Chapter 1

Cassandra

The clatter of silverware against porcelain is the official soundtrack of my life. Tonight, it’s reached a fever pitch, a chaotic symphony conducted by a hundred demanding guests who all seem to think “holiday spirit” is something you order from the top-shelf menu. From my vantage point by the service station, the Monarch Crest Lodge’s grand dining hall is a glittering snow globe of festive chaos. A twenty-foot fir tree, dripping with crystal ornaments, looms over the room like a silent, judgmental god. Every table is a tableau of wealth: cashmere sweaters, ski-lift tans, and heirloom jewelry that could probably pay my rent for the next decade.

“Table seven needs more bread, Cass. And the woman in the red dress looks like she’s about to write a one-star review with her eyes.”

I turn to find Bree leaning against the polished mahogany, A faint upturn of her lips. Her own server apron is dusted with flour, and a stray curl has escaped her tight bun, but her eyes are bright with the same battle-weary energy I feel deep in my bones.

“The woman in the red dress has looked like that since she complained the complimentary mints weren’t vegan,” I murmur, expertly loading a tray with water goblets. “I think it’s just her face.”

Bree snorts, a quick, sharp sound she muffles behind her hand. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m observant,” I correct her, my lips twitching. “There’s a difference.”

“Whatever. Just charm her before Marco sees. He’s been pacing by the kitchen entrance like a caged bear.” She gestures with her chin. “Something about the new boss being here. The Big Guy. Has the whole place wound tight.”

The ‘new boss.’ The whispers have been ricocheting through the staff corridors for a week. Some mystery heir from the Ashford side of the empire, here to rattle cages and probably fire half the staff before New Year’s. I grab the bread basket, the linen still warm. “Let me work my magic on Red Dress. Try not to let Marco eat you while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” Bree calls after me, her voice swallowed by the din.

Weaving through the tables is a practiced dance. A sidestep to avoid a flailing toddler, a graceful pivot around a waiter balancing a tray of champagne flutes, a forced, patient smile for a man who snaps his fingers to get my attention. My body is on autopilot, but my mind is busy cataloging details. The way the woman at table nine discreetly slips her wedding ring into her purse when her husband leaves for the restroom. The teenage son at table four, misery etched onto his face as he stares at his phone, ignoring the five-thousand-dollar ski jacket his parents probably just bought him.

I see people. It’s what I do. I see the cracks in their perfect, polished veneers. And later, when the noise finally fades, I draw them.

“Here we are,” I say, my voice several degrees warmer than I feel as I place the bread on table seven. The woman looks up, her eyes narrowing. “Is there anything else I can bring for you this evening?”

“This water,” she says, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her glass. “It tastes… local.”

I hold her gaze, my smile fixed. “It is. It’s from the mountain spring. It’s one of the lodge’s signature features.”

“Hm.” She takes a grudging sip. “I suppose it will have to do.”

The shift finally ends close to midnight. The dining hall is quiet now, save for the hum of the industrial vacuums and the soft clinking of the night crew resetting tables. My feet ache, a deep, throbbing protest against the last eight hours. Bree is waiting for me by the employee lockers, shrugging on a thick puffer coat.

“Ready for the victory march?” she asks, zipping it up to her chin.

“Born ready,” I lie.

Most nights, I find a quiet corner before heading out, a little pocket of stillness to decompress. Tonight, it’s an alcove by the grand staircase, where a plush velvet armchair is tucked away from view. I pull the worn, leather-bound sketchbook and a charcoal pencil from my tote bag. The paper is soft, filled with faces I don’t know. They come to me in flashes, in dreams—the curve of a lip, the arch of a brow, the intensity in a pair of eyes. I sketch them to make them real, to prove I’m not just imagining them.

Tonight, it’s a man’s jawline. Sharp, severe, like it was carved from granite. I draw the faint shadow of stubble, the hard line of his mouth. He’s a stranger, but my fingers move with a frustrating familiarity, as if they’ve traced this shape before. The face belongs in a place like this—confident, powerful, and utterly unapproachable. I shade the hollow of his cheek, a wave of melancholy washing over me. He feels… lonely.

“Still drawing your ghosts?”

I look up, startled. Bree is watching me, her expression soft. I close the book, the spell broken. “Something like that.”

“Come on. It’s late, and if I don’t lie down in the next ten minutes, I might just do it right here on this Persian rug.” She grins, and I can’t help but smile back.

We step out of a service exit into the biting cold. The air is clean and sharp, smelling of pine and snow. The lodge is perched on the mountainside, a sprawling beacon of light and warmth. Below, the valley is a sea of darkness, dotted with the distant lights of the town. The sky is a sweep of mercilessly clear, star-dusted ink. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes you feel impossibly small.

