The storm broke like a fever.
It didn’t exactly stop—it never fully did at this elevation—but by late morning the next day, the sky had lightened from dirty cotton to a translucent gray. The snow still fell, but lazily now, drifting instead of attacking. The twenty-meter wall of white outside the conference room resolved slowly into shapes: tree lines, the far lip of the valley, the suggestion of a sky beyond.
Sophie stood at the front entrance, coffee in one hand, radio in the other, watching plow trucks carve dark cuts through the white on the far road. They looked like tiny beetles, stubborn and steady.
“You’re staring at them like you can will them to go faster,” Howard said, appearing at her elbow.
“Can’t I?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “Though if anyone could bully a plow, it would be you.”
Her lips twitched.
“Transportation says we’re clear to start moving caravans in two hours,” he went on. “They want to send the first wave with the writers and Eleanor, then executives, then foreign press.”
“Priorities,” she said. “I like it.”
She checked her watch. The new schedule she’d drafted at dawn fluttered in her other hand.
“Okay,” she said. “Then we compress the hell out of day one. Welcome lunch becomes welcome ‘heavy snacks.’ First session at two, panel at four, one-on-ones after dinner. We’ll have to push a workshop to tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll survive,” Howard said.
“You say that like you didn’t just reorder your entire day,” she said.
“I’ve had worse,” he said. “There was that time in Cannes when a director had a breakdown five minutes before a press conference and locked himself in a bathroom. Compared to that, this is a spa day.”
She grinned. “I want your memoir.”
“Not until everyone in it is dead,” he said.
Her radio crackled.
“Plow’s at the gate,” came the mechanic’s voice. “Driveway’s passable if you take it slow. Watch the edges.”
“Copy,” she said. Her pulse jumped. “Let transportation know they’re clear to send the first shuttle up. And warn them if they slide off into a ravine, I will resurrect them just to kill them myself.”
Laughter crackled back. “Copy that, boss.”
She clicked off.
Howard’s eyes glinted. “You really are terrifying.”
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
She took a breath and scanned the foyer, making sure everything looked like it had magically assembled itself instead of having been thrown together in a blizzard.
Welcome table: check. Name badges: check. Thick wool scarves with the summit logo embroidered discreetly on the end, for charm and warmth: check. A massive arrangement of winter greenery and white lilies on the console, Rafe’s idea (“If we’re going to be trapped in Narnia, we might as well lean in”): check.
Her outfit: black turtleneck (Lia-approved), dark jeans, ankle boots, hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail that made her look more put-together than she felt. Minimal makeup, but enough to make her look like she’d slept for more than four hours.
She did a quick mental inventory.
Staff: prepped. Kitchen: humming. A/V: tested. Nathan—
Her eyes slid up the staircase.
As if summoned, he appeared on the landing, wearing dark jeans and a charcoal button-down rolled to his forearms. No hoodie. No bare feet. Real shoes.
It was almost jarring, seeing him dressed like a man who went to meetings.
His hair was still messy, though. It didn’t seem to understand the concept of “corporate.”
He came down the stairs slowly, hand skimming the railing, gaze scanning the foyer.
“Looks like an event,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “That’s the goal.”
He stopped a few feet from her, eyes flicking to the scarves, the badges, the subtle branded signage she’d had printed overnight by a hero of a shop in town.
“You did all this in a blizzard,” he said.
“It’s what you pay me obscene amounts of money for,” she said.
His mouth ticked.
“How are you?” she asked, quieter.
He knew exactly what she was asking.
He glanced toward the glass, where the snow had softened into something almost gentle.
“I can breathe,” he said.
“Good,” she said.
“Don’t ask me again once they get here,” he said.
“I won’t ask,” she said. “I’ll just watch.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat in it.
“First shuttle in forty-five,” she said. “Writers and Eleanor. I’ll hand them off to you and Howard for the tour and room assignments.”
“I thought you were doing that,” he said quickly.
“You’re the host,” she said. “You have to at least pretend you care which suite they get.”
“I don’t,” he said.
