Ophelia
We land in the Swiss Alps just after midday. The air is cold enough to sting my lungs, sunlight flashing off the snow in blinding sheets of white.
From the airport, we don’t head straight to the chalet.
Instead, we drive into town first, winding through perfect Swiss villages nestled between the ridges.
Octavia and Adelaide bicker the entire way, naturally, but the moment we stop, their shared love for fashion takes over.
We were meant to pick up a few essentials, ski jackets, trousers, gloves, but it turns into a full shopping expedition.
Coats, boots, matching après ski sets, and more designer bags than the car can reasonably hold.
By the time we’re finished, the sun’s already slipping behind the peaks, painting the snow in gold and violet. The car boot looks as if a luxury department store’s gone off inside it.
Adelaide’s driver waits by the car, already loading the endless bags. He’s one of her father’s men, quiet, stoic, and unmistakably dangerous. More bodyguard than chauffeur, which fits.
Adelaide Reyes is cartel blood.
Colombian.
When we finally turn into the long, winding drive, the chalet rises ahead, grand, glass fronted, and half buried in snow.
It’s breathtaking and far too perfect to feel real.
The driver steps out first, opening doors, hauling bags, what looks like enough luggage for a month, though we’re here barely a week.
The cold nips through my gloves as I lift one of my own, snow crunching crisply underfoot.
He helps us carry everything inside, sets the last case down in the hall, and offers a curt nod before walking back down the icy path to the car.
The sound of the engine fades, and the heavy front door clicks shut behind him.
Inside, the air is warm, faintly scented with cedar and something floral.
Someone’s clearly been ahead of us to prepare the place, floors polished, a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, even the heat left on low to chase away the mountain chill.
It feels cared for, but not lived in.
I shrug off my jacket and boots by the door, gather one of my bags, and climb the wide staircase to the room I always take when we stay here.
The others scatter, Adelaide vanishing toward her wing, Octavia dragging her suitcases up, and Piper slipping away in her usual quiet way, barely a sound as her door shuts behind her.
I drop the first of my bags onto the floor and roll my shoulders until the tension eases. The rest can wait.
The room is spacious, softly lit, with a king bed dressed in cream covers, a pair of bedside tables, a vanity, a generous wardrobe, and an ensuite tucked neatly to one side.
A hot shower is all I can think about.
I step into the bathroom and let the steam rise around me, washing the travel from my skin until the chill finally leaves my bones.
When I emerge, I pull on a pale lilac fleece bralette and matching shorts, topping it with a long cardigan that’s impossibly soft.
I wander into the closet and open a drawer, finding a pair of grey slippers I must’ve left here the last time we stayed.
I dry my hair and braid it down my back.
It takes me nearly half an hour to find my face cream and balm in the chaos of my luggage, my skin already feels dry and tight from the cold earlier, the mountain wind having stripped it of any moisture.
Once I’ve finally finished, I pad downstairs, my slippers whispering over the wooden steps.
The sound of voices greets me before I reach the bottom.
The main floor opens into a single, generous space, kitchen, dining, and living area all flowing together, the air far warmer than before. Someone must have turned the heating up to full.
Adelaide is at the fridge, barefoot, dressed in wide leg lounge trousers and a long sleeved crop top of deep emerald, the shade catching against her skin beautifully.
Piper and Octavia are crouched by the fireplace, apparently locked in debate over how to light it, both already changed into comfortable clothes.
Octavia’s also wearing a pair of absurd green elf slippers with curled toes.
When I step into the room, all three glance up.
Adelaide doesn’t bother speaking, simply continues rummaging through the fridge. I don’t ask what she’s attempting, experience tells me it’s better not to know.
The girl burns water. If she’s about to cook, we may well die of smoke inhalation before poisoning.
I glance back toward my sister and Piper, both frowning at the unlit hearth, and I can’t help the small smirk tugging at my mouth.
“You need wood to start a fire,” I say.
Octavia exhales, throwing me a look over her shoulder. “Thank you, genius. Whatever would we do without your endless wisdom?”
I shake my head, still smiling.
Piper pushes herself up from the floor, brushing ash from her hands. “Come on,” she says to Octavia. “Let’s find some wood before it gets too dark.”
They head for the door, bundling themselves into coats, hats, and gloves, boots thudding against the floorboards.
“Be careful,” I murmur as they step out.
Piper rolls her eyes. “If someone comes after us, I’ll scream loud enough for you to hear my last words.”
Octavia smirks as she pulls on her gloves. “And if we freeze to death, blame Adelaide.”
“Blame yourself,” Adelaide replies evenly, not even glancing up from whatever she’s doing by the counter.
Octavia turns her gaze to me instead. “Check your blood sugar while we’re gone,” she says, then tilts her head towards Adelaide. “And don’t let her near anything sharp. Or flammable.”
Adelaide looks up, picks up a metal spoon from the counter, and launches it straight at Octavia’s head.
My sister ducks easily, her expression unimpressed.
“That’s assault,” she mutters, though there’s a hint of amusement in her tone.
