The operator slides the doors open and gestures sharply. “Everyone out!”
We step onto the platform like two perfectly normal skiers whose whole worlds did not just tilt sideways. I grab my poles, then her skis without thinking, stacking them with mine as we’re swept along with the knot of people heading for the stairs.
Everyone is focused on getting down, not on us. Someone clocks me, does a quick double-take, then mercifully looks away instead of reaching for their phone. I could kiss them for that small act of mercy.
At the bottom of the ramp, I hand Zlata her skis. Our fingers brush on the bindings; the contact sends a small aftershock through me.
“Thank you,” she says automatically. Then, after a beat, with a crooked smile, “For the ride.”
I huff out a breath that’s nowhere near a real laugh but wants to be. “Anytime,” I say. “Preferably with less wind and fewer sudden restarts.”
We stand there for a moment, suspended again—but this time by nothing more than awkwardness and the roar of the wind. I want to pull her close, kiss her properly, say somethingthat acknowledges this is not just another insane story, that it felt real.
Before I can find the words, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Hey, Fabio!”
Max is standing by a snowmobile loaded with poles and skis, goggles pushed up on his helmet, jacket dusted with blown snow. He waves me over. “Thank God. I’ll give you a ride down. They’re closing everything from up here.”
“Hey,” I call back. “How did you know to wait for me here?”
“They pulled down all the cabins below the middle station,” he says. “So, we knew if you were stuck, you’d end up here sooner or later.”
“Right.” I nod, brain scrambling to catch up with normal logistics. “Give me a minute.”
I turn back to where Zlata is standing.
Or where she was standing.
The spot is empty.
For a second, I think I’ve misjudged the distance, that she’s just shifted to the side, tucked behind someone taller. I pivot, scanning the small cluster of people tightening buckles, checking phones, talking to lift staff. Helmets, jackets, goggles, all the usual chaos.
No flash of her jacket. No golden braids. No glimpse of her face.
Nothing.
It’s like she’s been swallowed by the storm.
My stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with altitude. I take a few steps in a slow circle, skis on my shoulder,ignoring the pinch of my boots as I search for a hint of gold in the crowd, of her. There’s only gray, red, and blue. No Zlata.
Max revs the snowmobile once, impatient but not unkind. “Baier! You coming or are you moving in up here?”
I force my feet to move toward him, the automatic pilot of years of training kicking in. But as I swing my skis into the sled and climb on behind him, my head is nowhere near the set they’ve probably torn down by now.
It’s stuck back in that cabin, in the heat and the dark and the feel of her on my lap—and on the cold platform where, in the space of one shouted greeting and a turn of my head, my golden girl vanished into the white.
Chapter 6
The Chase
ZLATA
By the time I reach the bottom station, my legs barely remember how to be legs. They do what they’ve done all day—edge, absorb, steer—but my head is still somewhere above the trees in a swinging metal box.
I skid to a sloppy stop by the racks and have to plant my poles for a second, breathing hard. The snow around the base is a churned-up mess, loudspeakers barking something in German about wind and closures. People are streaming toward the gondola exit and ski bus signs, hoods up, goggles on. The whole resort feels like it’s exhaling in one big, annoyed huff.
My phone has been buzzing in my sleeve pocket for the last two pylons. I finally shove my glove off and fish it out. Two messages from Eva, one from Anna.
