THE COLD FRONT

The invitation—if you could call a subpoena-adjacent summons an invitation—had been printed on cream cardstock so thick it felt like a weapon. Elara ran her thumb over the embossed name: Julian Vane. Even his stationery felt arrogant. She shifted her weight, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble of the foyer. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Vane estate, the sky was a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of the worst storm the Cascades had seen in a decade. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be in her apartment in the city, with a glass of cheap merlot and a book that didn't involve billionaire egos. "Mr. Vane will see you in the library," a houseman said, his voice as sterile as the hallway. "Top of the stairs. Last door on the right." Elara didn't wait for him to lead the way. She knew the type. Men like Julian Vane didn't have homes; they had fortresses built to remind everyone else how small they were. As she reached the library door, she took a breath, smoothing the front of her charcoal pencil skirt. She wasn't here to be impressed. She was here to clean up the mess he’d made of his latest acquisition. She pushed the door open without knocking. The room smelled of old paper, expensive scotch, and something sharp—like ozone before a lightning strike. Julian was standing by the fireplace, his back to her. He wasn't wearing a suit. Instead, he wore a black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, revealing a glimpse of ink snaking down toward his wrist. "You're late," he said. He didn't turn around. His voice was a low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "The mountain pass was iced over," Elara replied, closing the door behind her with a definitive thud. "I assume even you haven't figured out how to control the weather, Julian." He turned then. His eyes were the color of flint, framed by lashes that were unfairly long for a man so predatory. He looked her up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep that made Elara feel like she’d been pinned under a microscope. It wasn't a look of admiration; it was a challenge. "I don't pay your firm for excuses, Elara. I pay them for results." He took a step toward her, his movements fluid and far too graceful for a man of his size. "And right now, the result is that I'm stuck in a house that’s about to be buried in ten feet of snow with a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else." "Then we have something in common," she snapped, dropping her briefcase onto the heavy oak desk between them. "Let’s get the paperwork over with so I can try to make it back to the village before the roads close." Julian let out a short, dark laugh. He moved to the window, gesturing toward the white wall of snow that was suddenly obliterating the treeline. "Look out there, Elara. The roads didn't just close. They vanished. The gates are frozen shut, and the power grid for the lower valley just went dark." Elara stepped to the glass, her heart sinking. He wasn't exaggerating. The world outside was gone, replaced by a screaming white void. "How long?" she whispered. "The forecast says three days. Maybe four." Julian walked back to the sideboard and poured a finger of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He held it out, his fingers brushing hers as she took it. The contact was brief—a mere second of skin against skin—but it felt like a static shock. Elara pulled her hand back quickly, her pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. She looked at him and saw the flicker of something in his expression—a dark, knowing spark. He knew exactly what that touch had done. "Three days," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned against the desk, encroaching on her personal space. "Just you, me, and enough legal documents to set us both on fire." He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. "I hope you’re as good at your job as your reputation suggests, Elara. Because it’s going to be a very long, very cold night."