The knock on her door sounded obscene at 5:45 a.m.
Sophie surfaced from a tangle of half-nightmare, half-dream, heart sprinting. She scrubbed her eyes and fumbled for her robe.
“One second,” she croaked.
She cracked the door open.
Nathan stood there in sweats and a T-shirt, hair a mess, eyes too bright.
Her brain, still half-asleep, thought: *You again.*
“What’s wrong?” she asked instantly.
“Generator,” he said. “Howard thinks there’s a problem.”
She woke up all at once.
“Define ‘problem,’” she said, grabbing for leggings and a sweater, not caring that he was right there.
He turned his back politely—but not quite quickly enough to miss a flash of bare thigh as she yanked the leggings up.
“Flickers,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “Power dips. He doesn’t like it.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Shit,” she said, shoving her arms into sleeves. “Where is he?”
“Basement,” Nathan said. “Come on.”
She jammed her feet into sneakers, not even tying them, and followed him into the hall.
The house felt wrong.
The lights glowed, but they seemed... thinner. The hum she’d grown accustomed to, barely audible under everything else, was louder now, strained.
In the stairwell down to the mechanic room, the air smelled faintly of hot metal.
Howard stood in front of the big gray generator unit, tablet in one hand, brow furrowed. The maintenance tech, Carlos, knelt beside an open panel, flashlight clenched in his teeth.
“What’s happening?” Sophie asked, breath clouding slightly in the cooler air.
“Fuel’s fine,” Carlos said around the light. “Intake’s fine. But she’s working harder than she should. The storm did a number on the filters. They weren’t due to be changed for another month, but—”
“Can you fix it?” she cut in.
“Yes,” he said. “I need parts from town.”
“The road’s open,” Nathan said.
“For now,” Howard said sharply. “And it’s still not ideal for a supply run.”
“Let me guess,” Sophie said. “If we don’t get the parts?”
Carlos wiped his hands on a rag. “We’ll limp along for a bit. But if she overheats, she’ll shut down to protect herself. Full fail-safe. Then it’s candles and cold showers until we sort it.”
“How long limping?” she asked.
“Hours. A day, if we’re lucky,” he said. “But I don’t like pushing it. You don’t want a shutdown in the middle of a dinner service or, God forbid, at three in the morning when everyone’s asleep.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Can we ration power more?” she asked. “Turn off everything nonessential. No underfloor heating in guest baths, no decorative lighting.”
“We’re already pretty lean,” Howard said. “But yes, we can shave a bit. It’ll buy us time, not days.”
“Send a truck,” Nathan said.
Sophie looked at him.
His jaw was set, eyes hard. The decision had clicked in him.
“Take the resort SUV,” he went on. “Get down, get the filters, get back before the next front moves in. We have a clear-ish window. Use it.”
“I’ll go,” Carlos said. “I know what I need.”
“You’re not going alone,” Sophie said. “Take one of the housemen. Someone who can drive in this.”
“That reduces the number of hands on deck here,” Howard said. “Kitchen, service—”
“I can pull some staff off less critical duties,” she said. “We’ll manage. I’d rather be a little understaffed for a few hours than have the power die mid-summit.”
Nathan’s gaze slid to her. “You’re agreeing with me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said. “You’re not wrong.”
“Mark the time,” he told Howard. “It may never happen again.”
Even now, she almost smiled.
“Go,” she said to Carlos. “Take snacks, water, blankets. Text me every twenty minutes until you’re back in range. If it looks bad at any point, you turn around. I’d rather a finicky generator than a crashed truck.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do we tell the guests?” Howard asked.
“Not unless it becomes visible,” she said. “No point panicking them over a possibility.”
“You’re serious,” Nathan said. “You’re going to keep this quiet.”
“For now,” she said. “If there’s a real chance of a blackout, we’ll do a safety briefing. Until then, we let them eat their croissants in peace.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re... calm,” he said.
“I’m tired,” she said. “And making lists in my head.”
“Of what?”
“Everything that can go wrong and everything I can still control,” she said. “If I spend energy on what I can’t, I’ll snap.”
