Three days. I’ve had three goddamn days of blissful solitude after sending everyone away for the holidays. And nine days without security after I fired the entire team in what my lawyers are calling “an ill-advised emotional outburst.”
Three days of no one watching me, no one reporting back to the board, no one judging every decision I make.
And now I have some half-frozen woman dripping all over my foyer, wearing my clothes, looking at me like I’m either her savior or a serial killer. A researcher, she’d said. Like that explains showing up at a stranger’s house in a blizzard.
Christ.
The whole thing would be infuriating if it weren’t so goddamn absurd. She mistook me for the help. Called me hot while delirious. Then tried to tip me with soggy cash like some kind of demented room service transaction.
The memory almost makes me smile. Almost. I haven’t smiled in nine days and I’m not about to start now.
I glance out the kitchen’s massive windows. The snow’s coming down hard now. Thick, heavy flakes that mean business. The kind of snow that buries driveways and closes mountain passes.
I should call someone.
Arrange transport.
Get her out of here before this storm gets worse.
I pull out my cell phone first. No signal. Not even emergency bars.
“Shit.” I try the satellite phone next, the one that’s supposed to work anywhere on the planet. Also nothing. “That’s not right.”
I grab my laptop from where I left it on the counter. Boot it up. The battery’s at forty percent but that’s not the issue. I navigate to the Starlink interface.
Searching for connection.
Still searching.
Connection failed.
“What the fuck.” I stare at the screen like it’s personally offended me.
Starlink doesn’t just fail. That’s the whole point of satellite internet. It works when nothing else does. The heavy storm must be interfering with everything.
Fine.
I’ll try again later.
And once it clears, everything will reconnect and I’ll get her out of here.
One night.
Maybe two at most.
I turn my attention to the espresso machine. Eight thousand dollars of Italian engineering, and thank fuck the generator’s running so I can actually use it.
Vin, my personal chef, usually operates this thing with the efficiency of a Formula One pit crew. Me? I press buttons and hope for the best.
Speaking of the generator... the fuel delivery was supposed to come on the 21st. Then the 22nd. Both times postponed due to weather. Now it’s the 23rd and the fucking truckstillhasn’t shown.
Last time I checked, the gauge was low. As in, real low. So I should probably try to conserve energy. You know, the shivering stranger by the fire and all.
But then again, she’ll be gone tomorrow. I’ll deal with the fuel situation after she leaves.
I press the on button and the espresso machine hums to life.
While it works its overpriced magic, I’m already thinking about the seventeen work emails I haven’t answered because, well, it’s fucking Christmas break.