“Shortcut?” Bree asks, nodding toward the narrow path that hugs on the perimeter of the property. It’s faster, a straight shot to the staff cabins carved into the hillside below. It also runs directly alongside a sheer, hundred-foot drop.

My stomach plummets. The world tilts, just for a second, the distant lights of the valley blurring into streaks. A wave of dizziness washes over me, cold and sickening. My hand instinctively grips the rough wood of the doorframe.

“I, uh… I think I’ll take the long way,” I say, my voice sounding thin and distant to my own ears. “Forgot I need to… think about some stuff. The quiet helps.”

Bree frowns, pulling her beanie down over her ears. “Cass, it’s like ten degrees out. The long way will add twenty minutes.”

“I know. I just need the walk.” The excuse sounds pathetic, even to me.

“You always need the walk,” she says, her tone more curious than accusatory. “You know, for someone who isn’t afraid of a condescending guest who tips seven percent, you have a weird thing about that path.”

“I just like the woods,” I lie, forcing a casual shrug.

She holds my gaze for a beat longer, then nods, letting it go. “Alright, weirdo. Don’t get eaten by a yeti. See you tomorrow.” She turns and disappears down the cliffside path, her flashlight beam a tiny, bouncing star against the darkness.

I wait until she’s gone, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I turn my back on the shortcut and head toward the winding service road, the path that curves deep into the dark, silent woods before looping back toward the cabins. Every step is a reminder of this strange, baseless fear. I’m not afraid of heights, not really. I can stand on the lodge’s highest balcony without a problem. It’s just this cliff. This specific, jagged edge of the world. It feels hungry. Like it’s waiting.

My cabin is small, but it’s mine. The contrast to the lodge’s curated luxury is almost comical. My furniture is thrifted, my blankets are mismatched, and the air smells like herbal tea and turpentine. It’s the closest thing to a home I’ve ever known.

I kick off my snow-caked boots and put the kettle on, my body finally starting to thaw. Tacked to the corkboard above my small desk is a flyer, a picture of a smiling, seven-year-old boy with a shock of black hair and a gap in his teeth. Help Leo Get His Smile Back. The words are a constant, heavy weight in my chest. The orphanage needs the money for his surgery by the end of the month. It’s a number so impossibly large, I can’t even let myself think about it for too long.

I change into a soft, worn sweater and a pair of leggings, ready to collapse into bed and let the dream faces have their way with me. Just as I’m turning off the main light, my phone buzzes, the screen a harsh slash of white in the darkness. It’s Marco.

I groan and answer it. “Marco, my shift ended an hour ago.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Wells,” his voice is a frantic, high-pitched whisper. “But I’m in a bind. A real bind.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The guest in the Founder’s Penthouse. He just called down. I want a bottle of the ’95 Macallan and a cheese plate. The kitchen is closed, the night porters are all on the other side of the resort, and I can’t leave the front desk.”

The Founder’s Penthouse. The most exclusive suite in the entire lodge. Reserved for owners and royalty. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I have the scotch here. I can get security to unlock the pantry for the cheese. I just need someone to run it up there. Please, Cassandra. The guest is… he’s the new boss. Mr. Ashford.”

The name hangs in the air. The Big Guy. The mystery heir. My stomach does a slow, nervous flip. This is a terrible idea. I’m off the clock. I’m exhausted. And I have a strict policy of avoiding men who can afford thirty-thousand-dollar bottles of scotch.

“Marco, I don’t know…”

“I’ll approve you for four hours of overtime,” he says, with desperation. “I’m begging you. He specifically asked for someone to bring it up, and you’re the only one I can trust not to spill it or say something weird.”

Four hours of overtime. It’s not enough for Leo, not even close, but it’s something. I close my eyes, a wave of resignation washing over me.

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m putting my boots back on.”

“Thank you! Thank you, Wells. Just… be professional. He’s important.” The line goes dead.

I stand in the stillness of my cabin for a long moment, the warmth of my impending sleep already a distant memory. The new boss. In the penthouse. Alone.

I pull my uniform jacket back on over my sweater, the fabric stiff and cold. This is just another table, I tell myself. Another guest. It doesn’t matter who he is.

But as I step back out into the freezing night, heading toward the glittering lodge, a strange, unaccountable shiver runs down my spine. It has nothing to do with the cold.

I meet Marco at the service elevator. He thrusts a heavy silver tray into my hands. On it sits a crystal decanter filled with liquid gold and a plate of artisanal cheeses that probably cost more than my weekly groceries.

“The penthouse is the only room on the top floor. You can’t miss it,” he says, his eyes wide. He smooths down my apron, his hands fidgeting.

“I’ve got it, Marco.”

“Okay. Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Don't mess this up.”