SNEAK PEEK RESTRAINED BY THE MOUNTAIN MAN （Noah & Talia’s Story）
TALIA
My rental car fishtails on loose gravel as I wrench the steering wheel right, then left, fighting for control on this godforsaken mountain road.
The GPS chirps "recalculating" for the fifth time in twenty minutes, and I resist the urge to fling it out the window.
This assignment is beneath me, a "wellness retreat" rebrand in the middle of nowhere, but the knot in my stomach tightens with each hairpin turn.
Last chance, Talia. Screw this up, and your corner office becomes someone else's view.
Rain pelts the windshield, turning the dense forest into a blurry watercolor of greens and browns.
My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.
I've resurrected failing luxury brands and turned startups into billion-dollar success stories, yet here I am, chasing a mysterious client who wouldn't even do a proper video call.
The memory of my boss's voice echoes: "They specifically requested you, Monroe. Don't question good fortune."
Good fortune feels a lot like career suicide when you're careening up a mountain in a compact car with questionable brakes.
I round another bend, and the trees suddenly part like curtains opening on a stage.
The sight steals my breath. Perched on the mountainside before me is what can only be described as a modern castle.
Crimson Refuge Wellness Lodge. The photos in the brief didn't do it justice.
Three stories of glass and cedar rise from the mountainside, multiple wings stretching like arms embracing the surrounding forest. Evening light catches on countless windows, making the whole structure shimmer against the darkening sky.
"Well, fuck me," I mutter, easing off the gas. "Either I've found the world's most exclusive wellness retreat or the perfect setting for a murder mystery."
The private drive stretches before me, immaculately maintained despite the remote location.
Someone's pouring serious money into this place.
My marketing brain kicks into automatic assessment of exclusive positioning, premium isolation, and architectural statement piece.
But my old journalistic instincts whisper alarms about red flags. What are they hiding up here?
I roll slowly toward the circular entrance, gravel crunching beneath my tires. Through the rain-slicked glass of the entrance, golden light spills out, promising warmth. That's when I see him.
A man stands just inside the massive glass doors, perfectly framed like a portrait.
Even from here, I can tell he's tall, six-two at least, with shoulders that fill out his tailored suit jacket with zero help from padding.
His face is all angles, like someone carved him from stone then forgot to soften the edges.
Dark eyes watch my approach with an intensity that makes me check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
My fingers move automatically to smooth my hair, and I catch myself with a grimace.
What am I, sixteen? I straighten my blazer instead, a professional armor against whatever awaits.
The rain has finally stopped, but water still streams down the windshield, distorting the man's features just enough to make him seem otherworldly.
He hasn't moved, just watches my approach with the stillness of a predator.
I pull to a stop and gather my laptop bag, purse, and the folder containing what little information I have about Crimson Refuge.
When I step out of the car, the mountain air hits me like a slap; crisp, cool, scented with pine and something I can't quite name.
For a moment, I simply breathe, letting my city-strained lungs adjust to actual oxygen.
The sound of the door opening pulls my attention back.
The man I'd seen through the glass strides toward me, and good lord, he's even more imposing up close.
His suit is clearly bespoke, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
His dark hair is styled in that deliberate way that's meant to look effortless but definitely involved a personal stylist. But it's his eyes that stop me cold, darkest black or deepest brown, I can't tell which, watching me with an assessment so thorough I feel naked despite my most professional attire.
I step forward, hand extended, professional smile locked in place. "Talia Monroe, from?—"
He brushes past me without even slowing, his shoulder nearly clipping mine. "Don't block the drive," he says, voice deep and clipped, not even glancing back as he walks toward a sleek black SUV parked beyond the circle.
My mouth falls open, professional smile forgotten. Did he just?—?
"Excuse me?" I call after him, but he's already opening his car door, apparently done with whatever dismissal that was supposed to be.
Heat rises in my cheeks, a flush of anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge. Fifteen seconds of interaction, and this man has managed to knock me entirely off balance. I straighten my spine, gathering my dignity around me like a cloak. Asshole. Clearly not the client I'm supposed to meet.
And yet. My eyes follow him as he slides into his vehicle. His movements are precise, controlled, like someone who knows exactly what his body is capable of. The thought sends an unauthorized shiver down my spine.
The SUV's engine purrs to life, and he backs out smoothly, disappearing down the winding drive I just survived. Only then do I notice someone else standing in the doorway, watching the whole interaction with an amused smile.
This man is slightly shorter than Mr. Rude, but no less striking.
Where the first man was all hard angles and cold assessment, this one radiates warmth like a banked fire.
His suit is equally expensive-looking but worn with a casual ease, top button undone, no tie.
A leather cuff encircles one wrist, an unexpected detail that catches my eye.
"You'll have to forgive my brother," he says, voice rich with humor as he approaches. "Noah believes greetings are optional and manners are for other people." He extends a hand. "Roman Kane. Welcome to Crimson Refuge."
