Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Sir?” One of the hotel’s staff approaches with a clipboard against his chest. “Everything is prepared according to your specifications. Would you like to see for yourself?”
I check my watch. Still hours before Sloane’s flight lands. Time enough to ensure every detail is perfect.
“Show me.”
Chapter Five Sloane
The private jet gleams in the early morning light, its sleek silhouette a stark contrast to the utilitarian JFK terminals surrounding it.
The itinerary hadn’t listed an airline. I guess I should have known that meant private. Dear lord.
I grip my portfolio tighter, frozen at the base of the airstairs. Everything about this feels surreal—from the white-gloved flight attendant waiting to escort me aboard to the way my boots leave prints in the light dusting of snow on the tarmac.
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Whitmore.” The attendant’s smile is practiced perfection. “May I take your coat?”
“I . . . no. I mean . . . yes, I . . . sure.”
Real eloquent, Sloane. Way to act like you’ve done this before. Though when exactly would I have done this before? My biggest splurge on transportation was upgrading to Economy Plus on a flight to Chicago.
The interior stops my breath. Honey-colored wood panels gleam against cream leather seats wide enough to curl up in. Crystal glasses catching sunlight through oval windows send prisms dancing across the ceiling. I take a hesitant step forward, terrified I’ll somehow break something that I couldn’t possibly afford to replace.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” The attendant gestures to what looks less like an airplane seat and more like a throne. “We’ll be taking off shortly.”
I sink into the leather, immediately panicking that my slacks—while my nicest pair—might somehow damage it. Do rich people even wear slacks on private jets? Should I have worn a ball gown? Do I own a ball gown?
My phone buzzes—Chloe, keeping her promise to text until takeoff: Don’t forget the pepper spray! And if he turns out to be serial killer, at least get his Wi-Fi password first so you can live-stream your last moments.
I snort, then quickly try to turn it into a cough when the attendant looks my way. If I die, be sure to empty my bedside drawer. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT let my mother open that drawer.
The flight attendant appears with a steaming cup that fills the cabin with a familiar scent. My fingers close around the delicate porcelain, and I freeze. It’s peppermint tea with a hint of vanilla—the exact blend I’ve been obsessed with this week. The one I just switched to after two weeks of chamomile, which followed my green tea phase. I can never stick with one type for long, but somehow they’ve managed to catch my current favorite.
“Everything all right, Ms. Whitmore?”
“Fine!” My voice comes out an octave too high. “Just . . . admiring the cup. Very . . . cuppy.” Oh god, please stop talking.
The coincidences are starting to feel less coincidental, and my brain helpfully starts playing every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to. Though surely serial killers don’t waste this much money on their victims?
Hours later, Switzerland unfolds beneath us like a living Christmas card. I press my face against the window like a kid, probably leaving nose prints on the crystal-clear plexiglass. I can’t bring myself to care. The view is too spectacular.
Snowcapped Alps pierce through cotton-wisp clouds, their jagged peaks catching the late afternoon sun. As we descend into Zurich, tiny villages appear, their church steeples and red-roofed houses dusted with fresh powder. The landscape seems to hold its breath, pristine and untouched.
“We’re beginning our descent,” the attendant announces, probably judging how I’m practically climbing into the window. “Please return to your seat, Ms. Whitmore.”
Right. Dignity. I have that somewhere.
A sleek black car waits on the tarmac, its driver holding a sign with my name in elegant script. I nearly trip down the airstairs, catching myself at the last moment. The driver doesn’t even blink, which makes me wonder what kind of training they go through. “How to Maintain Stoic Professionalism While Escorting Disaster-Prone Americans” must be a required course.
The drive to Gstaad winds through valleys that make my artist’s soul ache. Pine forests march up impossibly steep slopes, their branches heavy with snow. Wooden chalets straight out of fairy tales cling to mountainsides, warm lights glowing in their windows against the gathering dusk.
“Is this real?” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Like, actually real?”
The driver—whose name is Stefan, and who finally cracked a smile when I nearly face-planted getting into the car—actually answers. “Very real, Ms. Whitmore. Though many find Gstaad rather like a dream.”
We pass through villages that look frozen in time—ancient stone churches, window boxes still bright with winter flowers, boutiques displaying watches worth more than my student loans.
The road climbs higher, each switchback revealing new vistas that have me pressing closer to the window. My phone has zero bars up here, which means Chloe is probably already planning my funeral. “Died in the Swiss Alps,” I mutter. “Hopefully not buried in an avalanche.”