Chapter 8: Strangers in Snowfall
973 Words
The private jet touched down in Vermont just before dusk, slicing through a horizon streaked with burnt orange and lavender clouds. Elara peered out the window, watching the dense pine trees blur past, each one coated with a fresh layer of snow. Everything looked still. Untouched. Peaceful.
It was a stark contrast to the tension coiled inside her.
Lucien sat across from her, flipping through emails on his tablet as though he hadn’t just asked her to spend a weekend “for us.” He hadn't said a word since they boarded.
Elara had replayed that moment on the balcony more times than she cared to admit, trying to decipher what he meant. Was it genuine? A slip of vulnerability? Or just another layer to the performance?
As they descended the jet’s stairs, a gust of icy wind whipped her coat open. She gasped, wrapping the cashmere tighter around her. Lucien immediately stepped closer and adjusted the scarf around her neck without a word.
A black SUV waited on the tarmac. Their driver—a bearded man with kind eyes named Warren—greeted them and loaded their luggage.
During the ride, Elara watched the snow-laden world blur past. Vermont was beautiful. Quiet. Like a painting that didn’t need words.
Lucien glanced at her. “We’ll be off-grid for most of the weekend. No photographers. No staff. Just us.”
She looked at him. “That almost sounds like a warning.”
“More like a promise.”
Elara’s heart gave a traitorous flutter.
---
The cabin was straight out of a winter fairytale—stone fireplace, vaulted ceilings, exposed wood beams, and oversized windows looking out onto a frozen lake. A roaring fire already warmed the space, casting golden light on the rich leather furniture and thick throw blankets.
She walked through the living room, admiring the crackling hearth and the subtle scent of pine and vanilla in the air. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s mine,” Lucien said simply, setting down their bags. “One of the few places I actually like to be.”
“Let me guess: no board meetings, no scandals, and no ex-fiancées.”
Lucien smirked faintly. “Exactly.”
She turned to him. “Then why bring me here?”
His expression shifted—gentler now, quieter. “Because I want to know who we are without all the noise.”
Her throat went dry.
Lucien moved past her, toward the kitchen. “There’s wine. And a chef prepared meals we just need to heat. Pick anything.”
After a moment, Elara kicked off her boots and joined him. “Red or white?”
He arched a brow. “Is that a trick question?”
She grinned. “Red it is.”
As she opened the bottle, he pulled out a skillet and started heating a meal labeled Balsamic Chicken with Butternut Squash. It felt so… normal. Two people in a kitchen, no suits, no pressure, no script.
They sat at the rustic dining table near the window. The wine made Elara’s limbs warm, and the food was surprisingly comforting.
Halfway through dinner, she glanced at him over her glass. “So… what’s your worst date story?”
Lucien raised an eyebrow. “I don’t go on dates.”
“Ever?”
“I go to events. Functions. Strategic dinners. But no, not dates.”
She leaned in. “That’s tragic.”
He shrugged. “And your worst?”
Elara laughed. “Easy. College. I went on a blind date with a guy who took me to a comic book convention, then spent two hours explaining the difference between Marvel and DC—without letting me speak once. He tried to kiss me dressed as the Joker.”
Lucien chuckled. Actually chuckled.
Her eyes widened. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said, but there was a warmth in his tone that hadn’t been there before.
They cleared the plates together. Elara loaded the dishwasher while Lucien poured more wine. Then, with full glasses in hand, they migrated to the living room. He tossed a blanket over the couch, and she curled into one corner while he took the other.
The fire cracked and hissed.
Lucien broke the silence. “I used to come here with my mother. Before she died.”
Elara looked up. “I didn’t know she passed.”
He nodded. “I was fifteen. Cancer. Fast and cruel.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was the only one who ever made me feel like more than… a machine.” He stared into the fire. “After she died, I stopped letting people close. Vanessa was… convenient. Not real.”
Elara felt a lump rise in her throat. “And me? What am I?”
He looked at her then. “You were supposed to be a tool. A solution. But you’re not.”
The firelight danced in his eyes. She swallowed hard. “Lucien…”
He shifted closer, slowly, as if giving her time to pull away. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
When his hand touched her cheek, her breath caught. And when he kissed her, it wasn’t like the calculated kiss from the restaurant.
It was slow. Searching. Real.
Elara melted into it.
For a moment, there was no contract. No cameras. No lies.
Just warmth.
Just them.
When they finally pulled apart, she whispered, “This wasn’t in the contract.”
“No,” he murmured, “but I don’t care.”
They sat in silence, hearts pounding, the fire burning low beside them.
Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was the snow.
Or maybe it was the dangerous possibility that, in pretending to fall in love… they had started to do it for real.
- Writer
