The final full day of the summit dawned deceptively calm.
The sky was a crisp, pale blue, the kind you got only after storms had scrubbed the air clean. The snow glittered under the thin sun, soft and treacherous. The plowed road below looked narrow and far.
Inside, the house buzzed with farewell energy.
Some guests were already talking about flights. Others schemed about follow-up meetings in New York. Eleanor mapped out her episode arc in a notebook, lines and arrows connecting phrases like “Fear as engine” and “Violence as language.”
Sophie moved through it all with that strange, split awareness she always got near the end of events: one part of her ticking boxes, another already half-detached, scanning for the next thing.
She’d slept badly. Or not at all. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nathan’s hand hovering near her face, his eyes dark and intent.
Now, she folded that and tucked it away. She couldn’t afford to be off.
“Quick update,” she told the assembled group in the conference room after breakfast. “Roads are clear, utilities say main power should be restored by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We’re still on generator until then, but it’s stable. The plan is to end formal sessions by four today, do a casual closing gathering at six, and then tomorrow morning is free time until your shuttles back down at ten.”
A collective murmur of approval.
“Any changes to travel plans,” she added, “please let me know ASAP so we can coordinate with the drivers. We don’t want anyone stranded at the base because they ‘forgot’ to tell us they moved their flight up.”
She side-eyed the young male writer, who blushed.
“We’re looking at you, Ben,” she said.
Laughter loosened the room.
Nathan sat slouched in his chair, one ankle over his knee, expression blank. But his gaze flicked to her when she spoke, as if anchoring.
She didn’t look back.
She couldn’t.
Not and stay steady.
The morning sessions ran smoother than they had any right to.
A roundtable on “Truth in Fiction” produced more heated debate than she’d expected. The foreign rights agent nearly came to rhetorical blows with the crime writer over whether content warnings were “coddling” or “basic respect.” Eleanor navigated it with ruthless finesse, steering them to soundbites without drawing blood.
In Nathan’s one-on-one extra slot with Eleanor, they delved deeper.
Sophie sat in the back, as unobtrusive as possible, headphones on to monitor audio levels.
“How do you write fear so viscerally?” Eleanor asked at one point. “It’s physical, on the page. People have panic attacks reading you. What are you tapping into?”
He hesitated.
The silence stretched.
“I’m cheating,” he said finally.
“How so?” Eleanor prompted.
“I’m not imagining it,” he said. “I’m remembering it.”
The words dropped like stones into still water.
Eleanor went very still. “You don’t have to—” she began.
“I know,” he cut in. His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, toward the side, where Sophie sat. For a second, their eyes met. Something like permission passed between them. Then he looked back at Eleanor.
“But I will,” he said.
He told a condensed version of the roof story. Sanitized, but not neutered. Ethan. The weight. The sound. The hours.
Eleanor listened, uncharacteristically without interruption.
When he finished, there was a beat of silence.
“Do you ever feel like you’re... re-traumatizing yourself?” she asked. It was gentle, for her.
“Yes,” he said simply. “But I also feel like I’m taking something that was... meaningless and giving it meaning. Even if it’s bullshit. Even if it’s just a story. It makes it feel less... random.”
Her throat ached.
“Control,” Eleanor said softly. “On the page, if not in life.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“And off the page?” she asked. “Any control there?”
He smiled, humorless. “Ask my therapist,” he said.
They laughed.
But the hurt under it was real.
Sophie’s hand tightened on the mixer knob.
She was proud of him.
She was furious at the universe.
She was dangerously close to crying in front of half a dozen people, which was absolutely not happening.
She took a deep breath and focused on the levels.
***
Lunch was a blur.
She barely tasted her salad, brain already mapping the afternoon: final session, closing remarks, casual drinks by the fire, bedtime.
Tomorrow, they’d go.
The thought made her stomach twist.
She caught Nathan standing by the window, alone, plate held absently.
“You’re leaking,” she said, nodding at the smear of sauce on his thumb.
He looked down, blinked, and grabbed a napkin.
“You’re a mess,” she added.
“You’re bossy,” he said.
“We’ve established this,” she said.
He flicked his gaze toward the crowded tables.
“They’re not... terrible,” he admitted grudgingly.
“High praise,” she said.
His mouth quirked.
“You did that,” he added. “Made them... less terrible.”
“Don’t blame me,” she said. “They’ve been like this their whole lives.”
He didn’t smile.
“Stay after the summit,” he said abruptly.
Her brain hiccuped. “What?”
