POV Emilia
“We’re going skiing,” Adrian announces over breakfast like he’s discussing quarterly projections instead of spontaneous European vacations.
“We are absolutely not going skiing.” I don’t look up from my coffee because eye contact would probably weaken my resolve. “I don’t ski. I don’t do mountains. I definitely don’t do activities that involve strapping wooden planks to my feet and hurling myself down frozen death traps.”
“It’s not wooden planks anymore. Technology has advanced.”
“Oh, well then. Sign me up for the fiberglass death traps.”
“Emilia.” He sits across from me, wearing that expression that usually precedes him getting his way through sheer stubborn persistence. “We need to get away from New York. Away from the press, the board meetings, the constant performance.”
“So we go to the Hamptons. Or Martha’s Vineyard. Somewhere with flat surfaces and room service.”
“The Alps have room service.”
“The Alps have avalanches.”
“The Alps also have privacy. No paparazzi, no corporate obligations, just us figuring out what this actually is without an audience.”
The logic is annoyingly sound, which pisses me off because I was planning to win this argument through superior sarcasm.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But when I die in a tragic skiing accident, I’m haunting your penthouse forever.”
“Deal.”
Three hours later, I’m on Adrian’s private jet trying not to think about how casually he arranged international travel like ordering takeout. The cabin’s bigger than most apartments, all leather and mahogany and the kind of quiet luxury that screams “billionaire with taste.”
“You’re nervous,” Adrian observes, settling into the seat across from me.
“I’m not nervous. I’m rationally concerned about plummeting to my death in multiple different scenarios.”
“The jet’s safety record is impeccable.”
“I wasn’t talking about the jet.”
He laughs, and something about thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic makes everything feel different. More intimate. Less performed.
“Tell me something,” I say, because silence feels dangerous right now.
“Like what?”
“Something real. Something that wouldn’t show up in a Forbes profile or a board presentation.”
He considers this, swirling whatever expensive whiskey he’s drinking. “I used to be terrified of heights.”
“Used to be?”
“Still am, actually. But I bought this plane anyway because being afraid of something seemed like a stupid reason not to do it.”
I study his face, looking for tells. “That’s either very brave or completely insane.”
“Why not both?”
The flight attendant—because of course there’s a flight attendant—brings me wine, and we spend the next six hours talking about everything except business. Childhood fears, embarrassing college stories, the kind of conversation that feels dangerous because it makes someone human instead of strategic.
By the time we land in Zurich, I’ve learned that Adrian once got food poisoning from gas station sushi and spent three days convinced he was dying, that he’s secretly addicted to trashy reality TV, and that he makes this face when he’s thinking hard that’s ridiculously endearing.
The drive to the resort winds through mountains that look like someone’s screensaver come to life. Snow-covered peaks, impossibly blue sky, the kind of scenery that makes you understand why people write terrible poetry about natural beauty.
“This is disgustingly picturesque,” I observe.
“Wait until you see the hotel.”
The hotel turns out to be one of those places where “rustic luxury” means everything’s made of reclaimed wood and costs more per night than most people’s mortgages. Our suite has a fireplace and windows that frame the Alps like they’re hanging in a gallery.
“Separate bedrooms,” Adrian says, probably reading my expression. “No pressure, no expectations.”
“Good. Because I’m planning to spend most of this trip in a hot tub with wine, not careening down mountains.”
“We’ll see.”
The next morning, he drags me to the ski rental place where I’m fitted for equipment that looks like medieval torture devices designed by engineers with sadistic tendencies.
“These boots weigh forty pounds,” I complain, clomping around like Frankenstein’s monster.
“You’ll get used to them.”
“I’ll get shin splints and a permanent limp.”
But then we’re on the bunny slope—the fucking bunny slope, like I’m five years old—and Adrian is sliding backward in front of me, demonstrating technique with the kind of easy competence that suggests he’s been doing this since childhood.
“Knees bent, weight forward,” he calls. “Don’t lean back or you’ll fall.”
“Everything about this suggests I’m going to fall.”
“Then fall toward me.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me actually look at him instead of focusing on my impending doom. He’s watching me with this expression that’s patient and encouraging and completely free of the corporate calculation I’m used to seeing.
“Trust me,” he says.
Which should be terrifying, but somehow isn’t.
I push off with the poles—badly—and immediately start picking up speed that feels entirely too fast for someone who learned to ski approximately three minutes ago.
“Emilia, turn!”
“How do I turn?”
“Shift your weight! Point your skis!”
I try to follow his instructions, but physics has other plans. My skis cross, my balance goes to hell, and suddenly I’m heading straight for Adrian at what feels like highway speeds.
“Move!” I shout.
“Don’t panic!”
Too late for that advice.
I hit him like a missile with coordination issues, and we both go down in a tangle of skis and poles and expensive winter gear. We roll about fifteen feet down the gentle slope before coming to rest in a snowbank, me sprawled across his chest like I planned this as an elaborate tackle.
For a second, we just lie there breathing hard. Then I start laughing—really laughing—and once I start, I can’t stop. Adrian joins in, and suddenly we’re both hysterical in a pile of snow, looking like the world’s most well-dressed yard sale.
“That was graceful,” he says when we finally catch our breath.
“I told you I’d fall toward you.”
“I was thinking more gradually.”
I’m still lying across his chest, our faces close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Snow clings to his hair, and his cheeks are red from cold and laughter.
“This is nice,” I say, surprising myself with the honesty.
“The skiing?”
“The not performing. The not calculating every word or worrying about who’s watching.”
His gloved hand comes up to brush snow from my hair. “Yeah. It really fucking is.”
We’re probably going to get frostbite lying here, but I don’t want to move. Don’t want to break whatever spell makes this feel easy instead of complicated.
“Adrian?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, we’re trying the hot tub first.”