Chapter 22
Sorrel
We made it back inside.
Alive.
Uninjured.
Not mauled by a mountain lion.
Or dead from falling off a ladder.
That moment when his boot lost purchase on the icy rung and he caught himself at the last second?
Yeah.
That’s going to feature prominently in my nightmares for the foreseeable future. That and the mountain lion climbing the frickin’ ladder.
And then there was his shivering.
God, the way he was shaking on the roof because he’d given me his Patagonia jacket. I literally had to force my own coat on him up there, and even then he tried to refuse.
Stubborn, self-sacrificing, beautiful idiot.
We’re still kneeling by the fireplace, and Gregory’s holding my hands even though they’re perfectly fine, actually.
The thermal gloves he made me wear under my mittens worked like a charm. My fingers are pink and healthy, not a hint of that waxy white frostbite situation from before. Score one for his obsessive overprotectiveness.
His thumbs are doing these little circles over my knuckles anyway, like he needs to confirm I’m really okay. Like touching me is more about reassurance than actual necessity.
Which, fair. I kind of need the reassurance too after that whole almost-watching-him-fall-to-his-death thing.
“They’re fine,” I tell him, but I don’t pull away because honestly? This feels nice. “The gloves worked. See? Even with my sympathetic nervous system going into full panic mode out there, my fingers stayed warm. All ten accounted for and fully functional.”
He examines them anyway, turning my hands over in his like he’s conducting a medical inspection. “Good. That’s good.” He lifts my hands to his mouth and breathes warm air across them anyway, watching me with those intense blue eyes.
My stomach does its usual butterfly thing.
Finally, the spell breaks and he releases my hands.
“Like you said, the dish is clear,” he stands. “We need to call for help.”
Right.
Rescue.
The thing we’ve been working toward for days.
The thing that will save us.
The thing that will end us.
My throat tightens. “Yeah. Okay.”
He crosses to the fireplace mantle and grabs the remote starter he left there earlier.
He looks at me, his thumb hovering over the button. “This is it. Our last shot with the fuel we have.”
He presses it.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then I hear it. A distant rumble from outside. The generator catching, coughing to life in its damaged shed.
Thank god.
Gregory’s shoulders visibly relax. He sets the remote back on the mantle, then moves to the closest light switch.
Flicks it.
The overhead lights come to life. Their glow is almost imperceptible against the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows, but there’s a subtle shift in brightness.
Electricity.
Such a normal thing.
And yet also such a miracle after so much time without it.
Gregory flicks the lights off again and heads straight for his laptop.
He boots it up. “The moment of truth...”
I hover nearby, trying not to feel like I’m intruding on something important. Which is ridiculous. This affects both of us.
But watching him lean over the laptop, jaw tight with concentration, I’m suddenly reminded that he’s Gregory Falk, billionaire CEO, not just Gregory, the guy who learned to press coffee and fixed a generator with my help and made me cum so hard I forgot my own name.
Focus, Sorrel.
“There.” Relief fills his voice. “Connection’s strong. Finally.”
He pulls up a Mountain Rescue website, fills out the emergency form with quick, efficient keystrokes. Location. Situation. Two people safe but stranded.
Then he types something else and I lean closer to see.
Rescue reward: $100,000 for immediate pickup.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re bribing Mountain Rescue?”
“I’m incentivizing speed,” he says without looking up. “There’s a difference.”
“That’s literally the definition of a bribe, Gregory.”
“Then consider it a bribe.” He hits submit. “I don’t care what we call it as long as it gets us out of here.”
The words sting more than they should.
Gets us out of here.
Like he can’t wait to leave.
Like the past few days meant nothing.
Like I meant nothing.
I know that’s not fair. I know he’s worried about me. About my safety. About my parents freaking out.
But still.
It hurts.
While we wait for a response, he’s already pulling up the desktop version of WhatsApp on his laptop, and initiates a video call.
The name at the top says Marcel.
The screen connects and a man’s face appears. Older, distinguished-looking, with an expression of pure relief that would be touching if I wasn’t so busy having an internal crisis about my place in Gregory’s actual life.
“Sir!” Marcel’s voice is thick with emotion. “Thank god! We’ve been trying to reach you for days. I flew back to the States from the Bahamas yesterday as soon as the weather cleared, hoping--”
“Glad you made it back safely,” Gregory cuts him off, slipping into business mode.
“You’re getting a bonus for cutting your vacation short.
But listen, I’m trapped at the chalet. Snowed in.
I’ve just submitted an emergency extraction request to Mountain Rescue.
Should hear back within the hour. I need you to coordinate with them to get us out of here. ”
Marcel nods rapidly. “Absolutely. I’ll fly into Aspen immediately. What’s your current status? Any other staff on site?”
Gregory’s jaw tightens. “No staff. Only one other person here. We’re both uninjured. Stranded since the blizzard. Communications just came back online.”
One other person.
Geez.
Why does it hurt so much when he puts it that way?
They talk a bit more. Logistics about supplies, emergency protocols, things that make my head spin because apparently even rescue missions require spreadsheets and contingency plans when you’re a billionaire.
And that’s when it hits me.
This is who he really is.
Not the guy who learned to make coffee. Not the guy who held me in front of the fireplace. Not the guy who worshipped my body like I was something precious.
This guy. This Gregory Falk. The one who commands and expects obedience.
Who throws money at problems.
Who compartmentalizes emotions like they’re just another task to be managed.
I don’t belong in this world.
The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome but I can’t shake it.
