Cayla POV
I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the grout of the master bathroom floor with a toothbrush when the news broke, the bristles turning pink from the raw and bleeding skin on my knuckles.
"Turn it up," Cherrelle commanded from the bathtub, her voice echoing sharply off the marble.
I reached for the remote with trembling hands, careful not to drip soapy water on the pristine tiles.
The reporter on the screen was breathless, standing in front of a white expanse of snow that looked too serene, too beautiful to be a graveyard.
Breaking News: Avalanche in the Swiss Alps claims three lives. Chicago businessman Grafton Mcleod reported missing.
My heart didn't just stop.
It shattered.
Cherrelle sat up, water sloshing over the sides of the tub.
"Oh my god," she said, her eyes wide. "He actually went."
She looked at me, a twisted smile playing on her lips.
"He went to get me the Edelweiss. I told him it was the only flower that proved true love because it grows where people die."
She laughed, a high, tinkling sound that made my stomach turn.
"I didn't think he'd actually be stupid enough to do it."
I dropped the toothbrush.
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice hoarse from days of silence.
"Missing, didn't you hear?" She waved a dismissive hand. "Probably dead. Which is a shame. He hadn't signed the transfer papers for the villa yet."
I stood up.
My knees cracked in protest.
"I'm going."
Cherrelle scoffed. "You? You're a servant, Cayla. You don't have a passport. You don't have money. You belong to me."
"I belong to the oath," I said, the words meant more to myself than her.
I walked out of the bathroom, ignoring her screeching demands for a towel.
I stole cash from the safe in the study-Grafton never changed the code, it was still Justen's birthday-and booked the first flight to Zurich under a fake name I used for cleaning up the Family's messes.
The mountain was a beast.
The rescue teams had called off the search due to the storm.
"It's suicide," the lead guide told me, blocking the path. "No one survives a night out there."
"He isn't no one," I said, tightening the straps of my gear.
I climbed.
The wind was a physical weight, pushing me back, screaming in my ears.
My lungs burned.
My legs felt like lead.
But I had a map in my head, guided by a tracking beacon I had sewn into the lining of Grafton's coat three years ago without his knowledge.
Just a safety measure.
Just another way I kept him alive while he hated me.
The signal led me to a ridge buried under ten feet of snow.
I dug.
I dug until my gloves tore and my fingernails bled.
I dug until I hit something solid.
Black fabric.
I cleared the snow from his face.
He was blue.
His lips were cracked, his eyelashes frozen together.
"Grafton!" I screamed over the wind.
No response.
I checked for a pulse.
Faint. Thready. A ghost of a beat.
I couldn't carry him down. Not in this storm.
I dragged him into a small cave nearby, a fissure in the rock face.
It was freezing, but out of the wind.
With fumbling, frozen fingers, I stripped off my outer layers.
Then I stripped off his.
Skin to skin was the only way to share heat.
I wrapped us both in the emergency thermal blanket.
His body was a block of ice against mine.
I held him.
I pressed my face into his neck, shivering violently, giving him every ounce of warmth I had left.
"You don't get to die," I whispered against his cold skin. "Not yet. I haven't paid my debt."
I stayed awake all night, rubbing his back, his arms, keeping the blood moving.
By dawn, the storm broke.
The rescue chopper found us because I crawled out and lit a flare with hands that were black with frostbite.
I didn't remember the flight down.
I woke up in a hospital bed in Zurich, bandaged and broken.
I pulled the IVs out.
I had to see him.
I limped down the hallway, holding the wall for support.
Grafton's door was open.
Brooks was there, holding a tablet.
"Look at this, Boss," Brooks was saying, his voice thick with emotion. "The thermal cam from the chopper. She kept you alive with her own body heat for twelve hours. She saved you."
I stopped just outside the door.
Grafton was sitting up, looking pale but alive.
He watched the screen.
His expression didn't change.
It was stone.
"She did her job," Grafton said, his voice raspy but cold.
"Her job?" Brooks sounded incredulous. "Grafton, she almost died. A woman doesn't do that for a boss. She loves you."
Grafton looked away from the screen, staring out the window at the snow-capped peaks.
"It changes nothing," he said. "I will never love her. She's a reminder of everything I lost. She's a shadow, Brooks. And shadows cease to exist when the sun comes out."
He paused.
"Send her a check. And tell her to have my suit cleaned. It reeks of her cheap perfume."
I stood there.
The pain in my frostbitten fingers was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.
I turned around.
I walked away.
He was alive.
My oath was kept.
But I was finally dead.