“Does anything make you snap?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Bad coffee. People not RSVPing. Men who think they know my job better than I do.”
“Noted,” he said softly.
Carlos and one of the housemen headed out within fifteen minutes, bundled like Arctic explorers, the SUV’s taillights disappearing slowly into the gray.
Sophie watched from the front steps until she couldn’t see them anymore.
Nathan hovered just behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat even through the chill.
“Storm’s not done with us yet,” he said.
“Nope,” she said. “But neither are we done with it.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “You really don’t back down, do you?”
“If you say that like it’s a flaw one more time, I’m making you play icebreakers,” she said.
He shuddered theatrically. “I take it back. It’s your best quality.”
She smiled.
Then she squared her shoulders, turned, and went back to work.
***
Breakfast was a test of her ability to project normalcy.
She walked into the dining room with a smile, even though her insides were knotted.
“Good morning!” she chirped. “We’ve got a buffet today—scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, fruit, pastries, and a yogurt bar. Coffee’s hot, tea’s plentiful, and if anyone needs something stronger, I won’t judge.”
Laughter. Clatter of plates. Eleanor already had her notebook out, eyes bright.
She made sure Eleanor’s seat was next to Nathan at the long table. He gave her a faintly betrayed look as he sat, but she ignored it.
As coffee was poured and plates filled, she moved between tables, checking in.
“How was your room?” “Did you sleep okay?” “Any altitude issues? We have oxygen canisters if needed.”
The house seemed to hold its breath.
Lights flickered once. Twice.
She watched faces.
Most people didn’t notice. The ones who did frowned, glanced up, then went back to their croissants.
Nathan’s hand tightened around his mug. Under the table, one foot jiggled.
She caught his eye.
She flattened her palm against the back of a chair, as if to ground herself. He saw it. His jaw eased fractionally.
Eleanor leaned toward him, clever questions flowing.
“What’s the first thing you notice about a story?” “What scares you in fiction?” “How has your relationship with violence changed over the years?”
He answered with the same practiced deflection as the panel, but there were flashes of something more.
“I’m less interested in the act now,” he said. “More in the ripples. In who has to live with it.”
Her mind snagged on that.
She made a mental note: *Don’t let him get cornered into pandering. He hates it. Give him angles that feel real.*
The lights dipped again.
Someone cracked a joke about “mood lighting.”
Sophie’s radio crackled faintly at her hip. A text from Carlos flashed on her phone: GOT PARTS. HEADING BACK. ROADS SHITTY BUT DOABLE.
She exhaled.
“Everything okay?” the younger writer asked her as she passed.
“Just the mountain reminding us who’s in charge,” she said. “And the answer is: not us.”
He laughed.
Inside, part of her wanted to scream.
***
Midmorning, while Eleanor recorded an audio segment with one of the other writers in the library, Sophie sneaked down to the generator room again.
Carlos and the houseman had made it back, faces chapped, hair crusted with blown snow. The new filters lay in a neat row.
“Give me twenty,” Carlos said when she poked her head in. “She’ll be purring again.”
She sagged against the cool wall for a second, eyes closed.
“Don’t you dare pass out on my watch,” a voice drawled.
She opened her eyes.
Nathan stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame.
“You’re stalking me,” she said. “This is unhealthy.”
“You disappear,” he said. “I worry you’ve been eaten by my machinery.”
“You do *not* worry,” she said.
“I need you,” he said simply.
The words hit like a thrown stone.
She straightened. “Professionally,” she said.
“Obviously,” he said.
Still.
Her stomach flipped.
“Generator’s going to be fine,” she said. “Carlos is a god.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll send him a fruit basket.”
“You don’t believe in fruit baskets,” she said.
“I believe in whatever keeps my house from turning into an icebox,” he said.
She huffed.
“Come on,” he added. “You’re missing your favorite thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked as they climbed the stairs.
“People complaining about panel lengths,” he said.
“Oh joy,” she muttered.
He glanced at her. “You’re pale,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. “Insomnia is my new skincare routine.”
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked. “Events.”
