Alpine Embrace

Chapter 1

If life were a graphic novel, this would be the splash page where the ink spills entirely over the protagonist’s face, obliterating her features in a blot of chaotic, aggressive black.

Or, in my case, a blot of blinding, freezing white.

The rental car, a Fiat that sounded like a lawnmower with a smoking habit, skidded sideways on the snowy gravel, crunching to a halt inches from a wooden post. I killed the engine, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles had turned the color of skim milk.

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, my breath puffing out in a distinct gray cloud before the heat in the car even had time to dissipate.

I peered through the windshield. The wipers were fighting a losing battle against the slush, slapping back and forth with a rhythmic thwack-squeak that was already grating on my last nerve.

This was supposed to be Chalet de la Paix. The online listing had been poetry in motion: A rustic, charming escape nestled in the valley of Chamonix, boasting panoramic views of Mont Blanc, a fireplace that screams hygge, and the kind of solitude that heals the soul.

I looked out at the structure in front of me.

Reality? It was a glorified shed that looked like it had been built by a beaver with a hangover. The wood was weathered to a depressing shade of gray, the porch listed dangerously to the left, and the "panoramic view" was currently a wall of white fog that swallowed the world ten feet past the bumper of my car.

I unlocked the door and stepped out. The cold didn't just hit me; it assaulted me. It was a physical slap, sharp and disrespectful, bypassing my wool coat and biting straight into my skin.

I popped the trunk, wrestling my oversized duffel bag onto the snow-packed ground. It landed with a hollow, defeated thud.

"Okay, Kelsea," I said to the wind. "You can do this. You are a strong, independent woman. You do not need central heating, or a career, or... a boyfriend who doesn't sleep with your best friend."

I winced as I dragged the bag up the icy steps. That last one still stung like a paper cut dipped in lemon juice.

It had been the Triple Crown of Catastrophe. A trifecta of failure that had sent me fleeing from New York City to the side of a French mountain in the dead of winter.

First, the publisher. I could still see Marcus sitting across from me in his glass-walled office, tapping a manicured finger on the final proof of The Cynic’s Curse, Volume 4.

"It’s just... bitter, Kelsea," he’d said, sipping an espresso that probably cost more than my rent. "The market is shifting. People want hope. They want meet-cutes and miscommunications that get solved with a grand gesture. Your heroine just keeps... spiraling. It’s depressing. We’re passing on the renewal."

Depressing. I was a satirist. I was the voice of the generation that knew fairy tales were just marketing campaigns for diamond companies. But apparently, cynicism didn't sell in Q4.

Second came the apartment. Or rather, the eviction notice taped to the door because the building was "going condo."

And third? The cherry on top of the sundae from hell?

Brad.

Brad, the lawyer who looked great in a suit and even better on my arm at gallery openings. Brad, whom I had trusted with my vulnerability, was something I didn't give away freely. I’d come home early to surprise him with takeout Thai food, only to find him testing the structural integrity of our Casper mattress with Becca.

My Becca. The Becca who had held my hair back when I got food poisoning last New Year's. The Becca who knew exactly how much I hated clichés, and yet, there they were, enacting the biggest cliché in the book.

So, I did what any rational, emotionally stable thirty-two-year-old would do. I booked a non-refundable ticket to the one place in Europe guaranteed to be devoid of holiday cheer if you tried hard enough: a remote cabin in the French Alps, miles away from the gingerbread madness of the village center.

The "Anti-Christmas" reset. No tinsel. No carols. No pity looks from my mother via FaceTime. Just me, my sketchbook, and enough red wine to drown a small elephant.

I reached the front door of the cabin and keyed in the code on the lockbox. It took three tries because my fingers were already going numb. Finally, the latch clicked, and I shoved the door open.

I stepped inside, expecting the smell of cedar or maybe stale lavender. Instead, the air smelled like wet wool and abandoned dreams.

"Hello?" I called out, flipping the light switch.

