By nine-thirty the next morning, the house no longer felt like a cocoon.
It felt like a hotel lobby twenty minutes before checkout.
Suitcases lined the foyer walls. Laughter and the scrape of zippers bounced off the glass. People hugged, exchanged business cards, promised to email “next week for sure.” Rafe’s last batch of pastries disappeared at an alarming rate.
Outside, the shuttles idled in the circular drive, exhaust curling white in the cold.
Sophie stood by the welcome table—now a good-bye table—checking names off a list as guests handed back lanyards.
“Safe travels,” she said to the beanie-wearing writer as the woman adjusted her scarf. “Text me when you get to the airport.”
“I will,” the woman said. Her eyes were bright. “Thank you. For everything. I was so freaked out coming up here and you made it… not terrifying.”
“Terrifying is my brand,” Sophie said. “You just didn’t notice because I hid it behind the canapés.”
The woman laughed, then leaned in impulsively and hugged her. “You should charge extra for emotional support.”
“Don’t give my boss ideas,” Sophie murmured.
Eleanor swept past next, coat impeccable, rolling suitcase gliding at her heels like a very chic pet.
“Ms. Turner,” she said. “You’ve been a marvel.”
“Coming from you, that’s either high praise or foreshadowing,” Sophie said. “Should I be worried about my media image?”
Eleanor’s lips curled. “Positively glowing,” she said. “My producer is already drooling over the material. Your man gave us more than enough.”
Your man.
Heat pricked the back of Sophie’s neck.
“He’s not—” she started.
“Oh, I know.” Eleanor’s gaze flicked, hawk-like, toward the stairs. “That would be far too interesting.”
“God forbid,” Sophie muttered.
Eleanor’s eyes softened, undercutting the wryness. “Be careful with him,” she said quietly. “He’s… sharper than most. But some of those edges cut inward, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Sophie said, equally low. “And with me.”
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Talent deserves handlers who see the person, not just the product.”
Before Sophie could reply, Eleanor kissed the air near her cheek and glided out into the cold, heels clicking on stone.
One by one, the guests fell away.
Foreign rights agent: check. Streaming execs: check. Midlist crime author who’d wept into his whiskey the night before and proclaimed the summit “a fucking revelation”: check.
The shuttles filled.
Engines revved.
“Last call for trauma bonding!” Sophie called lightly. “Anyone wants to stay and shovel snow, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Laughter.
No takers.
Howard drifted to her side as the first shuttle pulled away, big tires crunching on the packed snow.
“You’ve done it,” he said.
“Don’t jinx it,” she replied. “We still have one more shuttle and a house to reset.”
“And a summit host to keep from having a post-event collapse,” he murmured.
She followed his gaze.
Nathan stood a little apart from the milling cluster at the door, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders loose in that deceptive way that meant he was still holding himself rigid on the inside. He wore a dark wool coat over a sweater, his hair mussed, his jaw shadowed.
He looked almost… normal. Like any other moderately exhausted host seeing off his guests.
Except he wasn’t any other.
He was the axis everything had spun around.
As the first shuttle cleared the gate, the second edged forward.
“Are you riding down with the last group?” Howard asked.
“I’ve got my own SUV,” she said. “We’ll caravan with the last shuttle, just in case. I want eyes on them until they hit the highway.”
“Of course you do,” he said.
“You sound offended,” she said.
“Impressed, actually,” he said. “And faintly exhausted on your behalf.”
“Story of my life.”
The last of the luggage went in. Doors thudded shut. The second shuttle’s driver gave Sophie a thumbs-up through the windshield.
She raised her radio.
“Remember,” she said into it. “No heroics. You feel the tires even *think* about slipping, you call me.”
Static crackled. Then: “Copy that, boss. See you at the bottom.”
She clipped the radio back to her belt.
It hit her, suddenly and without warning.
It was over.
The storm, the summit, the glass box life. The strange, intense bubble of the last three days. The constant, vibrating awareness of the man at the center of it.
Her chest tightened.
As the shuttle began to roll backward down the drive, the remaining guests turned for last waves. Shouts. Goodbyes.
“Email me!” “Send me your draft!” “Don’t die on the road!”
Sophie smiled, lifted a hand.
Then Nathan was suddenly right there, his presence like a change in gravity.
“Walk me out,” he said.
“Bossy,” she said.
“It’s infectious,” he said.
They stepped out onto the front steps together.
The air bit at her cheeks. The sky was a clear, almost painful blue, snow sparkling in the hard light. The mountain loomed above; the valley dropped away below, treacherous and beautiful.
The shuttle rounded the first curve, taillights winking through trees.
For a long beat, they just stood there, watching.
