THE CEO'S OFFER

THE HONEYMOON TRAP

"We’re going to Aspen," Damien said at breakfast.

Like he was discussing the weather.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

It burned going down.

"The lawsuit just dropped. You want to leave the country?"

He didn’t look up from his tablet. Black suit, even at 8AM. Hair perfect.

"I want to leave the country," he corrected. "We.

The press ate up the wedding. Now we sell the honeymoon."

Sell.

Like we were a product.

He slid a brochure across the marble table. It was thick, expensive paper.

Snow. Fireplaces. A cabin that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover.

A cabin that cost more per night than my old rent.

Probably more than my old rent for a year.

"It’s PR," he said. Finally met my eyes. "72 hours. Photos. Interviews. Then we come back."

72 hours.

Three days.

Alone with him.

My stomach flipped.

"Rule #4," I said quietly. My voice felt small in the huge dining room. "Public appearances."

"Exactly."

He stood. Pushed his chair in. No crumbs. No mess. Perfect.

"Pack warm clothes, Mrs. Carter."

Mrs. Carter.

He said it so easily now.

The flight was private. Of course it was.

I spent the whole 4 hours staring out the window, watching the clouds turn to mountains.

Damien worked the entire time. Two laptops. Phone calls.

He only spoke to me once.

"Don’t let them see you nervous. Smile. That’s it."

I nodded.

Rule #4.

The Aspen Lodge was exactly like the brochure.

And exactly the problem.

Stone walls. Giant chandeliers. The smell of pine and expensive candles.

People in ski gear carrying coffee that cost $12.

The concierge smiled too wide when we walked in. Too practiced.

"I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Carter. There was a booking error.

We only have one suite available."

Damien’s jaw ticked. That was the only sign he was annoyed.

"Two rooms."

"I’m terribly sorry. The storm." She gestured to the windows. "Everything is full in a 50-mile radius. We’ve been calling around for 2 hours."

Outside, snow was already falling. Hard.

Big, heavy flakes that stuck to the glass.

The mountains had disappeared behind a wall of white.

Damien looked at me.

For half a second I saw something in his eyes. Irritation? Hesitation?

Like he was calculating the risk.

Then it was gone. Mask back on.

"We’ll take it," he said.

My heart dropped.

The suite was obscene.

Floor to ceiling windows looking out at the storm. A fireplace already lit.

A living area with a couch bigger than my old bed.

And the bedroom.

One king bed. Massive. With white duvet and about 10 pillows.

One massive bathroom with a tub I could swim in.

And me.

And him.

For 72 hours.

Rule #2: No physical relationship.

Rule #3: No emotions.

This was going to be a test.

I dropped my bag on the floor. My hands were shaking.

"Who sleeps where?" I asked.

Damien was already checking the locks on the windows.

"You take the bed. I’ll take the couch."

Like it was that simple.

Night one was easy.

He took the couch. I took the bed.

We worked in silence. Him on laptop, the blue light reflecting on his face. Me scrolling hate comments under our wedding photos.

Gold digger. Home wrecker. She did this for money.

I turned my phone off at 1AM.

The fireplace kept me warm.

Night two, the storm hit.

The power went out at 11:42pm.

I know the exact time because I was staring at the clock, trying to sleep.

The entire lodge went dark.

No hum of the heater. No light from the bathroom.

Just black.

Wind howled against the windows. It sounded angry.

I sat up in bed. My breath made a small cloud in the air.

It was cold.

"Damien?"

No answer from the couch.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. 2% battery.

A knock at the door made me jump.

Staff. Their flashlight beam cut across the room.

"Sir, ma’am, the generator failed. We’re trying to fix it. It could be hours. Maybe until morning."

Hours.

In the dark.

With him.

In one room.

"Thank you," Damien’s voice came from the dark. Calm.

The door closed.

Silence again. Except the storm.

The wind was screaming now.

I pulled the blankets up to my chin. They weren’t enough.

I was shivering.

"Are you awake?" I whispered. I hated how small I sounded.

A pause. Long enough that I thought he was asleep.

"Yes."

His voice was closer than I expected.

More silence.

Then movement. Fabric rustling. Footsteps on carpet.

Something warm landed over my shoulders. Heavy.

His jacket.

It smelled like cedar and him. Like safety and danger at the same time.

"You’ll freeze," I said.

"I’ll be fine."

He was lying. I could hear it in his voice.

In the dark, I couldn’t see his face.

But I heard him sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped.

Not touching. Close.

I could feel the heat from his body.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. The words came out before I could stop them.

"The lawsuit. The honeymoon. The jacket."

My voice cracked on the last word.

"Business," he said. Too fast.

Like he’d rehearsed it.

"That’s not business, Damien."

He didn’t answer.

Lightning flashed outside. For one second the room lit up white.

I saw him.

Sitting on the edge of my bed. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

And a scar. Long. Jagged. Across his ribs, disappearing under his shirt.

Old. Like someone had tried to hurt him badly.

I’d never seen it before.

My breath caught.

"Where did you"

Before I could ask, the lights flickered and died again.

Total black.

Darker than before.

The wind hit the windows like it wanted in. Like it wanted us.

And then I felt it.

His hand.

Not holding mine. Just... resting near it on the blanket.

Close enough that our pinkies brushed.

Neither of us moved.

If I moved my hand half an inch, our fingers would lace together.

My heart was hammering. I could hear it in my ears.

Rule #3. No emotions.

Rule #2. No physical relationship.

But it was cold. And dark. And we were the only two people in this storm.

"Isabella," his voice came in the dark. Low. Rough.

He’d never said my name like that before. Not "Miss Hart." Isabella.

"Are you scared?"

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve said "I’m fine" and pulled my hand away.

But the wind was howling and the lights were out and his jacket was the only thing keeping me warm.

"A little," I whispered.

I felt him shift.

"The storm will pass," he said.

"And I’m right here."

He didn’t move his hand away.

Neither did I.

For a long time we just sat there. Two pinkies touching on a blanket.

The fire had died down to embers. The only light was the occasional flash of lightning.

"That scar," I whispered finally. "How did you get it?"

Silence.

I thought he wouldn’t answer.

"Business," he said again. But this time it sounded different. Tired.

"Old business."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

Another long pause.

"Did you fight back?" I asked.

This time he did move his hand.

But not away.

His fingers brushed over mine. Once. Barely a touch.

Then he pulled back.

"Always," he said.

The generator sputtered to life at 3:17AM.

Lights flickered on. The heater kicked in.

We both jumped like we’d been caught.

Damien stood up so fast.

"I should... check on things," he muttered.

He walked to the door in his socks. Picked up his jacket from the bed where I’d dropped it.

At the door he paused. Didn’t turn around.

"Get some sleep, Isabella."

And then he was gone.

Into the living room. Into the dark.

I lay back on the bed.

His jacket was still on my shoulders.

And my pinky was still tingling where he’d touched it.

Rule #2.

Rule #3.

72 hours.

We still had 48 to go.