A single bulb flickered to life in the center of the room, casting long, eerie shadows against the unfinished timber walls. The main room was smaller than the photos suggested. There was a lumpy sofa covered in a crocheted blanket that looked like it carried lice, a small kitchenette that hadn't seen a sponge since the nineties, and a heavy iron wood stove in the corner.

And it was cold. Freezing, actually.

I walked over to the thermostat on the wall and tapped it.

Nothing. The digital display was dead blank.

"Perfect," I said to the empty room, my voice echoing slightly. "Just perfect."

I dropped my bag and kept my coat on. I wandered to the window, rubbing a circle in the condensation to peer out. The world was vanishing. When I’d driven up the winding road from Geneva an hour ago, the sky had been a bruised purple, threatening snow. Now, the threat had turned into a full-scale invasion.

The wind howled, a low, mournful sound that rattled the single-pane glass in its frame. The snow wasn't falling down; it was being driven sideways, millions of tiny white bullets strafing the side of the mountain.

I needed heat. The listing said there was electric heating and a wood stove. Since the electric panel seemed dead, I turned my attention to the stove.

I opened the iron door. Cold ash puffed out, smelling of soot and neglect. Beside it, a wicker basket sat empty, save for a few splinters of bark.

My stomach gave a violent lurch, a mix of hunger and rising panic. I grabbed the "Welcome Guide", a laminated sheet stained with coffee rings, from the dusty table.

Welcome to your rustic getaway! The font cheered in Comic Sans, which should have been my first red flag.

I scanned down the list. Wi-Fi password... Checkout times... Trash disposal...

Heating: In the event of a power outage or for ambiance, firewood is stored in the shed strictly behind the property. The key to the shed is located under the welcome mat.

"Behind the property," I whispered. "In the blizzard."

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. No Service.

Of course. Because the universe wasn't done with the punchline yet.

I paced the small room, the floorboards creaking under my boots. I could feel the temperature dropping by the second. I could see my breath clearly now, a dragon’s smoke without the fire. The insulation in this place was nonexistent. If I stayed in here without heat, I’d be a Kelsea-sicle by morning.

I checked the time. 4:00 PM. But it looked like midnight outside.

"Think, Kelsea," I muttered, rubbing my gloved hands together.

I had layers. I had a bottle of Pinot Noir. I could just get under the covers of the bed and wait it out.

I walked into the bedroom. The bed was a metal frame with a mattress that looked about as thick as a slice of toast. The duvet was thin. I pressed my hand to the wall. Ice. There was literal ice forming on the inside of the window frame.

Okay. No. Sleeping through this wasn't an option. The cold was aggressive. It was a creeping, dangerous thing.

"Fine," I snapped, turning back to the main room. I grabbed the heavy iron key from under the doormat. It was cold enough to burn my skin even through the glove. "I’ll get the damn wood. I’ll build a fire. I’ll channel my inner lumberjack, and then I’ll write a scathing review on Airbnb that will haunt this host for eternity."

I prepared myself like I was going into battle. I wrapped my scarf around my face until only my eyes were visible. I pulled my beanie down low over my ears. I double-checked that my boots were laced tight.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

Just go around the back. Grab the wood. Come back. Make fire. Drink wine. Survive.

I opened the front door.

The wind hit me with the force of a freight train. It roared in my ears, a deafening white noise that drowned out my own gasp. The temperature had dropped ten degrees in the last twenty minutes.

I stepped onto the porch, clutching the shed key like a talisman. The snow on the steps was already ankle-deep.

I moved carefully, one hand on the railing, stepping down into the yard. The snow instantly swallowed my boots, rushing in over the tops, cold and wet against my ankles.

"Okay," I yelled over the wind, though the sound was snatched away instantly. "Around the back."

I trudged toward the corner of the cabin. The whiteout was disorienting. I could barely see two feet in front of me. The snowflakes were large and heavy, plastering against my eyelashes, melting and refreezing on my skin.