“You did it,” he said at last.
“You did it,” she countered. “You didn’t hide. You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anyone off the balcony.”
“Small mercies,” he said.
She exhaled a half-laugh. The sound turned to a mist in the air between them.
“How do you feel?” she asked, quieter.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he said. “Emotionally. Creatively. Socially.”
“And physically?” she pushed.
He paused. “Still breathing,” he admitted. “Which is more than I thought I’d be able to say on day one.”
She smiled.
“You?” he asked, turning the question back.
Her answer surprised her.
“Empty,” she said. “And… weirdly full.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Full of what?” he asked.
“Noise,” she said. “Faces. Conversations. Schedules. Your voice.”
She hadn’t meant to say the last part.
His gaze sharpened.
“My voice,” he repeated.
“You talk a lot when you have to,” she said, covering. “It’s very echoey.”
He didn’t let her deflect.
“You’re in my head, too,” he said simply.
The words struck like a tuning fork.
She swallowed.
“Then it’s good we’re about to have some distance,” she said. “Before we both go insane.”
His mouth kicked. “Too late for me,” he said.
They fell quiet again.
Down the drive, the shuttle disappeared around a bend, leaving only silence and the crisp, crystalline blue.
The house loomed behind them, starting to feel like a set being struck.
“You’ll be okay?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to hers, amused and exasperated.
“You’ve asked me that three times in twenty-four hours,” he said. “Do I seem that fragile to you?”
“Yes,” she said, without sugarcoating. “But you’re also… stubborn.”
He huffed. “Accurate.”
She turned slightly, facing him more fully.
This was it. The goodbye moment. The part where she said something neat and professional and filed this whole surreal experience in the appropriate drawer in her brain.
Her brain, unhelpful, served up last night’s balcony, the burn of cold air and his hand offering her a black key card.
She felt it now in her pocket, small and solid.
“Well,” she said, too bright. “Summit completed. Guests delivered back to civilization. House intact. No one murdered. I call that a win.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “High standards,” he said.
“Bare minimum,” she said.
A gust of wind lifted a few tendrils of hair at her temples. He watched one curl, his eyes following its path as it brushed her cheek.
He looked like he wanted to tuck it back.
He didn’t.
Instead, he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, as if physically restraining himself.
“I’ll wire the remaining payment to Aurora this afternoon,” he said gruffly. “And the bonus we discussed.”
“I wasn’t going to bring that up,” she said, defensive.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I did.”
“Money doesn’t buy you another summit,” she said, half-joking. “You’re on thin ice, Cross.”
“We’ve had quite enough ice, thanks,” he said.
Their eyes met.
The humor was there. But so was something else. Dense. Electric.
She heard herself ask, “So… this is it?”
“For now,” he said.
“You made that sound ominous,” she said.
“I’m a thriller writer,” he said. “It’s in the job description.”
“Nathan—”
“Sophie.”
Her name stopped her.
He stepped in, just enough that his coat brushed hers. The world narrowed to breath and cold and the space between their mouths.
He was close enough now that she could see the tiny flecks of darker gray in his eyes, the faint line near his right brow where a scar had once been.
He reached up.
His gloved hand hovered near her jaw, thumb a hair’s breadth from the corner of her mouth.
Her heart hammered.
“If I kiss you right now,” he said, voice so low she almost didn’t catch it, “we both know that’s not something we can put back.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Yes,” she said, honesty ripping out of her. “We know.”
He searched her face.
“You have a life to go back to,” he said. “A job. A boss who loves you. A best friend who will murder me if I derail you.”
“That didn’t stop you from offering me a key to your very fancy cage,” she whispered.
“I told you,” he said. “It’s there if you need it. Not as a rope around your neck. As… a door.”
His thumb brushed her skin, the faintest touch.
Sensation exploded through her, sharp and sweet.
She swayed, just a fraction.
He steadied her with a light grip at her elbow.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The word ghosted over her lips like a caress.
“One kiss,” she heard herself say. “We’re allowed that.”
His pupils blew wide.
“Are we?” he asked.
“We survived a blizzard and each other,” she said, half-laughing, half-desperate. “We’re owed *something*.”
He made a strangled sound.
Then, very slowly, as if giving both of them time to change their minds, he bent his head.
His mouth touched hers.
It was not fireworks.
It was not a movie.
It was heat and restraint and the shock of finally, finally getting something you’d spent days pretending you didn’t want.
His lips were warmer than the air, firm and surprisingly soft. He tasted faintly of coffee and the whiskey from last night, with something underneath that was just… him.
He didn’t slam into her. He didn’t drag her close.
He kissed her like someone testing a wire they knew was live.