“Eight years,” she said. “Ten, if you count internships.”
“And before that?” he asked.
“College,” she said. “Parties. Fundraisers. I discovered I was good at making chaos look intentional.”
“Why this?” he asked. “You’re clearly smart. You could have done a hundred things. Law. Medicine. Marketing.”
“I like people,” she said.
He snorted.
“I do,” she insisted. “Not... in the abstract. But in the specific. I like the way they move through spaces. I like creating environments where they can be less shitty to each other. Or at least have better food while they’re being shitty.”
He smiled reluctantly.
“And,” she added, “I like knowing where the exits are.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Trapped kid in a hallway during storms, remember?” she said.
Understanding softened his features.
“You turned your fear into a skill,” he said.
“So did you,” she said. “You got buried and turned it into books.”
He made a face. “When you put it like that, it sounds heroic. It wasn’t.”
“It was survival,” she said. “Same thing, sometimes.”
They emerged into the main hall just as a cluster of guests spilled out of the conference room, talking loudly.
“—I’m just saying, the anti-hero model is over—”
“—you can’t say that, I built my entire brand on anti-heroes—”
“—does anyone know if there’s decaf? I’m shaking—”
Sophie slipped back into her role like a coat.
“Break-time,” she called. “Snacks in the dining room. Bathrooms this way. Smoke breaks nowhere, we’re at altitude and I don’t have time for lung emergencies.”
They laughed.
Nathan watched her field three questions at once, send someone to the correct restroom, and defuse an incipient argument about diversity in thrillers by promising a future session specifically on the topic.
“You’re very good at this,” he said when they were briefly alone by the coffee urns.
“I know,” she said.
He blinked. “No false modesty?”
“No time for it,” she said. “It wastes energy.”
He looked at her like he was seeing her clearly for the first time. Not just as the person holding his summit together, but as a force in her own right.
“You could run a company,” he said. “Not just an event firm. Something bigger.”
“Is this your way of telling me to aim higher?” she asked.
“Is that a bad thing?” he countered.
“It’s... not your job,” she said.
“You *aim* high for me,” he said. “You force me to do shit I don’t want to do because you know it’s better for me. Turnabout’s fair play.”
“I’m not your therapist,” she said for the second time in as many days.
“Thank God,” he said. “He charges triple your rate and wears worse cardigans.”
She snorted.
“Why don’t you?” he pressed.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Run something bigger,” he said.
She hesitated.
Because I don’t think I can. Because I’m tired. Because it’s easier to be indispensable in someone else’s company than to risk failing in my own.
Aloud, she said, “Maybe I will. Someday.”
“You should,” he said. “You’re already doing the work.”
She looked at him, thrown.
“Are you... pep-talking me?” she asked.
He shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “Consider it a preemptive thank-you,” he said. “For not letting this weekend turn into a horror story.”
“My pleasure,” she said.
Their eyes held.
The air between them felt less like crackling static and more like... a thread. Invisible but tugging.
She broke it.
“Go drink water,” she said again. “You’re on in ten.”
He rolled his eyes but obeyed.
She watched him go, something like pride and trepidation warring in her chest.
He was doing it. Storm, people, deadlines, cameras.
He was doing it.
And whether she liked it or not, she was right in the middle of the story.
***
The generator held.
Carlos worked his magic, the new filters went in, and the hum smoothed out.
By late afternoon, the house felt less like a ticking bomb and more like a very expensive faucet they’d left running.
The sessions blurred into each other.
A panel on adaptation—“What happens when Hollywood gets their sticky fingers on your work?”—which produced some of the weekend’s best lines.
“I don’t mind the changes,” Eleanor quoted Nathan at one point. “I mind the lies they tell themselves about why they made them.”
“What lies?” she prodded.
“That they made it ‘more relatable,’” he said. “Which usually means less specific and more generic. They’re so afraid someone, somewhere, won’t get it that they sand off everything sharp.”
“You like sharp,” she said.
“I like true,” he corrected.
Later, in a small breakout with the newer writers, he surprised Sophie.
They sat in a rough circle in the den, mugs of tea steaming.