Adelaide’s smile curves. “Pity I missed.”
The door shuts behind them, the sound echoing through the quiet room.
I exhale, shaking my head. Those two need to sort themselves out.
Octavia’s temper and Adelaide’s walls are a disaster waiting to happen. I don’t buy Adelaide’s facade for a moment, I know there’s a reason behind it, a story she’s not telling.
I just wish my sister could see it too. But she’s too impulsive… and hurt, and Adelaide’s pride isn’t helping the situation in the slightest.
I turn towards the kitchen and step closer. She doesn’t move until I’m near enough to force her to shift aside, grumbling under her breath, the sound low.
“Shouldn’t you be checking your blood sugar first?” she snaps, not bothering to look at me.
“Not that you deserve an answer,” I reply evenly, “not after the way you’ve been acting. But no. I check before meals, and seeing as I’ve not eaten and don’t plan to in the next few minutes, I’d say I’m fine.”
My gaze drifts to the half unpacked groceries on the counter, then back to her. “Go sit down. I’ll make dinner. You can’t cook to save your life.”
Her face barely shifts, but there’s that faint, taunting glimmer in her eyes.
She doesn’t argue.
Instead, she opens the fridge, rummages, and pulls out a small glass container. Without a word, she crosses to the island and takes a seat, twisting the lid open.
The contents catch my eye immediately, spiny red shells.
Rambutan.
I arch a brow. “Since when are you so taken with exotic fruit?”
She plucks one from the container, turning it idly between her fingers, ignoring the question.
“Honestly,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “how can anyone eat that? It looks revolting. Does it even taste remotely decent?”
Adelaide only shrugs before sinking her teeth into the flesh. “It’s my favourite.”
“Since when?” I press, studying her expression.
Something cold flashes in her eyes. “Things change. Oh—” her mouth tilts in a faint, cutting smile, “I forgot. You wouldn’t remember.”
I don’t ask how she knows about the gaps in my memory. I’m certain I never mentioned it to her, not since we stopped speaking properly.
I set the knife down and meet her gaze. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I see right through you.”
“There’s nothing to see through, Ophelia,” she replies smoothly. “You’re simply too na?ve to realise it.”
Her words hit hard, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
Turning back to the counter, I resume chopping, onion first, then garlic. I set them aside for the sauce I plan to make, fresh pasta with truffle oil, wild porcini mushrooms, and a touch of oat cream.
The silence stretches between us until Adelaide decides she’s bored of it.
“To answer your earlier question about the fruit,” she says lazily, turning one of the peeled rambutans between her fingers, “Isaak’s allergic to them. So naturally, they’ve become my favourite.”
I still mid slice, the knife hovering above the board. “Since when do you know that sort of information about Isaak? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other.”
She only shrugs, offering no explanation, and my questions keep coming.
“Why would you eat something on purpose just because someone’s allergic to it? Not that it matters, he’s not even here. But really, if I think about it, how does one even discover they’re allergic to something that ridiculous?”
Adelaide’s lips twitch. “It is rather vile,” she says, taking a slow bite, the smirk settling back into place.
Then, catching my confused expression, she rolls her eyes.
“The fruit, Octavia. Not the man. Although”—she pauses, her gaze flickering toward the window—“the man is vile as well. He’s the devil himself.
And if he ever decides to make an appearance and happens to drop dead from exposure to a rambutan, well…
I can’t say I’d be mourning. Might even open a bottle of champagne. ”
I blink at her, torn between laughter and concern. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re slow,” she says.
I exhale through my nose and turn back to the counter, deciding that finishing dinner is far more important than trying to decode Adelaide’s twisted sense of logic.
She sits at the island, elbows on the counter, watching me heat the pan. I toss in the ingredients, the sound of sizzling filling the quiet kitchen, until a sudden noise from outside slices through the air.
Before I can move, the door bursts open.
Octavia and Piper stumble inside, breathless and flushed, with not a single piece of firewood between them.
“A bear!” Octavia gasps, doubling over to catch her breath.
“A wolf,” Piper corrects flatly at the exact same moment, shooting my sister a look of pure disdain. “If you’d ever paid attention in class, you’d know bears hibernate during winter. So it was most certainly a wolf.” She gives an involuntary shudder.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Adelaide begins from across the room, rolling her eyes. “It is possible for some bears not to hibernate. Hibernation is a flexible process, influenced by food availability and individual behaviour. Some adapt, find alternative food sources, even human waste—”
She’s cut off by the door slamming open a second time.
All three of them scream. Which, naturally, makes me scream as well.
I grab the nearest rolling pin, holding it out in front of me, while Adelaide snatches up one of the bar stools. The sight is almost comical, her small frame hidden behind a chair far too big for her, but somehow, she makes it look menacing.
I mouth for Octavia and Piper to duck, then hurl the rolling pin toward the door at the same time Adelaide flings the chair, and Octavia, throws… a boot.
“Go away, you monster!” my sister yells, completely useless in a crisis.