“Exactly,” she said. “Which is why you’ll be perfect at feigning neutrality when Eleanor inevitably throws a fit that her room doesn’t have the ‘right’ kind of light for filming.”
He groaned.
“Look at it this way,” she added. “Once they’re all here, storm’s done, power’s semi-stable, and they can’t blame you for the weather, only for the schedule.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Does it?”
“No.”
“Then I have failed you,” she said gravely.
“Tragic,” he said.
She hesitated, then lowered her voice further.
“I told Rafe some of your story last night,” she said.
His body stiffened. “Which part?”
“The roof. Ethan,” she said, careful.
His jaw clenched. “Why?”
“Because he was worried about me,” she said. “And he was projecting it onto you. I wanted him to understand that there were reasons. That you weren’t just being dramatic about a little snow.”
His eyes searched her face.
“Do you... tell everyone?” he asked.
“No,” she said, a bit offended. “Of course not. I don’t hand out people’s trauma like party favors. It felt... important that someone else on staff knew what to look for. Just in case.”
“In case I went full meltdown,” he said.
“In case you needed grounding and I wasn’t there,” she said. “He spends a lot of time in the kitchen. You end up there when you’re pacing. It seemed... sensible.”
He blew out a slow breath.
“Fine,” he said. “Just don’t tell Eleanor. She’ll want to record it.”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
He gave a crooked smile. “You’re going to earn your money this weekend.”
“I already did,” she said. “This is just the show.”
The radio crackled on her hip. “Shuttle one at the gate.”
“Copy,” she said. She straightened, professional mask sliding fully into place. “Showtime.”
He watched her shift. It was subtle—a tightening around the mouth, a sharpening of the eyes, a straightening of the spine. The warmth that had glowed in her in the kitchen last night cooled into something sleek and controlled.
He wasn’t sure he liked it.
He also understood it.
He stepped back as she moved forward, letting her take the point.
The front door opened to a blast of cold air and the sound of voices.
***
The first guests came in like they’d been dropped from different planets.
Eleanor Chase was exactly what Sophie had expected from her research: mid-forties, crisply elegant in a tailored navy coat, dark hair in a precise bob, lipstick immaculate despite the climb. She surveyed the foyer with an appraiser’s eye, already calculating angles and acoustics.
Behind her, the two younger writers who’d been booked for the summit looked like college students who’d accidentally wandered into a movie set. One clutched his laptop bag like a flotation device. The other—a woman in a green beanie—kept glancing at the glass walls with something close to panic.
“Welcome to Elk Ridge,” Sophie said brightly as they stamped snow off their boots. “I’m Sophie Turner, your event planner. Let’s get you out of those coats and into some coffee.”
“God, yes,” Eleanor said. “I thought we were going to die on that road.”
“The plows did well,” Sophie said. “We didn’t lose a single writer. Yet.”
A laugh rippled through the group, breaking some of the tension.
She slipped scarves around shoulders—“Compliments of Mr. Cross”—handed out badges, directed staff to take bags.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathan watching from near the base of the stairs, expression schooled into something impassive.
She caught his eye for half a second. He gave the slightest of nods.
“Everyone,” she said, pitching her voice just loud enough to carry, “this is your host, Nathan Cross.”
Four things happened at once.
The younger male writer actually inhaled audibly, his eyes going wide. The woman in the green beanie straightened, her nervousness sharpening into curiosity. A murmur went through the group like a wave. And Eleanor’s gaze snapped to Nathan with unmistakable assessment.
He stepped forward.
“Welcome,” he said.
It was one word, but it carried. His voice was deeper in this mode, smoother, the rough edges sanded.
“We’re glad you made it up in one piece,” he added. “The storm was... uncooperative.”
“You can say that again,” Eleanor said, coming closer. “Ms. Turner’s been keeping us apprised. I assume you haven’t had much sleep.”
He flicked a glance at Sophie, then back. “She has, somehow,” he said. “I haven’t.”
“So you’re in peak artist mode,” Eleanor said. “Excellent.”
His jaw tightened a hair.