“I want to talk about failure,” he said, without preamble.
The young male writer shifted uncomfortably. “Failure?”
“You’re all doing well,” Nathan said. “You have deals. Momentum. Buzz. Everyone tells you how great you are. Enjoy it. Also, know that at some point, you’re going to fuck up. A book won’t land. A line won’t sell. A critic will eviscerate you. You’ll miss a deadline so badly your editor will cry in a bathroom.”
They laughed, a little nervously.
“And then what?” the woman in the beanie asked.
“And then you keep going,” he said. “If you can. If you still love it enough. Or you don’t. And that’s okay, too. You’re not a bad person if you walk away. You’re not a bad person if you stay and your work gets... smaller.”
His gaze flicked to Sophie, almost involuntarily, like he wanted to see if she heard the confession in that.
She did.
“You’re allowed to be human,” he said. “Even if the industry pretends you’re not.”
It was the most honest thing he’d said all weekend.
The kids ate it up.
So did Eleanor, whose recorder light blinked on the side.
Sophie felt simultaneously proud of him and fiercely protective.
He was cracking himself open, just a bit.
She didn’t want anyone to hurt him with it.
That thought startled her.
She wasn’t here to protect him.
She was here to run an event.
The line blurred dangerously.
***
Late that night, when the halls had quieted and most guests had retreated to their rooms, she found him in the study.
This time, the shades were half up.
The snow outside had stopped. The sky was a deep, velvety blue-black. Stars pricked through, hard and cold. The valley lay in a soft, luminous shadow, the snow reflecting just enough light to sketch outlines.
He stood at the window, hands in his pockets.
“You didn’t run tonight,” she said from the doorway.
“I thought about it,” he said. “Then I figured if I ran, people would think I was avoiding them. Which would make them try harder to find me.”
“Look at you,” she said. “Understanding human nature.”
“I write books about murder,” he said. “I know what people do when you hide from them.”
She stepped in, closing the door behind her.
He didn’t look at her.
“They like you,” she said.
“They like the idea of me,” he said.
“Some of them like the idea of you,” she said. “Some of them actually like *you*.”
He snorted. “Which category are you in?”
“Neither,” she said. “I tolerate you professionally.”
He laughed, the sound softer than earlier.
“You did well today,” she added. “Panels, conversations, no one got decapitated. That’s huge.”
“Low bar,” he said.
“Realistic bar,” she said.
He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“So are you,” she said.
“Mine’s self-inflicted,” he said. “Yours is... structural.”
She frowned. “Structural?”
“You work in a system that rewards you for self-erasure,” he said. “The better you are at making yourself invisible behind the plant walls and the place cards, the more praise you get.”
She stared.
“That’s... depressingly accurate,” she said.
He shrugged one shoulder. “You think I don’t see the people who make my shit possible? Publicists, assistants, editors. Planners. Everything’s built on invisible labor. The least I can do is not pretend it’s just *me*.”
“Is this your way of saying thank you again?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
“You’re welcome,” she said quietly.
They stood side by side then, near the glass, looking out at the hushed, star-pricked night.
Elk Ridge, without the storm’s howl, felt different.
Less like a trap.
More like... a watchtower.
Below, the faint glow of the base town’s lights blinked. The road, dark and still, wound like a sleeping snake.
“You ever think about leaving?” she asked, surprising herself.
“This place?” he said. “All the time.”
“So why don’t you?” she asked.
He exhaled. The glass fogged in front of him.
“Because it’s mine,” he said. “I chose it. I built it. Walking away feels like losing.”
“Even if staying feels like... stuck?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She understood that, too well.
“You ever think about leaving your job?” he asked.
“All the time,” she said immediately. Then laughed. “Wow. That was... fast.”
“So why don’t you?” he asked.
Her reflection in the glass frowned.
“Because I worked my ass off to get here,” she said. “Because there aren’t a lot of women at my level. Because if I leave, someone less careful, less... me, will take my place and maybe they’ll burn faster. Or hurt more people on the way down.”
“Hurt more people?” he said.
