Dawn broke not with gentle light, but with the brutal clarity of a diamond. Amelia awoke alone.
The space beside her in the massive bed was cold and empty, the sheets rumpled on only one side. For one disorienting moment, she wondered if the entire night had been a dream, a fantastical illusion spun from the thin mountain air and the intensity of their isolation. But the scent of Alexander—sandalwood and frost and something uniquely, intimately male—lingered on the pillows and on her own skin. The faint ache in her muscles was a testament to the very real, very passionate hours they had shared.
A fragile, tentative hope bloomed in her chest. It was quickly crushed by a wave of cold dread. This changes everything. And nothing.
Pulling on the silk robe she found draped over a chair, she ventured out of the bedroom. The chalet was silent, save for the crackle of a newly built fire in the main living area. And there he was.
Alexander stood by the window, once again the picture of the impenetrable CEO. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his back to her, his posture rigid as he stared out at the unforgiving, brilliant white peaks. A tablet was in his hand, and he was already engrossed in the day's business, the digital world reclaiming him.
The contrast between the man of last night—vulnerable, passionate, whispering raw confessions against her skin—and the icy statue before her now was so jarring it stole her breath.
"Alexander?" she said, her voice soft, hesitant.
He didn't turn. "The car will be here in one hour. We're expected at a breakfast meeting with the Japanese investors." His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, the same voice he used to discuss quarterly reports.
The chill in the room seeped into her bones. "I see," she said, her own voice hardening in self-defense. "So, business as usual."
Finally, he turned. His eyes, when they met hers, were the colour of a winter storm. The warmth, the conflict, the raw hunger—all of it was gone, locked away behind a wall of impenetrable ice. "Precisely. Last night was… an anomaly. A lapse in judgment brought on by the unique circumstances."
Each word was a carefully aimed dagger, piercing the fragile hope she had dared to nurture. An anomaly. A lapse. She felt a hot flush of shame. Had it meant so little to him? Had she been just a convenient distraction?
"Of course," she replied, her chin lifting, her pride rallying like a wounded soldier. "A moment of weakness. I understand completely. We wouldn't want to confuse the asset."
A muscle ticked in his jaw, the only sign that her barb had struck home. "Get dressed, Amelia. We don't have time for theatrics."
The breakfast was a study in exquisite torture. Seated beside him at a table of powerful, chattering strangers, Amelia played her part with a renewed, bitter determination. She smiled, she nodded, she made polite conversation. But inside, she was reeling. Every time his hand brushed against hers as he passed the salt, it was like a jolt of lightning followed by an arctic freeze. He was a master of compartmentalization, and she had been neatly filed away in a box labeled "Regrettable Mistake."
The return flight to New York was a mirror image of the outgoing one—a cavernous, silent space between them. But this silence was different. It wasn't just tense; it was wounded, filled with the ghost of his whispered confessions and the crushing weight of his morning-after rejection.
When the town car pulled into the garage of the cliffside house, Alexander didn't wait for her. He was out of the car and heading towards his study before she had even gathered her purse.
"Mr. Blackwood has a series of urgent calls," Mrs. Higgins informed her, materializing as if from the shadows. "He will be unavailable for the remainder of the day."
Amelia fled to her suite, the familiar gilded walls feeling more like a prison than ever. The memory of his touch, now tainted by his cold dismissal, played on a cruel loop in her mind. She felt used, foolish, and more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
Driven by a restless, desperate energy, she decided to explore a part of the house she had never dared to venture into—the library. Perhaps she could lose herself in someone else's story, since her own had become a miserable tangle.
The library was vast and silent, smelling of old leather and lemon polish. She ran her fingers along the spines of leather-bound classics, feeling no connection to any of them. Her gaze fell upon a section that seemed slightly out of place—a collection of modern, non-fiction titles on finance and corporate law. As she absently pulled one out, a small, faded photograph fluttered from between the pages and landed face-down on the Persian rug.
Her heart gave a funny little lurch. A personal item in this sterile house was a rarity.
She bent down and picked it up. It was a picture of a younger Alexander, perhaps in his late teens. He was smiling, a real, unguarded smile that transformed his face, making him look almost like a different person. His arm was draped around the shoulders of a handsome, dark-haired man who shared the same stormy eyes and confident posture. They stood in front of a modest, but charming, suburban house. They looked happy. A family.
Her eyes scanned the background, and her blood ran cold.
There, on the porch of the house, partially obscured by shadows, was a wooden sign, the name carved into it now feeling like a punch to the gut.
"SWIFT CONSTRUCTION"
Her father's company. The company that had gone bankrupt, the failure that had precipitated her own downfall.
The pieces, sharp and terrifying, began to click into place. I started hating you because you made me feel when I had sworn to feel nothing ever again. His words from the chalet echoed in her mind. What your family did.
This was no random business rivalry. Alexander hadn't just acquired a failing company. He had known her father. He had been to her family's home. The revenge he had spoken of… it was personal. Deeply, painfully personal.
The photograph trembled in her hand. The happy young man in the picture was a ghost, replaced by the cold, vengeful titan who had bought her, humiliated her, and then, in a moment of catastrophic weakness, made love to her with a passion that had felt like a truth she could finally cling to.
But it wasn't the truth. It was just another layer of the lie.
She was standing in the heart of his home, holding a piece of his past that connected them in a way far more profound and sinister than any contract. The unwanted fire he had spoken of was now a raging inferno inside her, fed by betrayal, confusion, and a heartbreak that felt terrifyingly real.
The echo of the past had just become a deafening roar, and Amelia knew, with a sickening certainty, that the real war between them was only just beginning.