“Stay one extra night,” he said. “After they go. To... decompress. Use the house. No clients. No one to manage. Just you. Sleep. Read. Sit in a hot tub and judge my décor.”
She stared.
“What?” he said. “You’ve earned it. And you clearly need a break before diving into the next circus.”
Her heart slammed.
“That’s...” she said. “Inappropriate.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s a professional offer,” he lied. Poorly.
“You and me, alone in your villain lair after three days of... this?” She gestured, encompassing the summit, the storm, the last few nights. “That’s not professional, Nathan.”
He flinched, barely.
“You think I’d—” he began.
“I don’t know what you’d do,” she said. “Or what I’d do. And that’s the problem.”
He looked gutted, for a split second.
Then he smoothed it away.
“Right,” he said. “Of course.”
“I appreciate the offer,” she said, softer. “Really. It’s... generous. But I can’t. I need to go home. See my plants before they call social services.”
He huffed, almost not a laugh.
“Your loss,” he said lightly. “The hot tub has a hell of a view.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tempting.”
“You’re strong,” he said.
It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation. A grudging, admiring one.
“So are you,” she said.
He made a face. “I feel like I’ve been skinned alive for three days.”
“Welcome to emotional labor,” she said.
He snorted.
Eleanor appeared beside them like a well-dressed phantom.
“Stealing my subject?” she said to Sophie.
“Borrowing,” Sophie said. “He still belongs to you for the next forty minutes.”
“Good,” Eleanor said. Her gaze flicked between them, sharp. “You two look like you’re standing on a cliff.”
“Just enjoying the view,” Nathan said coolly.
“If you jump, do it after I get my last segment,” she said. “I have a slot to fill.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ever the romantic, Eleanor.”
“It’s why you love me,” she said.
He didn’t deny it.
Sophie excused herself before the knot in her chest could tighten further.
***
The closing session was less formal.
No microphones. No panels. Just everyone in the living room, drinks in hand, fires crackling, legs tucked under them as they shared “one thing you’re taking away from this weekend.”
“I’m taking away a renewed fear of nature,” the foreign rights agent deadpanned, to laughter. “And a respect for American infrastructure.”
“I’m taking away the knowledge that my imposter syndrome is shared by people much more successful than me,” the beanie-wearing writer said, glancing shyly at Nathan. “Which is oddly reassuring.”
“I’m taking away a deep hatred of mountain roads,” Eleanor said. “But also a deeper appreciation for dark rooms and difficult men.”
All eyes slid to Nathan.
He downed the rest of his whiskey.
“I’m taking away the certainty that I have to throw out my current draft and start again,” he said.
Groans. Laughter.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You lot reminded me that I’ve been... cheating. Writing around the thing I’m afraid of instead of through it.”
“What thing?” Ben asked, wide-eyed.
“Nice try,” Nathan said. “Buy the book.”
More laughter.
Then, unexpectedly, he added, “I’m also taking away a clearer understanding that I can’t keep doing this the way I have been. Alone. In a box.”
Silence.
Eleanor leaned forward. “What does that look like?” she asked.
“Messy,” he said. “And hopefully... less lonely.”
Sophie’s heart stopped.
He didn’t look at her.
He stared into the fire.
The conversation moved on.
But the words hung between them like smoke.
***
Later, after people had drifted to bed, after she’d walked the halls one last time to check doors and thermostats, she found him again.
Not in the study.
Outside.
On the terrace.
He shouldn’t have been there. The door was supposed to be locked by staff after dark.
But there he was, in a dark coat over his shirt, boots crunching on the cleared path, breath steaming in the cold.
The sky was a dome of hard stars. The air was so crisp it hurt her lungs.
“You’re going to freeze,” she said, stepping out, wrapping her coat tighter.
“Probably,” he said. “Worth it.”
“For what?” she asked.
He gestured.
The valley spread below, a soft, white ocean, the town’s lights twinkling at the base like ship lanterns. The mountains reared black against the stars.
“It looks... fake,” he said.
“It looks like a screensaver,” she agreed.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching.
“You leaving tomorrow feels fake,” he said.
Her throat closed.
“It is,” she said. “We’ve been living in a weird bubble. Real life is... bills and emails and clients who don’t tip.”
“Clients tip?” he asked, distracted.
“Not in cash,” she said. “In referrals. Exposure. ‘Future opportunities.’”
He made a face.
“I could pay you,” he said suddenly.
Her head snapped toward him. “You are paying me.”
“More,” he said. “After this. Independently. For... other things. Consulting. On my... life.”
She stared.
“Are you trying to hire me to manage you?” she asked slowly.