Sophie stepped in. “We’ll get you all settled,” she said. “Rooms are ready. Light lunch will be served in the dining room in half an hour. Then we’ll kick off with a welcome session.”
“Will there be Wi-Fi?” the young male writer asked nervously. “My followers—”
“There is, yes,” Sophie said. “But I recommend using it sparingly. The generator’s not infinite and the storm made the signal moody. Consider it a creative retreat, not a social media content farm.”
Nathan’s lips curved, barely.
Eleanor’s sharp gaze went from Sophie to him and back.
“You’ve hired well,” she said.
“Painfully well,” he replied.
“Don’t worry,” Eleanor said dryly. “We’ll make it worth your pain.”
Her eyes glinted. He didn’t look thrilled.
As the staff led the guests toward their rooms, Sophie fell into step beside Eleanor.
“I’ve got your room on the south side,” she said. “Best light in the house once the clouds break. And we’ve set aside the small library off the west hall for your recording sessions. It’s quieter there. Less glass.”
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Glass is terrible for acoustics and aging.”
Sophie smiled. “We’re working on your revised schedule, given the delays. I’ve slotted an extra audio session with Mr. Cross tomorrow afternoon, as discussed with your producer.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. “You got him to agree to that?”
“Yes,” Sophie said.
“How?” Eleanor asked.
“Very carefully,” Sophie said. “And with the promise that you wouldn’t shoot video of him in his pajamas.”
Eleanor laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. “I like you,” she said. “Let’s pray he doesn’t change his mind.”
“He won’t,” Sophie said confidently.
She hoped.
***
By late afternoon, the house was full.
Voices bounced off glass and stone. Luggage thudded up stairs. Doors opened and closed. Laughter, clinking mugs, the murmur of new people feeling out unfamiliar spaces.
Sophie moved through it all like a conductor, baton invisible but effective.
“Wi-Fi password is on your bedside tables.” “Bar will open at six. Yes, we have vegan options.” “Howard will take you to the conference room in ten.” “No, I can’t put you in the same room as the executive you’re suing, but I can put you on the opposite end of the table.”
Behind the scenes, she put out the small fires.
The foreign rights agent’s luggage had gone to the wrong room. Fixed. The new writer’s nerves had tipped into near-hyperventilation in front of the glass windows. She’d walked him to the smaller den, given him a seat by the fireplace, and told him stories about the worst panel meltdown she’d ever seen until he laughed.
Nathan, to his credit, didn’t bolt. He hovered at the edges, visible enough to be host-like, distant enough that no one could accuse him of being easy.
In the first welcome session, he sat in a low chair at the head of the circle, jeans and button-down more formal than his usual uniform but still casual enough to say, *I did not dress up for you.*
Eleanor opened with practiced warmth.
“Storms,” she said. “They’re so often metaphors in your work, Nathan. Did you plan this one?”
Titters.
“Absolutely,” he said dryly. “I have a direct line to the National Weather Service.”
Laughter.
He was good at this, when he wanted to be. The sharp intelligence from the kitchen, the acid wit, the precision—he channeled it into answers that sounded thoughtful but not revealing, amused but not giddy.
“What scares you?” Eleanor asked at one point.
He flicked a glance at the window.
“Deadlines,” he said, to chuckles. “Public speaking. Cheap wine.”
“And storms?” she pressed.
He smiled without humor. “I put them into books so they can’t get out again.”
The line landed. Pens scribbled. Phones, forbidden to record, hovered like suppressed birds.
Sophie watched from the back of the room, leaning against the wall.
She saw the way his left hand gripped the arm of his chair when a gust of wind rattled the glass. The way his gaze seeked the door, briefly, as if measuring escape routes.
She also saw the way people leaned in when he spoke. Even when he was deflecting, he drew them like gravity.
It did strange things to her chest.
She’d known he was famous. She’d known, abstractly, that people adored him, that his signature could make collectors giddy and studios drool.
Seeing it in action, though—this crowd of sharp, successful people centering their attention on him—made it real.
He wasn’t just a difficult client.
He was the room.
After the session, people swarmed him.
