FALLING FOR THE ICE KING

Chapter 1

Vivienne's POV

I hoist my carry-on from the overhead compartment, clutching the strap like it’s the only solid thing left in my world. The aisle feels too narrow, the air too thick with recycled breath and anticipation. I stand there a second longer than I should, running through the words that have kept me upright these past months.

Ready. Strong enough. Time to move.

My friends said it. Sia’s parents said it. Even the counselor with her gentle eyes and endless tissues nodded along. I bite the inside of my cheek anyway, that old nervous habit, then force the doubt down where it belongs.

I can do this.

My fingers find the soft scarf tied to the handle, twisting the fabric like a worry stone. Someone behind me clears their throat politely.

“Excuse me, miss…”

I snap back, offer the older woman an apologetic smile, and shuffle toward the exit. The crew’s cheerful goodbyes blur together as I step into blinding sunlight and a wall of sticky heat that wraps around me like a too-warm hug.

Down the stairs, sunglasses on, transfer bus. I grip the cool metal rail and recite the checklist again customs, bags, taxi ordinary steps I’ve taken dozens of times. But nothing feels ordinary now. Before, every landing meant going home to them. Their voices. Their laughter waiting at the end of the journey.

Not anymore.

All I carry are the photos saved on my phone and the memories that loop endlessly in my head like worn film reels, sunlit afternoons, silly arguments, the way Dad’s laugh filled every room.

And two heavy suitcases.

A fresh start, they call it. The anxiety surges up hot and familiar; I catch myself before I chew my lip raw and dig out the balm instead. Breathe. Just breathe. You’ve got this.

•••

Customs drags like it always does. My visa gives me a year plenty of time to work, to figure things out. The insurance money helps, but most of it stays locked away, keeping the house in England breathing while I decide whether I can ever let it go.

I’ve already paid off the rest of the mortgage. Sorted their clothes, their books, their little treasures into boxes that now sit in storage like quiet ghosts. The place is empty now, just walls and echoes, but it was ours. I’m not ready to sell their story yet.

Finally through, I collect my charcoal suitcases and wheel them toward the exit, grateful for the smooth-rolling wheels. I dodge the eager drivers shouting about rides into the city and head for the official taxi line instead. The attendant glances at the address on my phone, calls it out, and soon enough my bags are stowed and I’m sliding into the backseat.

A quick tip for the porter, a solid tap on the roof, and we’re off.

Another breath, slow and deliberate.

Sia’s been here seven years, carving out her life like she was born for it. Straight-A everything, then law school on another continent she crushed the LSAT, powered through every challenge, and emerged exactly where she wanted to be. I’ve visited before, but this time the city feels different. Weighted.

The last year has shattered me. Months of pure devastation. Heartbreak that carved itself into my bones.

Weeks where I barely left my bed, letting calls go to voicemail, ignoring knocks at the door. After the funerals I’d pace the house like a ghost, then haunted the police station, begging for details, for reports, for anything that might make sense. They eventually told me the files were sealed. Maybe they were. Maybe they just didn’t know how else to help the girl who kept showing up with red-rimmed eyes.

Then came the rage raw, blistering. I’d run until my legs gave out or kick the garden shed until my feet bled, trying to punch the anger out of my body.

After that, the desperate bargaining. Prayers whispered into the dark, deals offered to any higher power listening. A time machine. A swap. Just one more day. Until the sadness swallowed me whole and I started wondering if it would be easier to follow them.

One ordinary morning a single white feather drifted through my open window and landed on the carpet. Perfect. Long. Untouched. I sat on the floor staring at it until my legs went numb. Something shifted then a quiet, fragile peace. Enough to make me stand up, shower, dress, and walk straight into the grief counseling the police had suggested weeks earlier.

The next five months were slow and messy. Friends rotated through my house, refusing to let me drown. Sleepovers, terrible jokes, group chats flooded with crying emojis and memes that somehow made us laugh through the tears. Sia’s parents showed up with casseroles and fixed whatever needed fixing. Jim, especially, kept patching up that poor shed I’d destroyed, over and over, without a word of complaint.

My job had already slipped away with a long-term sickness package. One less thing to pretend I cared about.

Now here I am, chasing daylight in a new country.

I pull out my phone and text Sia.

Me: In a taxi. Should be there soon.

L Harts: Can’t wait. See you in about an hour.

I smile at her old contact name Legally Blonde energy never dies. The city starts sliding past the windows, familiar yet brand new. I lean my head back, let an old Sheryl Crow song fill the cab, and watch my future take shape block by block.

The driver pulls up outside her building. Sia’s already there, eyes bright with unshed tears she’s trying hard to hide. She keeps her promise not to treat me like fragile glass and instead wraps me in the kind of hug that squeezes the air right out of my lungs.

“Hi, Vivi. God, I missed you.”

“Hi, Sia,” I manage, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Missed you more.”

She laughs, pulls back, and immediately starts directing traffic, paying the driver, grabbing bags, and charming the doorman. Frank helps with my suitcases while she steals my cross-body bag and marches ahead like she’s on a mission.

Inside, the apartment smells like vanilla and home. Tall windows, soft greys, pops of color that scream Sia. She pours us massive gin and tonics, blasts the Clueless soundtrack, and within minutes we’re unpacking, laughing, falling into the rhythm we’ve always had.

She shows me fresh flowers in my room, framed photos of us, of Alice, of the life I thought I’d lost forever. My throat tightens.

“I wanted them here with you,” she says softly, arm around my shoulders. “You didn’t leave them behind, Vivi.”

We spent the rest of the day wandering, eating, and talking. She tells me wild stories about Theo, about work, about the city that’s going to heal me whether I’m ready or not.

Later, after Thai food and too many episodes of our old comfort show, she climbs into my bed when the dark gets too heavy. Her hand finds mine in the quiet.

I fell asleep thinking the same four words that carried me across an ocean.

I’m going to be okay.