Chapter 5
Carina
The storm hits in the middle of the night.
I wake to the sound of wind howling against my windows, rattling the glass in its frames like something trying to get in.
For a moment, I forget where I am—the bed too soft, the room too large, the sound of the storm too close.
Then it comes back: Switzerland. The chalet.
My new life that still feels like I'm wearing someone else's clothes.
I pull the duvet up to my chin and check my phone. Not even four in the morning. Outside, snow swirls in violent patterns, erasing the view of the mountains I'd fallen asleep to. By the time everyone is up, we'll be completely snowed in.
The thought makes my chest tight. Trapped in a luxury chalet with three men I barely know, men who could buy and sell my entire world without blinking.
Men who make me feel things I shouldn't be feeling, not when I'm supposed to be professional.
Not when I'm still trying to remember who I am without Dylan telling me.
I try like hell, but sleep doesn't come again.
By the time pale light filters through the storm, I'm showered and dressed, choosing another wrap dress from my limited wardrobe.
This one is deep burgundy, and I pair it with thick tights and boots.
Professional but feminine. I refuse to let this place, these men, make me hide who I am.
The house is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen. I expect to have it to myself—it's barely 6 AM—but William is already there, standing at the massive windows with a cup of coffee, watching the storm.
"Good morning," I say softly, not wanting to startle him.
He turns, and for a second I see something unguarded in his expression before his usual mask slides back into place. "Carina. You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep. The storm..." I gesture helplessly at the windows.
"It's supposed to last three days." He takes a sip of coffee, and I notice he's using the same black mug from yesterday. "Possibly four. The roads will be impassable."
Three days. Maybe four. Trapped here with nowhere to go if things get awkward or uncomfortable. My hands shake slightly as I move toward the coffee maker.
"The machine is temperamental," William says. "You have to—" He stops himself. "Would you like me to make you a cup?"
The offer surprises me. "I can manage."
"I'm sure you can." But he's already moving, taking another mug from the cabinet—this one white with small blue flowers. "But I've had years to perfect the technique. How do you take it?"
"Just cream, please."
I watch him work, precise and methodical. He measures the grounds exactly, times the extraction, even warms the cream before adding it. When he hands me the mug, our fingers brush, and I feel that spark again. Dangerous.
"Thank you." I take a sip and barely suppress a moan. It's perfect, possibly the best coffee I've ever had.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Swiss coffee. They take it seriously here."
We stand in awkward silence, both looking out at the storm.
I'm hyperaware of every movement—how I hold my mug, where I rest my free hand, whether I'm standing too close or too far away.
With Dylan, there were rules for everything.
Stand up straight but not too rigid. Smile but not too much. Be present but not attention-seeking.
"I should start breakfast," I say, needing something to do with my hands.
"It's your day off."
I blink. "What?"
"Sundays are your day off. It was in the contract Travis sent you. Page four, section two."
"But... we're snowed in. And you all need to eat."
"We're perfectly capable of feeding ourselves." He pauses. "Well, Travis and I are. Knox might survive on cereal and whatever he can microwave."
Did William Montclair just make a joke? I study his face, looking for clues.
"I don't mind cooking," I say honestly. "I like it. It relaxes me."
"Then cook for pleasure, not out of obligation." He sets down his mug with that precise click he does with everything. "I have calls with Singapore this morning, but perhaps you'd join us for lunch? Knox dug up some board games in the library. He's threatened to make us play."
"You don't like games?"
"I prefer activities with clear objectives and measurable outcomes."
"So... you don't like games."
This time his smile is more visible. "Not particularly. But Knox and Travis outvote me. Such is democracy."
He leaves me alone in the kitchen, and I exhale slowly. One conversation down. Who knows how many more to go.
By the time I've made myself breakfast—just toast and eggs, nothing fancy—Knox appears, hair sticking up in all directions and wearing pajama pants with paintbrushes on them.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, making a beeline for the coffee. "Shit, it's really coming down out there."
"William says we might be stuck for four days."
"Excellent." He grins. "Nothing like forced family bonding. Speaking of which, we're playing Scrabble after lunch, no excuses."
"I don't know..."
"Come on, it'll be fun. Unless you're scared Will's going to destroy you with his extensive vocabulary."