He endured it with brittle grace. Shook hands. Signed a book Eleanor had somehow smuggled into his lap. Endured a breathless question from the young writer about “process” with a wry, “Sit down. Suffer. Repeat.”
Sophie watched his reserves drain like a battery icon in red.
She swooped in, like she’d planned.
“All right, everyone,” she said brightly. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before the panel in the main conference room. Refreshments are in the hall. Try the mini quiches; Rafe will cry if you don’t.”
Laughter. People peeled away, redirected by the promise of food and coffee.
Nathan looked at her, something like gratitude flickering under fatigue.
“Quiches,” he said. “Your secret weapon.”
“Food is always the secret weapon,” she said.
“You saved me,” he said.
“It’s in the bullet points,” she said.
“You sound like you’re joking, but I’m not entirely sure,” he said.
“That’s my charm,” she said.
His gaze dipped, fast, to her mouth, then up.
“Careful with that,” he said softly. “You’re already dangerously competent. Charming on top of it is unfair.”
Her heart skipped.
“Go drink water,” she said, covering. “If you dehydrate and faint, I’ll have to add ‘revive author’ to my list and I don’t have that kind of time.”
“As you command,” he said.
It was a joke.
It didn’t feel entirely like one.
***
By the time the dinner reception rolled around, the house had settled into a strange rhythm.
Outside, the storm’s remnants drifted down, soft and relentless. Inside, fireplace flames flickered, glasses clinked, conversations tangled.
Sophie did what she did best: made sure the right people spoke to each other and the wrong people didn’t.
She shepherded the cranky foreign rights agent toward the streaming exec she knew would flatter his notoriously fragile ego. She positioned the midlist crime author next to the young hotshot whose social media reach could bump his backlist.
She kept an eye on Eleanor.
The broadcaster slid through the room like a shark in a silk blouse, smiling with all her teeth, eyes constantly assessing. She laughed in the right places, listened at the right times, and always, always, kept Nathan in her peripheral vision.
When Sophie saw her angle toward him by the fireplace, she was already moving.
“Ms. Chase,” she said smoothly, intercepting. “Can I steal you for a moment? We need to confirm tomorrow’s run of show so A/V can plan your mic needs.”
Eleanor’s eyes flickered with annoyance, then calculation. “Of course,” she said. “Always happy to help the invisible army.”
They stepped aside, toward a quieter corner.
“I’ve carved out the extra audio slot with Nathan at three,” Sophie said low. “Forty-five minutes. No video, as agreed, but we can capture rich enough material for your series if we focus.”
“And if I need more?” Eleanor said.
“You won’t,” Sophie said. “Not if we do this right. I’ll also make sure your seat at breakfast tomorrow is next to his. Off-the-record conversations often yield better color than on-the-record ones.”
“You’re good,” Eleanor said grudgingly.
“I try,” Sophie said.
Eleanor’s gaze slid over her shoulder, back to Nathan. He stood by the fire, head bent as the young writer in the green beanie talked animatedly, hands flying. His expression, from what Sophie could see, was unexpectedly gentle.
“He likes you,” Eleanor said suddenly.
Sophie stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Nathan,” Eleanor said, amused. “He watches you.”
“He watches everything,” Sophie said.
“Not like that,” Eleanor said. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to turn this into some ‘billionaire falls for event planner in a blizzard’ puff piece. My producers would murder me. But I’m a professional observer. I notice dynamics.”
Her lips quirked. “He’s sharper around you,” she added. “More... alive.”
Heat crawled up Sophie’s neck. “I think you’re reading what you want to see,” she said.
“Possibly,” Eleanor said. “We all do. That’s the job. Just be careful not to let him think you’re his emotional support planner.”
Her tone wasn’t unkind. It was... experienced.
“I won’t,” Sophie said.
She hoped.
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Because men like him—they’re geniuses, yes. But they’re also black holes. They pull light in and don’t give it back. Unless you’re very, very careful.”
“You don’t like him,” Sophie said, surprised.
“I respect him,” Eleanor said. “His work, his mind. I’ve also seen what this industry does to people. And what those people do to anyone who gets close.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Maybe I’m wrong about you two,” she said. “Maybe you’re smarter than most.”
