forty-eight hours, there would be people in this house. Voices, laughter, complaints, demands.
In twenty-four, she would be here.
He took a long drink and let the burn drown the thought.
---