Chapter 2 Gregory
Gregory
The universe has a real fucking sick sense of humor.
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 truck still hasn’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.
Not that the emails contain anything I want to deal with anyway. More legal threats. More board member panic about the Brazilian lawsuit. More demands that I issue a public statement, settle quietly, step down gracefully.
Fuck that.
The leaked documents showing we knowingly caused environmental damage in two countries. The class action lawsuit that’s going to drain millions in legal fees even if we win.
Which we won’t.
Because the documents are real.
Because I signed off on those extraction methods.
Because profit margins matter more than some remote village’s water supply when you’re trying to corner the global rare earth market.
I sigh.
The machine beeps. I pull two cups of espresso that are bitter and probably too strong, but they’re hot and caffeinated and that’s all that matters right now.
I pour them into proper mugs, black, and carry them back to the great room.
She’s curled into the corner of the sectional, staring at the fire like it holds the secrets of the universe. Which it probably does.
Her hair’s starting to dry, turning from dark wet strands to something softer, wavier.
She’s pulled her knees up under the hoodie, making herself as small as possible in a room designed to intimidate.
Mission accomplished, I guess.
“Coffee.” I set both mugs on the table in front of her.
She reaches for one with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic like she’s trying to suck as much heat out of it as possible. “Thank you.”
Her voice is quieter now. The manic energy from earlier has drained away, leaving something more fragile behind.
I sit in one of the wingback chairs opposite her. Far enough away to maintain distance. Close enough to keep watch. Because she’s still shivering and her skin has that flushed look that has nothing to do with the fire.
“So,” I say, because someone needs to break this silence and it sure as hell isn’t going to be her. “You’re a researcher?”
“PhD candidate,” she clarifies. “Environmental sciences. University of Colorado. Boulder.” The words come out practiced, like she’s given this introduction a thousand times. “Fourth year. My dissertation is on mycorrhizal network restoration in post-mining alpine ecosystems.”
Post-mining ecosystems.
Of fucking course it is.
The universe really does have a sick fucking sense of humor.
“Sounds important,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I actually mean it.
“It is.” There’s passion in her voice now, cutting through the exhaustion. “Or it was. Until my equipment failed and I lost three months of data and now I’m sitting in some stranger’s house having an existential crisis about whether I should just quit and become a barista.”
“Don’t quit.” The words come out before I can stop them. “The world needs people who give a damn about fixing what’s broken.”
She looks at me then, and I can see her trying to reconcile what I just said with the rich asshole she assumes I must be.
“I should call someone,” she says suddenly. “Let people know I’m okay. I had everything mapped out, my whole route, but when the equipment failed I kind of went off grid and my advisor is probably panicking and my roommates definitely think I’m dead by now.”
“Phone’s not working.” I pull out my cell to demonstrate. Still no signal.
Her eyes widen. “What? But this is 2026. How is there no signal?”
“Storm’s interfering. Happens sometimes.” I reach for my satellite phone next, the one that’s supposed to work anywhere on the planet. Also nothing, yet again.
I return to the kitchen, grab my laptop, and carry it back to the great room. I set it down on the coffee table and try the Starlink interface again.
Searching for connection.
Still searching.
Connection failed.
“Still down,” I tell her.
“So we’re completely cut off?” Her voice climbs an octave.
“Temporarily.” I close the laptop with more force than necessary. “The storm must be worse than forecasted. But don’t worry, once it clears, everything will reconnect. I’ll reserve a transport for you in the morning. Roads should be passable by then.”
I’m lying. The roads won’t be passable. I can see the snow coming down through the massive windows even now, and it’s not the gentle holiday-card variety. This is the kind of snow that buries cars and closes highways and keeps people trapped for days.
The irony is that if I hadn’t fired my entire security team exactly nine days ago in a fit of rage, they’d probably be trying to reach me via helicopter right about now, as they’re supposed to do when communications go down.
But nine days is an eternity in private security. They were scooped up by rival firms within forty-eight hours.
So no helicopter.
No rescue team.
No one even checking if I’m alive.
Exactly what I wanted.
Until now.
Then again, a helicopter probably wouldn’t be able to land in these kind of white-out conditions anyway.
But she doesn’t need to know any of that yet.
And neither do I, really, because acknowledging it means acknowledging that my three days of solitude just became an indefinite hostage situation.
Maybe I’m being too harsh. She isn’t so bad on the eyes...
Don’t go there.
She takes a sip of coffee and winces slightly. Too hot, probably. Or too bitter. I didn’t ask if she takes sugar or cream and I’m not about to start playing host now.
“I really am sorry about earlier,” she says quietly. “The whole thinking you were staff thing. And the twenty dollars. And calling you a billionaire asshole. I didn’t mean--”
“You meant it.” I cut her off. “You just didn’t expect to say it to my face.”
Her cheeks flush darker. She buries her face in the coffee mug like she’s trying to disappear into it.
“For what it’s worth,” I continue, “you’re not wrong. I am an asshole. The billionaire part is just a modifier.”
That startles a laugh out of her. Small, maybe, but genuine. It transforms her face completely. Makes her look younger. Less like a half-frozen disaster and more like the brilliant researcher she claims to be.
Dangerous. Yes.
That laugh is dangerous.
I stand up abruptly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She blinks at the subject change. “I don’t know. Breakfast? Maybe?”
“Maybe?”
“I had a protein bar around ten.”
“Expired protein bar,” I correct, remembering the contents of her pockets exploding across my floor. “That doesn’t count. You need actual food.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re hypothermic and exhausted and running on fumes.” I head back toward the kitchen because standing here watching her pretend she’s okay is pissing me off more than it should. “I’ll make something.”
“You don’t have to--”
“I know I don’t have to.” The words come out sharper than intended. “But you’re sitting in my house wearing my clothes and if you collapse from low blood sugar on top of everything else, that’s going to be a real pain in the ass to deal with.”
Fucking nicely done, Gregory.
Really rolling out the welcome wagon there.