The air in Switzerland was like chilled champagne, crisp and pure, stinging the lungs yet somehow clarifying. The private jet had landed in St. Moritz, and a Range Rover had whisked them away to a place even more secluded—not a hotel, but a modernist chalet perched on a mountain peak, seeming to float among the clouds. The view was breathtaking, overlooking an entire snow-blanketed valley, but its utter isolation made the cliffside house feel almost cozy in comparison.
"The retreat lodgings," Alexander announced, his breath misting in the frigid air. "No unnecessary distractions."
The chalet's interior was a blend of ultimate luxury and ruggedness—vast picture windows, exposed raw wood beams, a fire already crackling in the grand fireplace. But the space was more compact than the mansion, making their coexistence unavoidable.
The Blackwood Global board members and their partners were housed in a five-star hotel a few kilometers down the mountain. The daytime activities were collective: skiing, snowshoeing, strategy sessions. Amelia's role was clear—to play the happy, admiring fiancée during group events.
And she played it flawlessly. In public, she held Alexander's hand, her gaze fixed on him with apparent rapture as he discussed market fluctuations with powerful men. She laughed at the right moments during dinners, her touch on his arm light and proprietary. The memory of the tabloid scandal and Eleanor's venomous visit was a fresh wound, and she was determined not to show any weakness. Her performance was her armor.
But it was in the confines of the chalet that the performance became a torture of a different kind.
The first night, Amelia emerged from her bedroom to find Alexander standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the inky, star-dusted sky. He had shed his suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He held a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight. He looked less like a CEO and more like the lord of this frozen, isolated domain.
"The board is impressed," he stated without turning around, as if sensing her presence. "They find you… refreshingly genuine."
A bitter laugh threatened to escape her. "Good. I'm glad my acting is convincing."
He finally turned, his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. "Is it all acting, Amelia?"
The question, voiced in that low, intimate rumble, hung between them. The crackling fire seemed to grow louder.
"What else would it be?" she countered, crossing her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture. "We're following the contract. Reinforcing the lines, as you said."
He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving her. "The lines seem to have a tendency to blur in close quarters."
The chalet felt suddenly too warm, the air too thick. Every interaction since the kiss had been charged with this unspoken tension, this "unwanted fire" that simmered beneath the surface of their icy exchanges.
The following afternoon, they were forced together on a "couples'" snowshoeing trek with a few other board members. Amelia, struggling with the unfamiliar equipment on a steep incline, lost her footing. With a gasp, she started to slide backwards, a helpless descent towards a grove of sharp-limbed pines.
A strong arm shot out, wrapping around her waist and hauling her back against a solid, unyielding chest. Alexander. He held her firmly, stabilizing her, his body a wall of heat against the biting cold.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against her ear, his breath a warm cloud in the freezing air.
For a moment, she didn't move, paralyzed by the shock of the near-fall and the startling safety of his embrace. She could feel the hard beat of his heart against her back, or was it her own? The other couples chuckled good-naturedly, making comments about "protecting your investment, Alex."
He didn't release her immediately. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his face buried for a second in the fur-lined hood of her jacket. The world narrowed to the point of contact between them, to the feel of his arm like a steel band around her.
"Thank you," she breathed, her voice trembling, hating the way her body instinctively molded to his.
He slowly set her back on her feet, his hand lingering on her waist for a moment too long before falling away. His expression was shuttered, but his eyes burned with that same, familiar fire she had seen the night of the gala. "Watch your step," he said, his voice back to its usual coolness, though the command felt different now. It felt like a warning for more than just the path.
That evening, a formal dinner was held in the hotel's grand ballroom. Amelia wore a deep emerald gown that made her skin glow. Alexander, in his tuxedo, was the picture of powerful control. They were the perfect couple, the center of attention.
Damian Vance was there, of course. He watched them like a hawk, a knowing, taunting smile playing on his lips. He sauntered over during the cocktail hour.
"Alex. Amelia. You two are… radiant. The mountain air must agree with you. Or perhaps it's the… proximity." He let the word hang. "It's remarkable how convincing a performance can be when the actors are so dedicated to their roles."
Amelia felt Alexander go rigid beside her. Before she could form a retort, Alexander's hand found the small of her back, a possessive, grounding pressure.
"Some things don't require performance, Damian," Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. "They simply are. But I wouldn't expect you to understand the difference."
He then did something that stole the breath from Amelia's lungs. He turned to her, his gaze intense and unwavering. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin with a shocking tenderness that felt entirely real. "Shall we, my love? The music is starting."
It wasn't a question. It was a declaration. He led her onto the dance floor, pulling her into his arms for a waltz. It was nothing like the kiss at the gala, which had been a public battle. This was subtler, more intimate. His hand was firm on her back, guiding her effortlessly. Her body followed his as if they had danced together a thousand times.
"Was that for Vance's benefit?" she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs, her face so close to his she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes.
"What do you think?" he countered, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her.
"I think I don't know what game you're playing anymore," she confessed, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his confusing signals.
"The game hasn't changed," he said, his eyes dropping to her lips. "But the stakes have."
He pulled her closer, until there was no space left between them. She could feel the warmth of his body through the layers of their clothing, the solid strength of him. The unwanted fire, which she had tried so hard to suppress, roared to life, spreading through her veins like a drug. She stopped thinking about the contract, the scandal, the revenge. There was only the music, the feel of his arms, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that she was no longer just pretending.
When the dance ended, he didn't release her immediately. He looked down at her, his expression a turbulent mix of conflict and raw desire.
"Let's go," he said abruptly, his voice thick. "We're leaving."
He didn't wait for a response. He simply took her hand and led her from the ballroom, past the staring eyes and whispering guests, his grip firm and unyielding. The car ride back to the chalet was charged with a silence so potent it was deafening.
Back inside the chalet, the door clicked shut, sealing them in their frozen, private world. The only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace. Alexander stood facing the window, his back to her, his shoulders tense.
Amelia stood rooted to the spot, her body still humming from the dance, from his touch, from the intensity in his eyes.
The lines weren't just blurred. They were ashes.
He turned around slowly. The controlled CEO was gone. In his place was a man stripped bare, his gaze dark, hungry, and full of a storm that mirrored the one raging inside her.
"The performance is over, Amelia," he said, his voice raw with a truth that could no longer be contained.