Title:snowed in with my ex. GenreContemporary Romance / Romantic SuspenseTropeSnowed-In with an ExSecond-Cha

CHAPTER ONE: Snow, Silence, and the Man I Shouldn’t Want The snowfall had intensified roughly within the last three hours on the road. Thick and relentless, it had formed white curtains and I couldn't see very far ahead of me. I stood at the edge of the mountain road in the French Alps, my heavy suitcase tipped over from the strong winds, watching my breath fog the air and wondering which terrible life choice had led me back here. Chamonix. Of all places,of all weathers. And of all men. The engine of the last shuttle bus faded into the distance, taking my escape with it. My phone vibrated once in my coat pocket before it ran out of battery. Perfect. “Of course,” I muttered. “Why wouldn’t this be how I die? Frozen and broke The wind cut sharper as I dragged my suitcase toward the only structure visible through the storm, a stone lodge perched against the mountain like it had grown out from the ground. I hadn’t planned to stop here, I hadn’t planned to come to France at all. But grief has a way of hijacking logic, and when my grandmother died three weeks ago, she left me two things: a handwritten letter and a reservation at a remote alpine lodge she once worked at as a young woman. "You need quiet" the letter said. And unfinished things have a way of finding us.I should’ve known that included him. The door creaked open before I could knock. And there he was. Lucien Moreau. Taller than I remembered and broader too, like he had grown more manly in this weather. His dark hair was longer now, dusted with snow, his jaw sharper, his mouth still infuriatingly expressive even when he wasn’t speaking. Especially when he frowned. “You’re blocking the doorway,” he said in French, voice low and calm, still being polite. My stomach dropped at the sight of him and the sound of his voice. “My bad, I forgot you couldn't just walk around things" I replied, switching to English without thinking. His eyes flicked to my suitcase. Then to my face, recognition hit him slowly. Then the calm look he wore faded into something a little more stressed. “Oh,” he said quietly. “It’s you.” That word—you—landed harder than my suitcase had on the gravel. “Good evening to you too,” I said, pasting on an ear to ear grin, a weak attempt to hide my anxiety. “Is this how you greet all unexpected guests, or am I special?” “You are many things,” he said, stepping aside. “Unexpected is one of them.” The lodge was warm, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of pine and wood smoke. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. The contrast to the storm outside felt almost obscene. Lucien shut the door behind me. The sound echoed and I began to feel trapped. “I didn’t know you worked here,” I said, shrugging out of my coat. “Last I heard, you were lecturing and doing research at Sorbonne". His mouth twitched. Barely. “I don’t work here, I own the place" he replied. That made me laugh. A short nervous chuckle that surprised even me. “Right,” I said. “And I’m here to ski with the ghost of my grandmother.” Something shifted in his expression. “Your grandmother,” he said slowly, “was Élise Marchand?” My laughter died. “Yes.” “She saved this lodge,” he said. “Thirty years ago. When it was about to be sold to developers.” I swallowed. “She never mentioned that.” “She never mentioned a lot of things,” he said, holding eye contact like it was a competition. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. I suddenly remembered the weather alert I’d ignored. Avalanche risk. Road closures. No exit until further notice. “How many guests?” I asked. “Just us,” Lucien replied. Of course. Because fate, like winter, enjoys cruelty. We stood there, two people bound by history, regret, and a love that had once burned so brightly. Five years ago, I had walked away from him in Paris, choosing certainty over passion. Journalism over romance. Independence over a man who loved me like a storm—beautiful, consuming, impossible to control. I hadn’t expected him to still look at me like this. Like he was trying not to remember the past. “There’s been a landslide,” he continued. “The road is closed. No one in or out for at least a week.” A week. Alone with the man who I was once knew everything about me and loved it unconditionally, the man I was once in love with. “Then I suppose,” I said lightly, “we’re snowed in.” “Yes,” he agreed. “Together.” Silence stretched between us, thick as the snowfall outside. I missed him. I hated that. What I didn’t know—what he didn’t say—was that Lucien Moreau wasn’t just the owner of this lodge. He was the primary shareholder of one of Europe’s most powerful private investment groups. A billionaire hiding from the world. And I had just walked back into his life at the exact moment someone was trying to destroy everything he’d built. Outside, the mountain groaned. Inside, something far more dangerous stirred.