I turned the corner of the house.

There was no shed.

I squinted, shielding my eyes with my arm. "Where are you?"

I took five steps into the abyss. Then ten.

Nothing but white.

I turned around to look at the cabin, my safe harbor.

It was... hazy. A gray smudge in the white.

Panic, sharp and cold, spiked in my chest. I spun in a circle. "The shed is behind the property," I recited, my voice trembling. "It has to be here."

I took another few steps to the left, hoping to bump into a structure. My foot caught on something—a root, a rock?—and I went down hard.

My face planted into the snow. It was like falling into concrete. I scrambled up, spitting out ice, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I turned back toward where the cabin should be.

Gone.

The gray smudge had vanished. The snow was a curtain, thick and impenetrable. I couldn't tell which way was the road, which way was the cabin, or which way led off the side of the mountain into a ravine.

"Hello?" I screamed. "Is anyone there?"

My voice sounded pathetic. Small. Insignificant.

I tried to retrace my steps, but the wind had already scrubbed my footprints from the surface. I was standing in a blank page. No reference points. No horizon. Just the swirling, chaotic white.

My fingers were starting to hurt. A deep, aching throb in the tips. Frostbite. How long did it take? Minutes? Hours?

This is it, my brain supplied unhelpfully. This is the final panel. 'Local Graphic Novelist Found Frozen in Ironic Twist. She hated the holidays, so the holidays killed her.'

I stumbled forward, blindly. I had to find the cabin. It couldn't be far. It was just right there.

I walked for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only minutes. My legs felt heavy, like they were filled with lead. The cold was no longer just on my skin; it was inside me, slowing my thoughts, making my eyelids heavy.

Just sit down, a voice in my head whispered. Just sit for a second. It’s so quiet.

No. No, that was how you died.

I forced my eyes open. Through the swirling white madness, I saw a light.

Not a heavenly light. A beam. Sharp. Artificial.

It was cutting through the snow, erratic and jerky, sweeping back and forth like a lighthouse in a storm.

"Hey!" I screamed, forcing myself to move toward it. "Help! Over here!"

I waved my arms, but my limbs felt disconnected from my body.

The light swung toward me, blindingly bright, searing my retinas. I stopped, shielding my face.

Then, a shadow emerged behind the light.

It was massive.

This wasn't a rescue worker. This was a titan. Broad shoulders blocked out the swirling snow, towering over me like a mountain come to life. He was covered in snow, a layer of white coating a dark parka that looked big enough to camp in.

I squinted against the glare. A man? A bear? A hallucination brought on by hypothermia?

He was shouting something, deep and guttural, but the wind tore the words away before they reached me. He stomped toward me, the snow seeming to part for him out of pure fear. He moved with a power that terrified me.

I tried to back away. Stranger danger. Alone in the woods. Every true crime podcast I’d ever listened to screamed at me to run.

But my legs refused. I took one step back and my knee buckled.

I fell, sinking into the drift, the cold embracing me completely.

The figure loomed over me. The light clicked off, or maybe my eyes just stopped working. Suddenly, he was right there.

I looked up, dazed. Even through the tinted snow goggles he was wearing, I could feel the intensity of his stare. He ripped the goggles off, revealing eyes that were dark and furious. He had a jawline that could cut glass and a scowl that could freeze hell over.

He shouted something again. I caught one word.

"...Idiot..."

He reached down, a massive, gloved hand extending toward me. It looked like a claw.

I flinched, but he didn't strike. He grabbed the front of my coat, hauling me up and out of the snow as easily as if I were a ragdoll.

He pulled me against him. I collided with a wall of solid muscle.

And then the world tilted on its axis.

Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision, closing in like a shutter lens. The last thing I felt was the heat radiating off him, a furnace in the middle of the ice, and the smell of expensive leather and woodsmoke.

Then, the black ink finally spilled over the page, and everything went dark.