The connection starts getting choppy and Gregory’s expression tightens.
Through the static, I can see Marcel’s mouth moving but the audio cuts in and out.
“--arrival time--coordinate with--emergency--”
The call drops entirely.
Gregory stares at the blank screen for a moment, then closes WhatsApp and refreshes his email inbox.
“Now we just have to wait for Mountain Rescue to get back to us,” he says without looking at me. “And if they don’t, Marcel will coordinate with them.”
More messages are downloading now. He turns on his phone, and it immediately connects to the starlink WiFi. It buzzes.
And buzzes.
And buzzes.
The real world, crashing back in. Right on schedule.
He shakes his head, then turns it off. “I’ll deal with these later.”
He stares at the laptop, keeps hitting the email refresh. He thrums his fingers on the coffee table.
Ten minutes of nerve-wracking silence pass. Silence where we’re both aware that the generator could cough, sputter, and die at any moment when the last drops of diesel run dry.
Ten minutes of watching Gregory refresh his inbox like a man possessed while I stand there uselessly, internally composing obituaries for our rescue attempt.
Here lies Sorrel’s hope of ever leaving this mountain. Cause of death: insufficient fuel.
Don’t be so dramatic.
He did say Marcel would coordinate with them if we can’t get through to Mountain Rescue.
Still, it would be nice to actually know they’re on the way.
And finally, mercifully, a response comes.
Mountain Rescue.
Subject line: RE: Emergency Extraction Request.
Gregory clicks it open and reads it aloud: “Earliest pickup is tomorrow, December 30th, approximately 5 PM, weather dependent.”
Tomorrow.
Not today.
We have one more day.
Relief crashes through me so hard I have to grip the coffee table.
One more day.
That’s all I get.
One more day with him before everything goes back to being impossible.
“Good,” I manage. “That’s good.”
He’s already pulling up WhatsApp on the laptop and typing rapidly to Marcel. I catch a glimpse of the message before he sends it:
Extraction confirmed. Tomorrow Dec 30, ~5 PM. Coordinates attached. Arrange ground transport from helicopter LZ to Aspen airport. Will need two passenger accommodations. Allocate 100K for Mountain Rescue.
He hits send, then immediately starts scrolling through the flood of other emails that downloaded while we waited.
His expression gets grimmer with each one he opens.
“Gregory?” I venture. “I thought you were going to read those later?”
“The board,” he says without looking up. “They’re voting January 6th. To remove me.”
“Can they do that?”
“They can try.” His jaw tightens. “But it won’t be easy. I still own 20% of the company.”
He scrolls over the subject lines of more emails.
URGENT: Brazil lawsuit update. Media statement required. Board meeting agenda - CONFIDENTIAL.
His whole world, demanding his attention.
And me? I’m just the girl who happened to be here. The inconvenient variable in his disaster equation.
“I should call my parents,” I say quietly.
He looks up then, and something in his expression softens. “Yeah. Of course. Let’s check the phones.”
He reaches for his cellphone on the counter, powers it on. Waits.
No signal.
He tries the satellite phone next. Powers it up, waits for it to acquire satellites.
Nothing.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Still no signal on either. The storm must have done more damage to the cell towers than I thought. And the satphone is having trouble with the mountains again, apparently.”
I don’t have any luck with my cellphone, either.
Of course.
Because why would anything be easy?
“We can try to use WhatsApp on the laptop,” he offers. “Video call your parents? Or at least message them? Or someone you know?”
Right. The laptop. With its precious limited generator time that we’re burning through right now.
“Maybe after you’re done,” I say. “You have more urgent--”
“Fuck that,” he says, and the vehemence in his voice surprises me. “Give me a number.”
So I give him the number of one of my roommates, because of course my parents don’t have WhatsApp.
They don’t have any social media at all, actually.
My dad still thinks Facebook is “where the kids hang out” even though I’ve explained multiple times that Facebook is for old people now and also Dad you’re thinking of TikTok and please never get TikTok.
God, I miss them.
We try a video call first, and I hold my breath watching the screen, willing Jenna to pick up.
Please pick up, please--
But there’s no answer.
So we send a text instead.
Gregory types while I dictate: I’m all right. Let my parents know. And my advisor. --Sorrel.
It’s short and efficient. Completely inadequate for “hey sorry I’ve been missing for days and you’ve probably been planning my funeral.”
But when you’re low on generator fuel, you don’t have time for long flowery texts.
When it’s sent, he immediately closes the laptop. Doesn’t even check the rest of his emails. Doesn’t scroll through the hundred other urgent messages demanding his attention.
He just closes it.
For me.
Stop it, Sorrel. Stop making this into something it’s not.
“I need to shut down the generator,” he says. “Conserve the fuel.”
See? Told you he wasn’t closing it for me.
I force a smile. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
He grabs the remote starter, presses the button. The distant rumble dies.
And just like that, we’re cut off from the world again.
But it feels different now.
Colder.
Not because of the temperature.
Because for a few minutes, we got a glimpse of what’s waiting for us. His empire crumbling. My parents terrified and relieved. My ruined dissertation. The real world with all its complications and impossibilities.
“So rescue is tomorrow,” I whisper.
He nods, still not looking at me. Lost in his own thoughts. “Tomorrow.”
The word sits between us like a death sentence.
One more day.
That’s all we have.
I move closer to the fire, pull his hoodie tighter around me, and try not to think about how much it’s going to hurt when this all ends tomorrow.
When he takes back his hoodie.
When he takes back everything.
Why did I have to let myself fall in love with him?