She made a noise—small, involuntary.
His hand tightened at her elbow.
The angle shifted, deepened.
His nose brushed her cheek. His breath mingled with hers in a cloud.
Her hand, traitor, lifted to the lapel of his coat, fingers curling in wool.
He went very still.
Then his other hand was at her waist, not quite pulling, not quite holding, fingers spread like he wanted to feel if she was real.
Time stretched.
The world blurred.
There was only this: his mouth, her pulse, the inch of space left between their bodies by sheer, stubborn will.
He broke away first.
Barely.
His forehead rested against hers, breaths ragged.
“Fuck,” he said again, more quietly. “That was a terrible idea.”
“Agreed,” she whispered. “Do it again.”
He huffed a laugh that sounded half like pain.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said.
“So dramatic,” she murmured.
His lips brushed hers again—so light it was almost a tease.
Then he stepped back. Hands dropping. Distance slamming back in like a wall.
Cold rushed between them.
She swayed.
He looked wrecked.
Not outwardly—the world would see only a man a little flushed from the chill. But she saw the crack in the careful armor, the way his fingers flexed as if itching to reach back for her.
“We stop there,” he said, voice rough. “Or we don’t stop.”
Her throat worked. “Right.”
“You go down that mountain,” he said. “You do your job. You live your life. You…” He swallowed. “You decide what to do with a stupid piece of plastic in your pocket.”
Her hand twitched over the coat.
“And you?” she asked.
“I write,” he said. “Or try. I see my therapist. I maybe try not to be such an asshole to Howard. I…” He exhaled. “I figure out whether I can be a version of myself that doesn’t just… take.”
Her eyes burned.
“You’re not just that,” she said.
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“You told me a nineteen-year-old version of you held a dying boy’s hand in the dark,” she said. “That boy deserved better than you thinking you’re a black hole.”
Silence.
He looked away, jaw working.
“Go,” he said at last. “Before I change my mind.”
“About the kiss?” she asked.
“About letting you put distance between us,” he said.
Her heart clenched.
“Goodbye, Nathan,” she said.
He flinched at the word.
“See you,” he said. “I’m not ready to make it goodbye.”
She didn’t trust herself to answer.
She turned, boots thudding on stone, and walked briskly to the side of the house where her SUV waited, already half-packed.
Howard appeared as she rounded the corner, expression politely neutral, which meant he’d seen far too much.
“Everything okay?” he asked, and somehow managed to make it sound like a real question, not a loaded one.
“No,” she said. “But it will be.”
He inclined his head, like a man acknowledging a risky bet.
“If you ever get tired of this life,” he said quietly, “my wife’s charity in London could use someone like you.”
She blinked. “You have a wife?”
He almost laughed. “Believe it or not.”
“You’re full of surprises,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied.
They shook hands.
“Take care of him,” she said, before she could stop herself.
“I have been for six years,” he said. “But I suspect he might start learning to take care of himself, now that he’s met his match.”
Her cheeks heated.
“Don’t tell him I cried,” she said, half-joking, half-serious.
“I would never,” he said.
She got into the SUV, hands slightly unsteady on the steering wheel.
In the rearview mirror, she saw the front steps.
Nathan stood there, hands in his pockets, watching.
He didn’t wave.
Neither did she.
She started the engine.
The tires crunched on snow as she fell in behind the last shuttle.
The house receded in the rearview, becoming smaller, then disappearing behind a curve of mountain.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel.
The black card in her pocket felt like a brand.
She drove.
Down through trees.
Past drifts of snow that still bore the chaos of the storm.
Toward the city, and home, and a life that suddenly felt too small and too big at once.
***
Three hours later, she sat in Miranda’s office, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea, trying to remember how to be a normal person.
“Start from the top,” Miranda said, perched on the edge of her desk, heels kicked off. “Give me everything.”
“You mean the fact that we almost lost power, the summit almost got postponed, and I bribed the mountain like three times with my sanity?” Sophie asked.
“Yes, that,” Miranda said. “And the part where Eleanor Chase emailed *me* to say, and I quote, ‘Whatever you’re paying Sophie Turner, it’s not enough.’”
Sophie blinked. “She said that?”
“In writing,” Miranda said, brandishing her phone. “I might print it on the wall.”
Heat climbed Sophie’s neck.
“There were some… bumps,” she admitted. “Blizzard, generator. But nothing derailed. Guests were happy. No one sued. No one died.”
“And Nathan?” Miranda asked, too casually. “He wasn’t… impossible?”
He kissed me on a mountain, she didn’t say.
