The morning sun hit the snow-capped peaks outside, filling the chalet with a blinding, sterile white light. Brittany woke up reaching for heat, for the solid weight of Castiel's arm, but her hand met only cold, high-thread-count sheets.
She sat up, pulling the duvet to her chest. The fire was dead, nothing but ash in the grate.
Castiel was already dressed. He stood by the panoramic window, his back to her, typing furiously on his tablet. He was wearing a fresh suit, the navy one he usually reserved for hostile takeovers. The vulnerability of the night before—the desperate man who had begged for her touch—was gone. The armor was back in place.
"Castiel?" she asked, her voice raspy with sleep.
He didn't turn around immediately. When he did, his face was a mask of indifference. "Good morning, miss Miller. Coffee is on the sideboard. We have the video conference with the Zurich partners in forty minutes."
Brittany felt as if she'd been slapped. She scrambled to gather her scattered clothes from the floor, shame heating her cheeks. "About last night..."
"Last night was a lapse in judgment due to isolation and high stress," Castiel interrupted, his tone even, robotic. "It won't impact our efficiency moving forward."
"A lapse in judgment?" Brittany repeated, stepping into her skirt. "Is that what I am? A glitch in your system?"
"You are my employee," he said, finally looking her in the eye. The blue was icy again. "And I intend to keep it that way. I've already drafted a solution to ensure we remain... professional."