The Alpha Who Stole Christmas

Flying to the French Alps felt like tempting fate, and I'd never been the kind of person who liked to poke things I didn't believe in. No, I was the girl who kept to herself. Who got through law school with grit and determination. I was the girl who pushed her way to the top, despite the naysayers. I also hated flying. Hated the way it stole control from you and tried to play dress-ups as convenience. Once you were strapped in, there was nothing to do but trust a stranger and a machine that theoretically shouldn't be possible to stay above the ground. I'd learned early that trust, especially blind trust, was a luxury. Christmas was much the same. Everyone insisted it was about joy and miracles and togetherness. But in my experience, it was just expectations wrapped in tinsel. Promises people made when they were warm and drunk and full of nostalgia, only to forget them by New Years when they did it all over again. The plane dropped so suddenly that my stomach stayed somewhere near my lungs while the rest of me lagged behind. The man beside me snored. A woman screamed. The seat belt sign dinged with an optimism I wasn't sure I could pretend to muster. As if we weren't all one bad decision away from becoming a news headline. I closed my eyes and gripped the armrests. If fate existed, it wouldn't involve budget turbulence, recycled air, and a pilot whose idea of reassurance was "everything is under control," delivered thirty seconds too late. The plan recovered. Eventually. People clapped when we landed. I didn't. I waited for the shaking in my hands to stop and reminded myself that I'd chosen this. Every part of it. This trip. The timing. The man. By the time I was bundled into the back seat of a black private car and headed into the mountains, exhaustion weight on me. Snow fell thick, relentlessly covering the road as the car pushed higher. Pines pressed close to the road, dark and looming beneath the weight of ice and snow. The driver hadn't said a word since my bags were loaded into the boot. I checked my phone. No signal. Typical. My head fell back against the head rest and I exhaled slowly. Ten years was a long time to be with someone. Long enough that people started asking questions with pointed looks and hopeful smiles. Long enough that surprise weekend trips to luxury alpine lodges came with an unspoken question. We'd met in the least romantic way possible. Across a conference table, arguing opposite sides of a dispute that should've been settled weeks earlier. He'd been sharp, confident, already a big name in criminal defense, all courtroom fire and media-friendly charm. I was newer then, quieter, handling contracts and small businesses, the kind of law that kept things running but never made headlines. He liked to joke that I build foundations while he put out fires. At the time, it felt complimentary. Sensible. Like we fit because our edges didn't collide. But somewhere along the way, his world grew louder while mine learned to stay quiet. His wins were toasted over expensive wine; mine fell into the background, necessary but not memorable. I became the person who handled the day-to-day, smoothed rough edges, made space even, because it was easier than asking him to slow down. I told myself that compromise was the same as support. He deserved to be supported. He was pulling in million dollar cases; I was barely floating above water. I hadn't seen the ring, of course, but I'd felt the shift in our relationship. The careful planning. The sudden secrecy. The way he'd go quiet whenever I joked around our future, like he was holding something just out of my reach. I told myself it made sense. That this—this was the logical next step. That after everything we'd built together, commitment was inevitable. I didn't believe in fate. But I believed in progress. And sometimes, the two felt dangerously similar. The lodge appeared from the snow like something conjured from a storybook. Stone walls glowing warm beneath lantern lights, tall windows spilling gold out onto the snow. Frost clung to the building like it was frozen in time. It was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Designed to impress. To distract. Ancient, a voice in the back of my mind whispered. The car stopped beneath the covered entrance. The door opened before I reached for it. "Bienvenue," the porter said, smiling too quickly, too brightly. It felt like a strange show he was putting on. You don't belong here. I told myself to shut up. I did deserve this. I deserved everything that I'd clawed out of this world and made my own. I stepped into the cold, the air was sharp enough that it practically stole my breath. Snow crunched beneath my boots. The lodge loomed above me, solid and watchful. Inside, heat wrapped around me immediately. The main hall was all stone and dark wooden beams that held the ceiling. A massive fire roared at its center, its crackle loud against the low murmur of conversation. There were other guests, of course. Couples, mostly. Well-dressed. Relaxed. Women leaning into men with an ease. Men laughing softly, their hands resting possessively on their waists or lower backs. I felt a flicker of something. Nerves, probably. Hunter wasn't flying in until tomorrow morning. I was alone for the first night here. I smoothed my coat, suddenly very aware of myself. Of the fact I'd chosen this sweater. These boots. That I'd left my nails neutral instead of painted a bold, striking color. The staff moved through the space with an unsettling grace. Every step measured and perfect. Every smile identical. Their eyes followed more than they should have. I told myself I was imagining it. Jet lag did strange things to brains. I'd read about it once. The receptionist greeted me before I spoke. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back tight, her posture immaculate. "Welcome to Valombreuse," she said smoothly. "Your room is ready. Your companion has not yet arrived." My stomach fluttered. "He'll be here in the morning." My throat felt dry. My hands were sweaty. "His plane got delayed." "I'm sure he will," she said, her smile never wavering. "The mountain has a way of...bringing people together." I laughed politely, unsure if it was meant as a joke or not. She didn't laugh back. She handed me a key card. As I turned away, something carved into the reception desk caught my eye. Symbols etched deep into the wood, smoothed by time. They didn't match the rest of the lodge. It was too old. Too deliberate. "What are those?" I asked, pointing towards them. Her gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second. "Foundations," she said. "Some things are best left untouched." That didn't answer my question at all. My room was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows that gave me a full view of the mountains. The storm outside turned the world into a shifting, never-ending white blur. A four-poster bed dominated the whole space, heavy with thick linens. A fire burned in the hearth, already lit. It was warm, comforting and so...magical. Someone had unpacked my suitcase while I'd been busy downstairs getting something to eat. I frowned at my neatly folded clothes laid out on the chaise beneath the window. I hadn't asked for that. Maybe that's part of the charm here. Part of the "luxury lodge" experience. I crossed the room slowly, very aware of my surroundings. This place was nice, but there was something about it that struck me as odd. The fire popped, the wood groaned as it settled. There were more carvings etched into the mantel. The same symbols are downstairs. My phone buzzed. A single message. I'm almost there. Don't go anywhere. My pulse kicked into overdrive. Almost there. The words echoed in my mind, layered with meaning. He would be here in the morning. Just one more night. I could practically imagine him downstairs, checking his watch and straightening his tie. Tomorrow will change everything. Outside, the wind howled, battering the windows hard enough to rattle the glass. The storm had practically made the road disappear entirely. The unsettling thought that—even if I wanted to—leaving may not be so easy, crossed my mind. I moved to the window, pressing my palm against the glass. The chill bit into my skin, reminding me of where I was. Eighteen hours away from home, disconnected from my colleagues. All for a shot at a proposal. Somewhere in the forest beyond the white, something moved. I couldn't see it, not really, but the sensation lingered. An awareness. A hum under my skin. "I do not believe in fate," I whispered to myself. "I believe in choices." The fire crackled in response. Far off, beneath the wind and snow, something howled. And for the first time since booking this trip, I wondered if saying yes—or no—might not be entirely up to me.