Sophie swallowed.
“Enjoy your dinner, Ms. Chase,” she said, her voice steady by force.
“You too, Ms. Turner,” Eleanor said. “And if you ever quit events and get into producing, call me.”
The compliment should have buoyed her.
It didn’t.
She drifted away, suddenly exhausted.
Near the bar, Nathan intercepted her.
“How many crises?” he asked low.
“Three,” she said. “None major. One dietary concern—solved. One minor room kerfuffle—solved. One existential conversation about the state of publishing—put a pin in it.”
His mouth twitched. “You look wiped.”
“Thank you,” she said dryly.
“I meant that you look like you’ve been running this thing single-handedly on four hours of sleep and caffeine,” he said. “Which, as far as I can tell, you have.”
“Not single-handedly,” she said. “I have my invisible army.”
“And they do what you tell them because you say it like a queen issuing edicts,” he said. “In a turtleneck.”
“This again,” she muttered.
His gaze swept her, slow, taking in the black fabric hugging her neck, the way it softened over her collarbones, slid down her torso.
“You should always wear that,” he said.
Her breath caught. “It’s just a shirt,” she said.
“It’s armor,” he said. “But softer.”
“You’re very poetic after two glasses of wine,” she said.
“Is that what I’ve had?” he said. “I lost track.”
She saw it then: the faint flush on his cheeks, the slight loosening of his posture.
“You need water,” she said. “And sleep.”
“You’re very bossy,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s why you hired me.”
He looked at her, long and unguarded for a beat.
“Among other reasons,” he said.
Her pulse thundered.
“Go,” she said roughly. “Before Eleanor corners you again and wrings the rest of your soul out.”
“Already gone,” he murmured, apparently to himself.
She didn’t ask which part.
Didn’t dare.
***
The night ended later than it should have.
She finally collapsed onto the small sofa in the staff office around midnight, toes aching, brain humming.
Her phone buzzed.
LIA: Still snowed in w the brooding billionaire?
SOPHIE: Guests finally arrived. Summit officially on. Brooding billionaire upgraded to “semi-cooperative.”
LIA: That’s progress. Any “accidental” brush of hands? Angsty stares? Confessions of tragic backstory?
Sophie stared at the screen.
Then:
SOPHIE: Yes.
There was a full minute of nothing. Then:
LIA: WHAT
LIA: DETAILS OR I WILL CARJACK A SNOWPLOW
SOPHIE: He got trapped in a collapsing roof when he was 19. His friend died. He told me.
SOPHIE: And I put my hand on his arm like some kind of idiot.
LIA: Oh honey.
LIA: That’s not idiot. That’s human.
SOPHIE: It felt… big.
LIA: It *is* big.
LIA: Also: the arm??? How was the arm???
SOPHIE: Muscular. Warm. Stop.
LIA: I will not.
LIA: Do you like him?
SOPHIE: He’s my client.
LIA: That’s not an answer.
SOPHIE: He’s intense. Difficult. Broken in ways I recognize.
SOPHIE: I don’t *like* that I like him.
There. She’d typed it.
LIA: OHHHHH WE’RE IN TROUBLE
SOPHIE: Thank you for your support.
LIA: You know my stance. Life is short, orgasms are good, proceed w caution.
SOPHIE: Jesus.
LIA: Kidding. …sort of.
LIA: Just remember: you don’t have to fix him.
LIA: You don’t *have* to do anything but your job and keep yourself intact.
SOPHIE: I know.
LIA: Do you?
SOPHIE: I’m trying.
LIA: Okay. Sleep. Dream of neutral things. Like spreadsheets.
SOPHIE: You’re a monster.
LIA: Love u.
SOPHIE: Love u too.
She dropped the phone and let her head fall back.
Neutral things.
Spreadsheets.
Sure.
Except when she closed her eyes, all she saw was snow, glass, and the flash of pain on Nathan’s face as he said, *It snowed on his face.*
Sleep, when it came, wasn’t kind.
---