Chapter 4
Knox
The drive from Zurich to our chalet takes three hours, and I spend most of it sketching in my notebook while trying not to stare at Carina.
She's pressed against the window of the Mercedes SUV, watching the Swiss countryside roll by with the kind of wonder that makes me want to capture it on canvas.
The morning light hits her face just right, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the way her lips part slightly when she sees something that amazes her.
We'd left the hotel early, right after breakfast where William made Carina sit separately from us while he went over "employee expectations" with her. I'd watched her eat alone at a corner table, while we discussed today's market visits. It made my stomach turn.
"That's the third sketch of her you've done since we left the hotel," Travis murmurs from beside me, too low for William to hear from the passenger seat.
"I'm sketching the mountains," I lie, badly.
Travis glances at my notebook. "Those are very feminine mountains."
I flip him off good-naturedly and go back to my drawing. After the disaster with Klaus—and the cheese—I'm just happy to be feeling human again. Though watching William bark orders at Carina when we loaded the car this morning made me want to puke for entirely different reasons.
"Carina, make sure the catering supplies are properly secured."
"Carina, did you confirm tomorrow's market list?"
"Carina, you'll need to inventory the kitchen as soon as we arrive."
Like she's hired help instead of the woman who saved our asses with Klaus yesterday. The woman who's been making my brother act like even more of a dickhead than usual because he clearly wants her and can't admit it.
I flip to a fresh page and start another sketch, this one of her hands. She has beautiful hands—strong from years of kitchen work but still elegant. There's a small scar on her left thumb, probably from a knife slip. I wonder about the story behind it.
"The roads get narrower from here," William announces, like we haven't driven this route a hundred times. "We should reach the chalet by noon."
"Can we stop in the village?" I ask. "I need new brushes from the art store."
"We have a schedule, Knox. The Tokyo call is at two."
"The Tokyo call you scheduled," I point out. "On our vacation."
"This isn't a vacation. It's a working retreat with holiday elements."
I catch Carina's eye in the rearview mirror and make a face. She bites her lip to keep from smiling, and something warm unfurls in my me.
The landscape changes as we climb higher, thick forests giving way to Alpine meadows dusted with snow.
Carina's transfixed, and I find myself seeing it through her eyes—the pristine beauty, the sense of isolation, the way the mountains make you feel small but also part of something ancient and enduring.
"Is that—are those cows wearing bells?" she asks suddenly.
"Alpine tradition," Travis explains. "So farmers can find them in the fog."
"They're so loud!" She's delighted, craning her neck to watch them pass. "And those little houses on the hillside?"
"Chalets," I tell her. "Some are hundreds of years old. Families pass them down through generations."
"Like yours?"
"Ours was built in the seventies," William says flatly. "By our grandfather. Hardly ancient."
Way to kill the magic, Will. But Carina just nods, still enchanted by the view.
The chalet appears around a bend, and even I—who've been coming here since I was eight—catch my breath.
It's massive, all dark wood and stone, perched on the mountainside like it grew there.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the snow-capped peaks, and smoke already curls from one of the three chimneys.
"Holy shit," Carina breathes, then immediately blushes. "I mean—"
"That's exactly what I said the first time I saw it," I tell her, grinning. "Wait till you see the inside."
William's driver parks us in the circular drive, and I notice Hans, our caretaker, has already cleared the fresh snow. Good man. William immediately shifts into general mode, that tone he gets when he's about to start ordering everyone around like we're his personal army.
"Knox, bring in the luggage. Travis, check with the caretaker about the heating in the west wing. Carina, the kitchen is through the main hall, second door on the right. You'll find—"
"She'll find it when I show her around," I interrupt, my temper flaring. "Like a normal host would do for a guest."
William's eyes narrow, and I see that muscle in his jaw start ticking. "She's not a guest. She's—"
"Part of the team," I finish. "Your words, remember? From when Klaus was being a creep?"
"That was different."
"Why? Because you needed her then?" The words come out sharper than intended, but I'm tired of watching him treat her like furniture.