I take his hand, noting the calluses that contradict his polished appearance. "Talia Monroe. And which Kane brother would that be? The brief mentioned six of you."
"The eldest and least charming," Roman says with a wink. "Noah Kane, majority owner and CEO of our little mountain paradise. I promise the rest of us have at least passing familiarity with social graces."
Noah Kane. The name registers in my brain, connecting to the sparse details in my brief. Majority stakeholder. Decision maker. The client who specifically requested me.
"Interesting way to greet the marketing consultant you personally requested," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Roman's smile turns knowing. "Noah's... complicated. But he knows talent when he sees it. Come inside, let me show you around while your bags are taken care of."
I glance back at my modest luggage. "I can manage?—"
"I insist," Roman says, gesturing toward the entrance. "We pride ourselves on service here at Crimson Refuge."
The lobby beyond the glass doors is a study in understated luxury. It has soaring ceilings, a massive stone fireplace, and furnishings that probably cost more than my car. The air smells faintly of cedar and something herbal. Soft music plays just at the edge of hearing.
"Impressive," I say, professional assessment mode engaging despite my lingering irritation. "You've nailed the high-end retreat aesthetic. Though I'm curious about your current marketing position. Your online presence is minimal, and what exists is... deliberately vague."
Roman guides me across the polished floor, nodding to staff members who seem to materialize and disappear with practiced discretion. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To help us determine our public face."
I notice how he sidesteps the question. Another point for my growing suspicion that Crimson Refuge isn't just a wellness retreat.
I've worked with enough luxury brands to recognize the hallmarks of exclusivity, but this place takes it to another level.
The lack of visible guests despite the immaculate facilities is a major red flag.
Their staff also moves with unusual awareness of their surroundings.
And Roman himself, charming, yes, but with an edge of caution beneath his easy manner.
"Your brother Noah doesn't seem convinced you need my help," I say, testing.
Roman laughs, the sound genuine enough to momentarily disarm my suspicions. "Noah isn't convinced we need oxygen to breathe. But he's the one who found your work with the Heirloom Rose Hotel's rebranding and insisted you were the only one who could handle our... unique situation."
We pass a hallway where two staff members stand beside a keycard-protected door. Not unusual for high-security areas in luxury properties, but combined with everything else, it adds to the growing list of incongruities.
"And what situation is that, exactly?" I ask, keeping my tone light. "Your brief was comprehensive about the property specs but curiously light on details about your actual business model."
We reach what appears to be a sitting area overlooking a spectacular mountain view. Roman gestures for me to take a seat in one of the plush chairs.
"Officially, we're a wellness retreat catering to an exclusive clientele seeking privacy and rejuvenation," he says, settling across from me.
"Unofficially..." He pauses, studying me in a way that reminds me of his brother.
"Let's just say we offer certain specialized services for discerning guests. "
My marketing brain clicks through possibilities. Maybe medical tourism, celebrity rehab, or corporate retreats. But none quite fit the setup I've seen so far.
"I can't help with marketing if I don't know what I'm marketing," I point out.
Roman's smile turns enigmatic. "All in good time, Ms. Monroe. Noah will go over the details with you tomorrow. Tonight, I thought you might appreciate getting settled in, having dinner, perhaps exploring the public areas of the lodge."
Public areas. Implying there are private areas I'm not meant to see. Yet .
As if summoned by my thoughts, a staff member appears with a keycard. "Your suite is ready, Ms. Monroe. May I show you the way?"
I stand, gathering my things. "Thank you for the warm welcome, Roman. Please tell your brother I look forward to our meeting tomorrow." My tone makes it clear that "warm welcome" is sarcastic.
Roman's laugh follows me as I move toward the stairs. "I'll be sure to mention it. Dinner is served until nine in the main dining room, or you can order room service anytime."
As I follow the staff member up a sweeping staircase, my mind races.
Crimson Refuge is clearly not just a wellness retreat.
The security, the evasiveness, the controlled access, it all points to something more complicated.
And Noah Kane, with his dismissive greeting and penetrating gaze, is at the center of whatever it is.
My journalistic instincts, dormant since I switched to marketing years ago, prick to life. There's a story here. Maybe more than one.
The suite I'm shown to is stunning with mountain views, custom furniture, and a bathroom bigger than my first apartment.
But instead of unpacking, I find myself drawn to the window, staring out at the darkening forest. Somewhere in this building are answers to questions I haven't even formulated yet.
I press my fingertips to the cool glass. This assignment may be more interesting than I expected.
And possibly much more dangerous.
What happens when Talia figures out what she’s really there to sell to the public? Or even better what should she do when she figures out that she’d rather learn the “intricate” details of all that’s involved first hand from the grumpy Mountain Man owner? Find out in Restrained By The Mountain Man.