“He was… Nathan,” she said instead. “Intense. Demanding. Occasionally accidentally funny. He did the work, though. Panels, sessions. Eleanor got what she needed.”
“Good,” Miranda said. “Because the buzz is already starting. I have three voicemails from publishing people asking if we ‘do remote retreats.’ Two from studios sniffing around for ‘brand alignment events.’ Sophie, this summit might have just bought us five years of runway.”
Relief washed through her. Real, powerful, almost dizzying.
“That’s… incredible,” she said.
“That’s *you*,” Miranda said. Her eyes shone. “I’m not going to mince words: I couldn’t have pulled this off. Not like that. I’m good, but you—” she waved a hand, searching for a word “—you’re terrifying.”
“Apparently that’s the brand now,” Sophie muttered.
“I mean it,” Miranda said, serious. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and this summit sealed it. I want you to come on as partner.”
Sophie’s heart lurched.
“Partner?” she repeated.
“In Aurora,” Miranda said. “Officially. Not just in the ‘you keep this place from burning down’ way. In the ‘this is your company, too’ way.”
“That’s…” Sophie’s brain scrambled. “That’s huge.”
“You’ve been acting like it for two years,” Miranda said. “You bring in the high-ticket clients. You run the tough events. You mentor the juniors. I’ve been a selfish idiot pretending this was still my solo baby when you’ve been co-parenting the whole time.”
Emotion rose in Sophie’s throat, sharp and unexpected.
“Miranda—”
“I can’t match Nathan Cross money,” Miranda said. “Not yet. But I can give you equity. Say yes and we put it in writing. You help steer this ship, and you get a real chunk of what you’re building.”
Sophie groped for words.
Part of her wanted to say yes so fast she’d choke.
Another part flashed back to the balcony.
You ever think about leaving your job? All the time.
“You don’t have to answer now,” Miranda said quickly, reading her face. “Think about it. Talk to Lia. Talk to a lawyer if you want. The offer’s not going anywhere. You’ve earned it.”
Sophie nodded, throat thick.
“Thank you,” she managed.
Miranda’s gaze softened. “Also, take a goddamn week off,” she added. “Paid. No emails. No schedules. No clients. If you so much as open Excel, I will personally break into your house and delete it.”
Sophie half-laughed, half-sobbed.
“Okay,” she said.
“Go home,” Miranda said. “Sleep. Or… whatever you do when you’re not here. I assume you have some kind of ritual that doesn’t involve clipboards.”
Sophie stood, legs a little wobbly.
At the doorway, Miranda called, “Hey, Soph?”
She turned.
“I’m proud of you,” Miranda said simply.
The words landed almost as hard as the partnership offer.
“Don’t get sappy,” Sophie said, voice rough. “You’ll ruin your brand.”
“Go away,” Miranda said fondly. “Before I hug you and we both have to die.”
Sophie snorted.
She left the office, the familiar halls of Aurora suddenly humming at a slightly different frequency.
Partner.
Key card.
Kiss.
Her head spun.
In the parking lot, the cold air slapped her cheeks. Snow in the city was already ugly, melted into gray sludge at the curbs, piled in gritty mounds around lampposts.
She climbed into her car and sat there for a full minute, hands slack on the wheel.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She fished it out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Nathan. Howard says it’s socially acceptable to text you now.
She stared.
Her heart leaped into her throat.
SOPHIE: How did you get my number?
NATHAN: I know people.
NATHAN: Also you put it on every schedule and emergency plan you sent us. Demon.
A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.
SOPHIE: That does sound like me. SOPHIE: Did the house survive my departure?
NATHAN: Barely. NATHAN: It’s quieter. NATHAN: I don’t like it.
She swallowed.
SOPHIE: You’ll adjust. SOPHIE: Try talking to your characters. They can be very chatty.
NATHAN: They’re sulking. NATHAN: You left and took the chaos with you.
Her chest tightened.
She typed carefully.
SOPHIE: Chaos is available by email. SOPHIE: Within business hours. SOPHIE: And when I’m not asleep.
There was a pause. Three dots blinked, vanished, blinked again.
NATHAN: Thank you. NATHAN: For not letting me bolt. NATHAN: For the summit. NATHAN: For… everything.
Her eyes burned.
SOPHIE: You did most of it yourself. I just made sure the building didn’t collapse.
NATHAN: You’re very bad at taking credit. NATHAN: Work on that.
She leaned her head back against the headrest.
Her life was changing.
Her job. Her status. Her boundaries.
And somewhere on a mountain, a man with a scar on his back and storms in his head was typing her number into his phone, deciding whether to hit send.
She put the car in drive.
As she pulled out of the lot, the black card in her pocket pressed against her hip like a heartbeat.
---