Chapter 5 Sorrel
Sorrel
After breakfast, Gregory settles into the great room with his laptop.
Meanwhile I’m curled on the sectional near the fire, still wearing his Columbia hoodie because my field gear is draped over the chairs in the guest room somewhere upstairs.
He opens the laptop and his jaw tightens as he stares at the screen.
“Still nothing?” I ask, even though I already know the answer from the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
“Still nothing,” he agrees.
“Doesn’t the Starlink antenna need power or something, though?” I ask.
“It’s got a battery pack,” he explains. Then he shrugs and closes the laptop. “The storm’s still interfering.”
Right.
Because that’s totally normal.
Satellite internet that just stops working.
He’s totally not a serial killer.
Except, actually, it kind of is normal in extreme weather. Heavy precipitation can cause signal attenuation, especially with the thick cloud cover and electromagnetic interference from a blizzard this severe.
Doesn’t make it any less frustrating though.
And maybe I’m being a bit too hard on him about the whole serial killer thing. If he wanted me dead, it’s doubtful he would’ve nursed me back to health and washed my hair. Then again, maybe that’s what gorgeous serial killers do? Like, it’s part of the prep process before the kill or something?
No no no, stop it.
I pull out my own phone from my pocket. The battery is at fifteen percent. The signal bars, meanwhile, are at zero. Zilch. Nada.
Not even a flicker of service.
I turn it off to save power.
“We really are cut off,” I say quietly.
“Temporarily.” His voice has a controlled edge that implies he’s used to problems like this, and equally used to finding solutions. “Once the storm clears, everything will reconnect.”
Looking at the whiteout conditions beyond those massive windows, I can’t help but think “once the storm clears” might be the kind of optimistic timeline you tell yourself to avoid panic.
Like when you promise yourself you’ll definitely finish your dissertation on time even though your data just got corrupted and you’re trapped in the mountains with a hot rich guy with no way to contact your advisor.
Gregory stands and moves to the windows. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s staring at the storm with a certain brooding intensity. The charcoal gray cashmere sweater he’s wearing fits him perfectly, as usual emphasizing those broad shoulders and that tapered waist.
Stop noticing his build.
But my brain keeps replaying last night. His hands in my hair. The patient way he fed me soup. How he stayed in that chair all night watching over me. How--
Ugh.
I need a distraction before my underwear starts to get wet.
My eyes land on the coffee table, specifically on a newspaper that’s been sitting there since we came in here. I hadn’t really noticed it before. You know, the whole dying of hypothermia and then fever thing.
But now I see it clearly.
The Wall Street Journal.
And on the front page, above the fold, there’s a photograph.
Of Gregory.
The Gregory.
What the hell, brain?
The headline reads: “Falk Industries CEO Under Fire for Brazil Environmental Disaster.”
The world tilts sideways.
Falk.
Gregory Falk.
Oh no.
No no no.
My hands go numb. Not from cold this time. From shock.
I know that name.
Everyone in environmental sciences knows that name.
Falk Rare Earth Industries controls sixty percent of the global supply of rare earth minerals. The company responsible for the Minas Gerais contamination. The one with leaked internal documents showing they knowingly poisoned water supplies in Brazil and Vietnam.
The one my advisor ranted about for thirty minutes last semester, calling them “environmental war criminals in expensive suits.”
The room is spinning again but this time it has nothing to do with fever.
“You’re Gregory Falk?” The words come out flat.
He turns from the window. “Yes.”
One word. Just yes. Like it’s nothing.
“The Gregory Falk. Falk Industries. Rare earth mining.” My voice is getting louder with each word. “The company that dumped toxic waste into groundwater in Minas Gerais.”
“The alleged dumping--”
“Don’t you dare say alleged.” I’m on my feet now, shaking. “Don’t you dare! There are leaked documents. Internal emails. Your own engineers confirming the contamination was known and ignored.”
His face hardens. “You don’t know the full context.”
“I know forty-two people got sick.” My voice cracks. “I know one of them is in the village where my grandmother lives. Where my parents are from. Your company poisoned their water and you’re standing here talking about context?”
He looks away. “I told you I was an asshole,” he says softly.
But then a moment later his back straightens and he looks at me again, his eyes flashing defiantly.
“My company provides the minerals that make your laptop work.” His voice is cold now.