"I'm not scared," I protest.
"Prove it." His grin widens. "Fair warning though—I play dirty. Made-up words are totally valid if you can convince everyone they're real."
"That's called cheating."
"That's called creative gameplay."
Despite myself, I smile. "Fine. But I'm not going easy on any of you just because you're my employers."
"Employers?" Knox clutches his chest. "Carina, you wound me. We're friends. Friends who happen to pay your salary, but still."
The morning passes quietly. I clean up from breakfast, prep vegetables for dinner—day off or not, I'm not letting them starve—and try not to think about being trapped here. The storm rages outside, dumping snow at an alarming rate. The cars are just white lumps in the driveway.
After lunch—soup and sandwiches that Travis insists on making—Knox drags us all to the library for Scrabble. The fire crackles in the fireplace, the storm howls outside, and I find myself sitting on the couch across from three billionaires who are taking this game far too seriously.
"'Qi' is not a word," William argues.
"It absolutely is," Travis counters, already reaching for his phone. "It's the Chinese concept of life force."
"No phones!" Knox grabs the device. "House rules. If you can't define it from memory, it doesn't count."
"Since when is that a house rule?" William demands.
"Since now. Carina, back me up here."
I look between them, torn between not wanting to take sides and enjoying their bickering. "I think... if we're going to make up rules, we should all agree to them first?"
"See?" William points at me. "Logic. Reason. Thank you."
"Don't take his side just because he's intimidating," Knox stage-whispers.
"I'm not intimidating," William protests.
Travis and Knox exchange a look, then burst out laughing. Even I can't help but smile at William's offended expression.
"Must I remind you again that you made a CEO cry last month," Travis says.
"He was emotional about his poor performance."
"You called his five-year plan 'aggressively mediocre' and suggested his MBA was from a cereal box."
"I was being constructive."
Knox turns to me. "Still think he's not intimidating?"
I consider my words carefully. "I think... he has very high standards."
"Diplomatic," Travis approves. "You'll fit right in."
As the game progresses, I start to relax. William considers each word carefully and works on maximizing points. Knox tries increasingly ridiculous words. Travis plays smart but seems more interested in keeping the peace than winning.
And me? I discover I'm actually good at this. Years of reading cookbooks, learning culinary terms from different languages, has given me a better vocabulary than I realized.
"'Zabaglione,'" I spell out, hitting a triple word score.
"What the hell is that?" Knox demands.
"Italian dessert. Whipped egg yolks with sugar and Marsala wine." I can't help but feel smug at their expressions. "Would you like me to make some later?"
"I take it back," Knox says. "Will's not the intimidating one. Carina's a secret Scrabble assassin."
"The student becomes the master," Travis intones dramatically.
Even William looks impressed. "Where did you learn that?"
"Culinary school. We had to memorize classic preparations from different cuisines."
"Tell us another one," Knox says, leaning forward. "What's the weirdest culinary term you know?"
"'Beurre monté.' It's basically just melted butter that's been emulsified with a little water. But call it by the French name and you can charge twice as much."
"The French have a word for everything," Travis muses. "No wonder they're so pretentious."
"Says the man who just played 'jejune,'" Knox points out.
"That's a perfectly common word!"
"For pretentious people!"
They break out into bickering again, and I find myself laughing. Real laughter, from my belly, the kind I haven't done in so long. When was the last time I just... played? Had fun without worrying about saying the wrong thing or laughing too loud?
"Your turn, Carina," William says, and there's something softer in his expression. Like maybe he's noticed my laughter too.
The afternoon flies by. We play three games—William wins two, I win one, much to everyone's surprise— and by the time we're cleaning up, I realize I haven't thought about being trapped once.
These men—my employers, technically—have become just..
. people. William with his need for order but dry humor.
Knox with his chaos and creativity. Travis with his steady warmth and terrible puns.
"I should start dinner," I say, standing and stretching.
"Want help?" Knox offers immediately.
"You helped with dinner yesterday. You're officially banned from my kitchen after the salt-sugar incident."
"That was one time!"
"You sugared the pasta water."
"I was distracted by your beauty," he says, then immediately flushes. "I mean—"