“Yes,” he said, equally slow, like he’d just realized it.
She laughed. It burst out of her, white in the cold air.
“You’re insane,” she said. “I’m not your mom.”
“I don’t want you to be my mother,” he said, horrified. “Jesus Christ.”
“Then what, exactly, do you want me to... manage?” she asked.
“Everything I suck at,” he said. “Which is... a lot.”
“You have Howard,” she said. “He’s terrifyingly competent.”
“He is,” Nathan said. “And he handles the... macro shit. Contracts. Schedules. Negotiations. I need someone who handles the other things. The... feelings.” He grimaced at the word.
“Your therapist,” she pointed out.
“He’s not in my house at 3 a.m. when the roof feels like it’s going to cave in,” he said. “He doesn’t know which tea calms me down or which emails I can ignore without the world ending. He doesn’t know which... person to call when I start to spiral.”
Her heart pounded.
“You can call your friends,” she said.
“I don’t have any,” he said simply.
It landed heavy.
“You have people you work with,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Who I pay. Who need me to be a product, not a person.”
“And you think I’m... different?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said instantly.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because you see the person and still do your job,” he said. “You don’t... run.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m on contract.”
He huffed. “You know what I mean.”
She looked out at the valley because his face was too much.
“I can’t be your emotional support human,” she said. “That’s not... healthy. For either of us.”
“I’m not asking you to be my only one,” he said. “I’m asking if you’d consider being... one of them. Professionally. With boundaries. Like... a consultant.”
“You really think you can keep boundaries?” she asked.
His jaw clenched. “Are you saying I can’t?”
“I’m saying this isn’t about whether you *can*,” she said. “It’s about whether I *should*.”
He was quiet.
She could feel him wrestling.
Finally, he said, “You’re right. Again. Annoyingly.”
She smiled, small.
The night air cut through her coat. Her fingers ached.
“We should go in,” she said.
“In a minute,” he said. “Just... one more.”
“One more what?” she asked.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and black.
Her stomach flipped.
It wasn’t a ring. It was a key card. Sleek, matte black with the Cross Estate logo subtly embossed.
He held it out.
“For what?” she asked, throat dry.
“For here,” he said. “For... if you ever want to come back. Not as staff. As... you.”
She stared.
“I can’t take that,” she said.
“You can throw it away,” he said. “You can burn it. You can never use it. But you’ll have it. And you’ll know if you need a place that’s not... your weddings or your office or your parents’ zoo, there’s a glass box on a mountain where you can be... you. And someone will make you good coffee and not ask you to plan their life.”
Tears stung her eyes, hot and unexpected.
She blinked them back hard.
“That’s...” she said, voice rough. “That’s a lot.”
“It’s a card,” he said. “Plastic. Very dramatic plastic, granted.”
She laughed. It came out wet.
“I’m serious, Sophie,” he said. “I know I’m... a lot. I know this is... a mess. But this—” he gestured at the house, the view “—is the only thing I have to offer anyone that feels like... safety. And you’ve given me that, in a way. The last three days. I want you to have some, too. Even if you never use it.”
She swallowed hard.
“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” she muttered.
“You’re not wearing much,” he said, frowning in confusion.
“Exactly,” she said.
She took the card.
Her fingers brushed his.
It was like touching a live wire.
“You understand,” she said quietly, “that this feels a lot like...”
“What?” he asked.
“A promise,” she said.
He held her gaze.
“Maybe it is,” he said.
Her heart lurched.
“Nathan,” she said. “We—”
“I know,” he cut in. “You’re still leaving. I’m still staying. We’re still... whatever we are. I’m not asking for... anything else. Not now.”
Not now.
The two words held a universe.
She slipped the card into her pocket.
“It’s cold,” she said, voice shaking only a little. “We need to go in.”
“Yeah,” he said.
They went.
Inside, by the fire, people laughed and drank and talked about flights.
Outside, the stars burned cold and clear over the mountain.
Inside Sophie’s pocket, the key card pressed against her thigh like a secret.
At ten a.m. the next morning, the shuttles would start their slow descent.
At ten a.m. the next morning, she’d load her crates, hug the staff, and drive back down the mountain road, back to Denver, back to her plants and her spreadsheets and her life.
At ten a.m. the next morning, she’d leave him here.
But tonight, on the edge of the cliff, the story wasn’t over.
It was just pausing.
Waiting for the next chapter.
And for the first time in a very long time, as she looked at the road ahead—snow, risk, unknown—she didn’t just feel fear.
She felt something that tasted suspiciously like hope.