Alpine Affair

Four : Overthinking

Bidding a still stunned Pierre and Camille a good evening, I retreated to the salon still fuming, my boots thudding against the polished stone floors of the resort.

The icy air from outside clung faintly to my coat but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat rising in my chest. Just who did he think he was? Elliot Frost was a relatively recent face in our world, having come from new money, albeit one who’d risen with alarming speed. I had endured countless subtle jabs from people all my life, deflecting them with charm and a polite smile that rarely faltered. Yet, there was something about his indifference that struck differently, something sharper, colder and infinitely more cutting that had really got under my skin.

Perhaps it was the blatant nature of his disdain—he hadn’t even bothered with the veneer of civility that usually accompanied such insults in our circles. No sly barbs dressed as compliments, no thinly veiled condescension wrapped in charm. Just outright dismissal in the rudest, direct way. I wasn’t used to it, nor had I been prepared - especially not by the wildly inappropriate comment he'd made. I wasn't a prude, certainly no-one who heard me and Leo after a few glasses of wine would think so anyway, but no-one outside my very close circle of friends had ever spoken to me that way and I was wholly unprepared for how to feel about it.

Shaking my head to rid myself of such thoughts, I entered the salon.

The faint scent of lavender wafted over me, mingling with the warmth of blow dryers and the soft hum of polite conversation. The space was a haven of tranquility with plush chairs, soft lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the snowy landscape outside. It should have been soothing and, to some degree, it was, yet it did nothing to shake off the sting of embarrassment that lingered.

The stylist greeted me warmly and led me to a chair by the window, her smile polite and professional. I let out a slow breath as I settled in, the soft hum of a blow dryer in the background starting to unwind the tension in my shoulders. Yet, no matter how serene the atmosphere, my mind kept circling back to Elliot. His audacity, his smugness, the absurdly inappropriate comment he had made—it grated on me in a way I couldn’t quite put into words. Was it anger? Embarrassment? I hated that I wasn’t entirely sure how I even felt, having never experienced such a myriad of emotions.

“Stella Marchand! How the Devil are you?” Came a vaguely familiar voice from behind me.

I turned to see Sophie Laurent, a fellow socialite from London, gliding toward me with her usual air of effortless confidence. She was impeccably dressed in a cream cashmere sweater paired with an icy blue skirt that flowed softly around her knees. Her perfectly manicured nails, painted a subtle nude shade, were wrapped around a steaming cup of herbal tea, the faint aroma of chamomile drifting in the air as she approached.

“Sophie! I’m well, and you?” I greeted with a forced smile.

She perched on the chair beside me, crossing her legs elegantly. “Oh, I’m quite well. I just happened to hear about your little… Run-in with a certain Mr Frost.”

My brows lifted slightly, though I wasn’t entirely surprised. Rumours travelled faster than sound in places like this, where everyone knew everything about everyone—especially among people who made it their business to know. This was Le Glacier Royale, after all; discretion might be the resort’s promise, but gossip among its clientele was its lifeblood.

“What exactly is the version of events circulating?”

She waved her hand dismissively, though her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. “Oh, nothing too dramatic… Just that he made it abundantly clear he thinks you’re nothing but a spoiled socialite with no real purpose in life.”

I felt my lips tighten, my fingers curling slightly against the armrest. Of course that’s what people were saying. I’d practically handed him the opportunity to belittle me on a silver platter and he’d seized it with all the finesse of someone used to tearing others down.

“Yes. He’s quite the character.” I muttered, tone dry.

“He is!” She agreed excitedly. “I had a similar meeting with him myself.”

“Oh?”

She leaned back in her chair, toying with her mug. “It was a charity gala in London last spring and I introduced myself, thinking I was helping a new face to fit in.” She gave a mock shudder. “He looked me up and down and said—what was it again? Ah, yes—‘I don’t keep the company of people who will waste my time.’”

“He said that? To you?”

“To me!” Sophie confirmed, her eyes narrowing slightly at the memory. “Can you believe it?”

I could definitely believe it and couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corners of my lips. “Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s been subjected to his vile mouth.”

“Oh, honey, Elliot Frost’s dislike of our kind is notorious.”

“Our kind?” I repeated, arching a brow.

“He has a special disdain for anyone who he believes hasn’t earned their money themselves.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “As though anyone who doesn’t live and breathe their career like it’s oxygen isn’t worth his time.”

My stylist returned with her equipment and began brushing through my hair. “If he’s so vile, why does anyone tolerate him?”

“Because he’s incredibly powerful. Plus…” She lowered her voice and leaned in, her lips curling into a smirk. “That whole dangerous, rude, untouchable vibe he has? Utterly irresistible.”

I blinked, shocked. “You cannot be serious?”

“Oh, come now—I know I’m not the only one. The man is delicious.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, ready to dismiss her words as absurd, but nothing came out, the truth stuck in my throat. The sharpness of his gaze, the cool authority in his tone, the effortless way he’d gotten under my skin without even breaking a sweat… It was maddeningly hard to ignore. And the worst part? Sophie wasn’t entirely wrong.

He was attractive. Objectively so, with his tall imposing frame, sharp cheekbones and dark, piercing eyes. There was a presence about him—unshakable, self-assured and utterly infuriating that even when he was being insufferable, which seemed to be his default state, there was something magnetic about him. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, the air of absolute control, the kind of confidence that came from knowing he could command a room with nothing more than a glance.

“Ridiculous.” I muttered, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me. “He’s insufferable.”

“I suppose when you have a man like Leo Rousseau to go home to it softens his appeal.” Sophie said with a knowing look, sipping her tea.

“Leo is a saint compared to Elliot Frost.” I agreed.

“Indeed. Polite, attentive, caring… And yet…” She trailed off, raising a perfectly arched brow at me, her smirk positively wicked.

I narrowed my eyes. “And yet what?”

“You do have to admit, as nice as men like Leo are, the ones who make you want to throttle them are usually the ones we can’t stop thinking about. We all love a bad boy.” Before I could respond she winked and rose gracefully from her chair. “Just something to think about. Lovely meeting you again, we must catch up soon.” She said airily.

I watched as she flounced off, her perfectly curled hair bouncing with each step, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and an air of smug satisfaction. My gaze flicked back to my reflection in the mirror, where the stylist was diligently curling a section of my hair and my own expression stared back at me—narrowed eyes, pursed lips and an unmistakable frown. I tried to smooth it away, but the weight of Sophie’s words settled uncomfortably in my mind because no matter how absurd her suggestion was, it clung, unwelcome and yet impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t attraction I felt for Elliot, not really. It was irritation—a natural response to someone who had judged and dismissed me all within minutes of meeting and anyone would be annoyed. Yet the more I tried to convince myself of that, the more hollow it sounded. Because the truth was, there was something about Elliot Frost that I couldn’t quite shake. That, more than anything, irritated me the most. I didn’t want to think about him. I didn’t want to carry his words with me, or feel this strange, electric tension every time his name was mentioned.

But there it was, buzzing beneath my skin, impossible to ignore.

The stylist’s cheerful voice broke through my thoughts. “How’s that, Miss Marchand? Would you like a bit more volume?”

“Perfect. Same time tomorrow, please.” I told the stylist as I rose from the chair.

This is what I came here for, to relax and enjoy myself—not overanalyse a meeting with someone who didn’t deserve a second thought. This is your time, Stella, I reminded myself. No distractions. No overthinking—And certainly no dwelling on impossible men with too much arrogance for their own good.