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CHAPTER 18: SNOW AND SECRETS*
Switzerland smelled like money and snow.
Not Cornwall's salty, violent ocean. This was clean. Cold. Silent.
The private jet landed in Geneva at 3 AM. No customs. No questions. James had friends. Dangerous friends.
"Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Westwood," James said as the car door opened.
I stepped out into snow. Real snow. My whole life in Quetta, I'd only seen it on TV. Now it was on my boots. On Alexander's shoulders. On the black SUV waiting for us.
Alexander didn't speak the whole flight. He just held me. One hand on my stomach. Always on my stomach now. Like he was afraid our four-week secret would disappear if he let go.
The chalet was on a mountain. Wood and glass. Three stories. Bulletproof windows. James said it was "secure."
"How long do we stay?" I asked. My breath made clouds.
"Until the board stops looking," James said. "Until Moriarty's men stop hunting. Until the baby is born. Maybe forever."
Forever. The word sat heavy.
Alexander finally spoke. "I want to see my father. Thomas."
"Tomorrow," James nodded. "He's at the clinic. 20 minutes from here. Safe. Recovering."
Safe. Everyone kept saying that word. Like if they said it enough, it would become true.
---
Inside, the chalet was warm. Fire in the fireplace. Real wood. Not gas.
I was exhausted. The flight. The docks. Victoria's blood. It was all catching up.
"Sleep," Alexander said. He led me upstairs. Master bedroom. Huge bed. White sheets. It looked like a hotel. Not a home.
"I can't," I whispered. "Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Victoria. The gun. The—"
He pulled me into his arms. "I know. Me too."
We lay down fully clothed. Boots off. Nothing else. His arms around me. My back to his chest. His hand splayed across my stomach.
"Do you think it's a boy or girl?" he whispered into my hair.
"You asked that already," I laughed. Small. Broken. "In Cornwall."
"I need to hear it again. I need something normal. Something not blood and death."
"A boy," I said. "I told you. I feel it. He kicks like you argue. Stubborn."
He made a sound. Half laugh, half sob. "A son. God, Evangeline. I'm going to be a father."
"You already are," I said. I turned in his arms. Faced him. "Since the moment you heard 'four weeks' and dropped to your knees."
His eyes were wet. Again. Alexander Westwood didn't cry before me. Now he couldn't stop.
"I don't deserve this," he said. "I don't deserve you. I lied. I manipulated. I used your father—"
"Stop." I put my finger on his lips. "We don't do that here. No past. No guilt. Just now. Just us."
He kissed my finger. Then my palm. Then my wrist. Slow. Reverent. Like he was praying.
"I love you," he said. "I should have said it sooner. I should have said it before Victoria. Before the docks. Before—"
"I know," I cut him off. "I knew when you took that bullet for me. When you chose me over the fortune. When you resigned from Oxford without blinking."
He rolled me onto my back. Careful. Always careful now. Four weeks. The doctor said be careful.
"Can I?" he asked. Hand hovering over my shirt button.
"Yes," I breathed. "Please."
He undressed me slowly. Like I was glass. Like I was the most precious thing he'd ever touched. Because I was.
His lips followed his hands. My neck. My collarbone. The spot between my breasts. Lower.
"Alexander," I gasped when his mouth found my stomach. He kissed it. Four weeks of life. Four weeks of us.
"Our son," he whispered against my skin. "Our daughter. Whatever you are, you are loved. You are wanted. You are safe."
I cried then. Couldn't help it. This man. This cold, cruel professor who the world thought was heartless. He was on his knees kissing my stomach and making promises to a cluster of cells.
We made love slowly. Quietly. The snow falling outside the only sound. No panic. No desperation like Cornwall. Just love. Pure. Honest. Real.
After, he held me. Both of us under the thick duvet. The fire dying down. His hand never leaving my stomach.
"Tomorrow we see Thomas," he said. "Then we call a lawyer. We change the will. The 500 million goes to him. Where it belongs."
"And us?" I asked. "What do we do?"
"We live," he said. "We raise our baby. We learn how to be normal. How to be happy. How to be a family."
Family. That word again. It used to scare me. Now it was all I wanted.
"I want to learn to ski," I said suddenly.
He laughed. Real laugh. First one in days. "You're pregnant. And you want to ski?"
"After the baby," I said. I hit his chest. "We can come back. Every winter. Teach him."
"Him," Alexander repeated. "You're so sure."
"I am," I said. I yawned. Finally, sleep was coming. "He's going to have your eyes. Grey. Serious. But he'll smile more than you."
"Impossible," Alexander murmured into my hair. "I smile now. Because of you."
"Sleep," I whispered. "I'll keep watch."
"No," he said. "You sleep. I keep watch. Always."
And I believed him.
---
Morning came with sunlight on snow. And a phone call.
James was at the door. Face grim.
"It's the board," he said. "Oxford. They found out you resigned. They found out about the baby. About me."
Alexander went still. "What do they want?"
"They're saying the marriage was fraudulent," James said. "That you coerced her. That the baby is... illegitimate. They want the fortune frozen. They want you extradited."
Extradited. Back to England. Back to Victoria's people. Back to the board.
I grabbed Alexander's hand. "No. They can't—"
"They can," Alexander said. His voice was ice again. Professor Westwood was back. "But they won't."
He stood. Pulled on jeans. Shirt. Became the man who took down Moriarty's empire in one night.
"Call the lawyer," he said to James. "Call the press. Call everyone."
"What . "Once and for all."
He looked at my stomach. "For him. For us. For forever."
are you doing?" I asked. Panic rising.
"I'm ending this," he said. He kissed me. Hard. Fast
Then he walked out. Into the snow. Into the war.
- Writer
