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)
The Alpina emerges as we round the final bend—a massive yet elegant structure of wood and stone that seems to grow from the mountain itself. Most windows are dark against the twilight, except for a few that glow softly, suggesting occupied rooms within. Old brass lanterns line the curved drive, their light catching the billowing snow as we approach. The building commands the mountainside, its steep roofs and weathered timbers standing against the elements. Wooden balconies extend from the facade, their railings now thick with fresh snow.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to swear at fancy Swiss hotels. But Stefan just chuckles as he opens my door.
“Wait until you see inside, Ms. Whitmore.”
The lobby steals what’s left of my breath. Soaring timber beams frame walls of windows that showcase the valley below. A massive stone fireplace with flames that cast flickering shadows across plush seating areas done in cream and chocolate leather. The scent of pine mingles with something spicy—mulled wine, I realize, spotting crystal glasses being served to guests who look like they’ve stepped from the pages of Vogue.
I glance down at my travel outfit, suddenly very aware of my sensible boots. The woman nearest to me is wearing what appears to be actual diamonds in her hair. Who wears diamonds in their hair? To a hotel lobby?
“Ms. Whitmore.” A man in an impeccable suit appears at my elbow, making me jump. “Welcome to the Alpina. If you’ll follow me, your suite has been prepared.”
Suite is an understatement. The space he leads me to is bigger than my entire apartment, with a sitting room dominated by a wall of windows showcasing the Alps. The bedroom features a bed that could sleep six, draped in linens that probably cost more than anything I own.
“This can’t be right,” I stammer. “This is like . . . this is presidential suite level.”
“Indeed,” the man says smoothly. “The presidential suite. Will this be satisfactory?”
I make a sound that might be a laugh or a wheeze. “Satisfactory. Right. Totally normal. Just another Tuesday in the presidential suite.”
But it’s the bathroom that nearly breaks me—a freestanding copper tub positioned to watch the sunset over the mountains while soaking. I stare at it, wondering if it’s possible to live in a bathtub.
Just move in permanently. Send for my things.
On the bed, an outfit has been laid out—a winter white ensemble that looks both elegant and intimidating. The note beside it reads simply: For dinner. ~C.A.
I run my fingers over the fabric, its softness betraying its astronomical cost. “No pressure,” I tell myself. “Just a mysterious meeting in Switzerland with someone who knows your tea preferences and clothing size. This isn’t a setup to a horror movie at all.”
My phone finally catches signal, immediately buzzing with Chloe’s backlog of panic: SLOANE WHITMORE IF YOU DIE IN SWITZERLAND, I WILL KILL YOU.
I laugh despite my nerves, moving to the windows to watch night settle over the Alps as I send a reassuring text that all is well. I snap a quick photo of the breathtaking view and send it to Chloe with the caption: If I’m about to be murdered, at least the last thing I’ll see is this.
The mountains are disappearing into darkness, but lights are appearing—chalets and hotels dotting the slopes. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And possibly the most dangerous. But I could stand here and stare for hours if I had the time.
A discreet knock announces dinner in an hour. I eye the white outfit, then my portfolio filled with designs that somehow this mysterious firm already knows intimately. Everything about this situation is pure insanity. The coincidences too bizarre. The rational part of my brain is screaming to run back to Manhattan and my safe, predictable life.
But as I pick up the dress, another thought hits me: My safe, predictable life was slowly killing my creativity. And here I am, in a suite bigger than my apartment, about to meet someone who seems to actually understand my vision. Someone who went to ridiculous lengths to get me here.
I slip into the dress, trying to steady my nerves. The fabric feels like smooth butter against my skin, the cut perfect in a way that’s starting to feel unsettling rather than flattering. My fingers move to the delicate silver necklace at my throat—one of my own pieces, a small reminder of who I am and why I’m here.
Through the windows, the lights of Gstaad twinkle like fallen stars caught in the valleys between mountains. Everything about this place feels like a fairy tale. But I’ve read enough of the original Brothers Grimm to know that fairy tales aren’t always sweet. Sometimes they’re sour.
Nightmarish.
I gather my portfolio and head for the door. Time to find out what kind of story I’ve walked into. Dream or nightmare?