“That power your electric cars and solar panels and wind turbines. Every piece of green technology you environmental activists worship requires rare earth minerals.”
“So that justifies poisoning villages?” I’m yelling now, completely past caring about decorum or gratitude or the fact that this man saved my life less than twenty-four hours ago. “Profits over people? Is that your defense?”
“It’s not that simple--”
“It literally is that simple.” I clench my hands, trying to stop them from shaking. “You knew. Your engineers told you. And you did it anyway because stopping would have cost money.”
The mycorrhizal networks I study exist because different organisms support each other. They share resources. Protect each other. Create systems where everyone benefits.
His business model is the exact opposite.
Extract.
Exploit.
Leave destruction behind.
And I’ve been sleeping in his house. Wearing his clothes. Letting him wash my hair and feed me soup and hold my hand.
“I didn’t know who you were last night,” I continue, my face burning. “I thought you were just some rich asshole. Not THE rich asshole personally responsible for environmental crimes in my parents’ homeland.”
“Alleged crimes,” he corrects again, and that stupid word makes me want to throw something.
“Stop saying alleged. We both know it happened. The documents prove it.”
“Do you always favor circular arguments?” he asks. Before I can answer, he adds: “Those documents were stolen by the way. Leaked by someone with an agenda.”
“An agenda called telling the truth?”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t know anything about running a company. About the impossible choices you have to make. About balancing environmental concerns with providing materials the world needs. About shareholders and--”
“I know you chose wrong,” I interrupt. “I know you prioritized profit over people’s lives. I know my grandmother drinks bottled water now because your company made the groundwater toxic.”
“I employ fifteen thousand people globally, many in Brazil, and--”
“And you’ve poisoned how many?” I cut him off. “What’s the acceptable ratio for you? How many sick villagers per job created?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches. The fire crackles. Outside, the storm continues to bury us deeper in snow.
I’m trapped here.
In this house.
With this man.
The man who represents everything I’ve dedicated my life to fighting.
The man whose hands were gentle in my hair last night.
God, I’m such an idiot.
“I want to leave.” My voice comes out small despite the anger still coursing through me.
“You can’t.” He gestures at the windows. “Roads are impassable. Even if we could get you to a vehicle, you’d never make it to the main road.”
“Then get me out by helicopter.”
“A helicopter wouldn’t come in this storm. Can’t land in these conditions. Besides...” He looks away. Something flickers across his face. Guilt? “I fired the team responsible for the helicopter.”
Of course you did.
“So I’m stuck here.” It’s not a question. “With you. For how long?”
“As I already said, until the fucking storm fucking breaks and the fucking communications are fucking restored. Capeesh?”
I want to scream.
Or cry.
Or both.
Instead, I just stand there, hugging myself, staring at this man who twelve hours ago I thought was my rescuer.
“The guest room is freezing without heat,” I say finally. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “But I’d rather be cold than stay down here with you.”
“You go ahead and do that,” he taunts.
I turn and walk away before he can say anything further.
Before I start crying.
Before I have to face the fact that I’m completely, utterly dependent on someone I morally despise.
Someone I was starting to actually like.
Worst Christmas Eve ever.
The guest suite is a lot colder than I remember. My breath mists in the air as I close the door behind me and slide down to sit with my back against it.
I’m still wearing his hoodie.
His Columbia hoodie that smells like him.
Like the man who tucked me in last night and pressed a cool cloth to my forehead.
The man whose company poisoned my grandmother’s village.
I pull the hoodie off and throw it across the room.
Then immediately regret it because now I’m super cold and have nothing but my still-damp field gear.
Why hasn’t it dried yet??
Oh.
Probably because of the blizzard.
Winter storm equals high humidity.
Well that’s perfect.
Just perfect.
You’d think the raging fire going on in the great room would help with that.
I sigh.
Well, if I really wanted to, I could hang my clothes up to dry in front of the fireplace...
Yeah, no.
Like I want my undergarments hanging there for him to ogle...
I retrieve the hoodie from where it landed near the bed. Put it back on.
Then I lean against the wall.
I’m trapped in Gregory Falk’s house, wearing Gregory Falk’s clothes, dependent on Gregory Falk’s charity.
Universe, why do you keep doing this to me?
Outside my window, the snow continues to fall.