“By overpromising,” she said. “Underplanning. Not knowing when to say no. This job carries a lot of responsibility. It’s not just centerpieces and timelines. It’s safety. I know that. I... don’t trust that everyone does.”
“You think you’re protecting the world by staying miserable,” he said.
“When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” she said.
“Is it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He studied her profile.
“And yet?” he prompted.
“And yet,” she said quietly, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not the one keeping everyone else’s plates spinning.”
Silence.
He turned, leaning his shoulder against the glass, facing her.
“You’re a person,” he said. “Even if you quit tomorrow and opened a coffee shop or moved to Bora Bora or went back to St. Louis and ran the zoo.”
She snorted. “I’d be terrible at the zoo.”
“You’d have a spreadsheet for the giraffes,” he said. “They’d be very organized.”
She laughed.
His gaze softened.
“You know you deserve... more than this, right?” he said. “Than being on call twenty-four-seven so some guy can have the perfect product launch or some bride can have the exact flower shade she dreamed of at eight.”
“I have health insurance,” she said weakly.
“Sophie,” he said.
Her name in his mouth did something shameful to her insides.
She swallowed.
“I know,” she said. “Intellectually. I know. It’s just—”
“Hard to do it for yourself when you’ve built a life around doing it for others,” he finished.
“Yes,” she said.
They looked at each other.
The space between them felt... different tonight.
The storm was gone. The house was still.
The danger wasn’t outside anymore.
It was here.
“Why are we talking like this?” she asked, half-laughing, half-terrified. “We’re practically strangers.”
“Are we?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“No,” he said.
He stepped closer.
Not much. Half a step.
Enough.
Her heart pounded.
“You should sleep,” she said, voice thinner than she liked.
“So should you,” he said.
“Tomorrow’s the last full day,” she said. “We just have to get through that.”
“And then?” he asked.
“And then you go back to your pages,” she said. “And I go back to my weddings. And we pretend this was just... work.”
His eyes searched hers.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
She opened her mouth.
She didn’t know the answer.
She knew what she should say.
“Yes,” she forced out. “Obviously.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Liar,” he said softly.
Anger flared, surprising her.
“Don’t—” she began.
“Don’t what?” he said, stepping that final half-step closer. “Don’t call you on your bullshit when you call me on mine?”
“You’re my client,” she said. “This is my job. I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” he murmured. “Want something for yourself? For three seconds?”
“I don’t,” she lied.
He smiled then, slow and dangerous.
“You really are terrible at lying,” he said.
“I’m not—”
He lifted a hand.
Stopped.
It hovered near her cheek, fingers curved, not touching.
“See?” he said quietly. “You flinch when you lie. Not away. Toward.”
Her breath stuttered.
The air felt electric.
“I’m not—this isn’t—” she stammered.
He lowered his hand.
Relief and disappointment tangled painfully.
“You’re right,” he said abruptly, stepping back. “You can’t.”
The sudden distance felt like a physical shove.
“I’m... what?” she said, thrown.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “You can’t. You’re here to do a job. I’m here to not fuck that up. Whatever this—” he gestured between them, vaguely “—is, it’s...”
“Disaster,” she supplied.
“Temptation,” he said at the same time.
The word hung.
He let out a harsh breath.
“I won’t be the reason you blow up your life,” he said. “Or your career. Or your boss’s company.”
“You overestimate your powers,” she said, trying for light, not quite making it.
“Do I?” he asked.
She looked away.
“I have to sleep,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Go.”
She went.
At the door, she paused.
“Nathan,” she said, not turning.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she said.
“For not kissing you?” he said wryly.
“For... not making me the villain in your story if we fuck this up,” she said.
Silence.
“I’m the villain in most of my stories,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”
“Maybe this one doesn’t need one,” she said.
He huffed.
“We’ll see,” he said.
She left before the ache in her chest could become tears.
In her room, she pressed her back against the closed door and slid down, heartbeat loud in her ears.
He’d been so close.
She could have closed the distance.
She hadn’t.
She was proud of that. And gutted.
She curled on the bed and stared at the ceiling until gray light seeped in around the curtains.
Sleep never came.
---