The temperature drops about ten degrees. Travis clears his throat. "I'll just... go find that caretaker."
He escapes, the coward, leaving me to face down my brother. Carina looks between us uncertainly, wringing her hands.
"I can find the kitchen myself," she offers. "It's fine, really."
"No," I say, not breaking eye contact with William. "It's not fine. You're not the maid. You're our chef, a professional, and you deserve to be treated like it."
"Knox—" William's voice carries that warning tone I've heard my whole life. The one that used to make me fold, used to make me fall in line like a good little brother.
"What? You gonna send me to my room? Ground me? I'm twenty-eight, Will, not eight." I grab Carina's suitcase along with mine. "Come on, I'll show you to your room first. You get the best guest suite—the one with the mountain view."
I storm inside, half-expecting Carina not to follow, but she does. I hear William slam the car door behind us, which is about as close to a tantrum as he ever gets.
The inside of the chalet is warm and welcoming, all exposed beams and comfortable furniture. The smell of woodsmoke and pine fills the air. Carina stops in the entryway, turning in a slow circle.
"This is... overwhelming," she admits.
"Good overwhelming or the bad kind of overwhelming?"
"I don't know yet." She runs her hand along the carved banister of the main staircase.
"Everything in my life has changed so fast. Three days ago, I was broke and desperate, and now I'm in a Swiss chalet that looks like something out of a magazine.
And there's you, who has stood up for me twice now.
That matters to me more than the money."
"You shouldn't be grateful for basic decency," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "That should be the minimum, not something special."
"You didn't have to do that," Carina says quietly as we climb the massive wooden staircase. "Stand up to him like that. I'm used to—"
"That's the problem." I stop on the landing, turning to face her. "You're used to being treated like shit. By whoever made you think this is normal. And now by my brother. It's not okay."
Her eyes widen. "Your brother isn't—he's nothing like other people have been, like my ex, Dylan."
Dylan. So that's the asshole's name. I file it away for future reference.
"Maybe not," I concede, "but he's still being an ass. And you deserve better."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Like she's not used to people standing up for her. It makes me want to paint her even more, to capture that vulnerability mixed with strength.
"Here." I push open the door to her room, pride filling me as she gasps.
It's gorgeous—soft fabrics, with windows that frame the Alps like a painting.
"The bathroom has a claw-foot tub that's perfect for soaking after a long day.
And that door connects to a small balcony, though it's pretty cold this time of year. "
She walks to the window, pressing her palm against the glass. "It's beautiful. All of this is... I feel like I'm in a dream."
"Wait till you see my studio," I say, then catch myself. "I mean, if you want. No pressure. I know the drive here was intense and—"
"I'd love to see it." She turns, offering me a smile that takes my breath away. "You mentioned you paint?"
"A little." Understatement of the century. Painting is what keeps me sane, what makes the corporate bullshit bearable. "It's just a hobby."
Another lie. It's everything. But admitting that would mean admitting how much I hate the family business, how trapped I feel between William's expectations and my own dreams.
"Let me show you the rest of the house first," I say. "So you can get your bearings."
We walk through the chalet, and I narrate like a tour guide, partly to fill the silence and partly because I love watching her reactions.
The main living room with its massive stone fireplace gets an appreciative "wow.
" The library—floor-to-ceiling books, leather chairs, the smell of old paper—makes her stop and stare.
"Does anyone actually read all these?"
"Travis does. He's working his way through the entire philosophy section.
William reads business journals and occasionally a biography of some long-dead tycoon.
I prefer art books." I pull one out, a heavy volume on the Impressionists.
"This one's my favorite. The way they captured light. .. it changed everything."
She takes the book, handling it carefully. "You really love it. Art, I mean."
"More than anything." The truth slips out before I can stop it.
"Then why—" She stops herself.
"Why am I in the family business?" I reshelve the book with more force than necessary. "Because Montclairs run Eden Provisions. It's what we do. What we've always done."
"But if you're not happy—"
"Come on," I interrupt, not ready for this conversation. "Let me show you the kitchen."