"It's a smart house. The primary heating is electric. " "Then we're in trouble," I say, walking over to the massive stone fireplace. "There is a stack of split logs sitting in a row iron cradle next to the hearth. " Because it's currently -10° outside and this place is mostly glass, I don't wait for her permission. I strip off my suit jacket, roll up my sleeves, and grab three logs. I arrange them over the cold ash of last night's fire, stuff some newspaper under the grate, and strike a long match.
The fire catches quickly. The dry wood crackles, sending a wave of beautiful primal heat into the center of the room. I stand up and turn around. Vivien is standing 3 ft behind me. She is staring at the flames.
Her arms still crossed tightly. The corporate armor she wore in the boardroom is cracking, shivering away in the freezing air. "Change out of the suit," I tell her. "Put on your heaviest clothes. Bring your blankets down from the loft.
All the heat is going to rise, but it won't be enough to keep that open space warm. We need to stay by the fire. " For a second, I expect her to snap at me for giving her orders, but she just nods. She walks up the steel stairs. I watch her go, then head to my duffel bag on the couch, pulling out a thick wool sweater and heavy denim jeans. By this time she comes back down, dragging a massive down comforter with her, the temperature in the cabin has noticeably dropped.
The glass walls, so beautiful yesterday, are now just massive conductors of cold. She's wearing the same gray Henley and sweatpants from last night, plus a thick pair of wool socks. She drags the comforter to the deep leather couch and sits, pulling it up to her chin. I pull a heavy armchair closer to the hearth and sit down, leaning forward to hold my hands near the flames. The wind howls.
The glass groans under the pressure. We crushed him, Viven says suddenly. Her voice is barely louder than the fire. I turn my head. She's staring at the flames, her face illuminated in the flickering orange light.
Yes, I say. We did. I thought I would feel better, she whispers. I thought it would fix it. It didn't fix anything.
Revenge rarely does, I reply, my voice quiet. She looks at me. Do you think I am a monster, Delano? The question catches me off guard. It is so blunt, so devoid of her usual defensive irony.
I look at her. Really, look at her. She isn't the billionaire CEO right now. She's just a woman in a freezing cabin, realizing that the ghost she's been chasing for 20 years is still haunting her. I think you're a survivor, I say carefully.
And survivors do what they have to do. They don't always do the right thing. She laughs. A bitter, dry sound. That is a very diplomatic answer for a man who just helped me ruin a 68-year-old's life.
I did it for the money, I say bluntly. The cold is stripping away my own filters. I didn't do it out of loyalty, Vivian. I did it because my son's asthma medication costs more than my rent. I did it because my ex-wife wiped out my savings during the divorce.
And I haven't slept more than 4 hours a night in 3 years. I ruined him so my kid can breathe. I'm not a monster either. I'm just desperate. Silence falls between us, heavy and thick.
Viven shifts on the couch. She pulls the comforter tighter. Why did she leave? Vivien asks. It crosses a line.
We both know it. But the rules of the 82nd floor don't apply in this room anymore. The stress, I say, leaning back in the chair, watching the sparks float up the chimney. Lus got sick when he was two. Hospital visits, specialists, the debt piling up.
I was working 80 hours a week trying to keep us afloat. She couldn't handle the pressure. One day she just packed a bag and drove to her mother's in Ohio. Left the divorce papers on the kitchen counter. She abandoned you.
She abandoned Lenus. I correct. A flash of old anger hardening my voice. I can survive someone walking away from me. But walking away from him, that's the only unforgivable sin.
Viven watches me. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the fire light. I don't have anyone to walk away from, she says, her voice incredibly soft. My father died. My mother lives in Paris and calls me twice a year to ask for money.
I have a three billion dollar company and the only person in the world who knows how I take my coffee is my assistant. She pulls her knees up to her chest beneath the blanket. I am terrified of being poor again, Dano, she confesses. When my father lost the money, we lost everything. The house, the friends.
I promised myself I would never be that vulnerable again. I built a fortress. And now you're locked inside it, I say. She doesn't argue. She just rests her chin on her knees.
The fire pops loudly. The cabin is freezing now. My breath is clearly visible in the air between us. The heat from the hearth is localized to a strict 5-ft radius. Viven shivers violently, her teeth clicking together.
I stand up. I drag my armchair out of the way. I walk over to the couch, grab the edge of the heavy down comforter, and lift it. Vivien looks up at me, her eyes questioning, hesitant. Don't overthink it, Vivien, I say, repeating her words from last night.
I slide onto the leather couch next to her. I pull the heavy blanket over both of us. Our shoulders brush. The sudden intense warmth of another human body is shocking in the bitter cold. She stiffens for a second.
The billionaire, the boss. Then she exhales a long shaky breath, drops her guard, and leans into me. I put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to share the heat. We sit there in the dark, the fire dying down, two ruthless people realizing exactly how empty their hands really are. I wake up at 3:14 a.
M. The numbers on my watch face glow a faint, sickly green in the pitch black. The fire has burned down to a fragile bed of glowing orange coals. The cold in the room is no longer just a temperature. It is a physical weight pressing down on the heavy down comforter.
The glass walls of the cabin are completely opaque, coated in an inch of solid, swirling white frost. We are intombed. I try to shift my weight, but I can't. Viven is asleep, and she's holding on to me like a drowning victim. Her head is tucked beneath my chin, her face buried into the heavy wool of my sweater.
One of her arms is wrapped tight across my chest, her fingers gripping the fabric. Her breathing is slow and steady, a soft, warm rhythm against my collarbone. For a long time, I don't move. I just lie there in the dark, listening to the wind batter the A-frame, acutely aware of the scent of cedar and the soft weight of her body. In the 82nd floor boardroom, Vivien Bailey is a machine.
She is untouchable, wrapped in cashmere and ruthless efficiency. Here, stripped of her leverage and freezing in the dark, she is small. She is human, and she is terrified. The cold bites at my exposed neck. If I don't feed the fire, the ambient temperature in the room will drop below freezing within the hour.
I gently pry her fingers off my sweater. She makes a quiet protesting sound in the back of her throat, shifting her weight, but staying asleep. I slide out from under the heavy comforter. The frigid air hits me like a physical blow. I grit my teeth, moving quickly to the hearth.
I throw three of the largest remaining logs onto the coals. I grab the iron poker and aggressively stir the ash until a sudden violent flame catches the dry bark. The fire roars back to life, casting tall, dancing shadows against the frosted glass. I squat in front of the hearth, rubbing my hands together, soaking in the immediate heat. Is it morning?
Her voice is thick with sleep, quiet and disoriented. I look over my shoulder. Viven is sitting up on the leather couch. The comforter has slipped down to her waist. Her hair is a tangled, beautiful mess.
She is looking at the fire, blinking against the sudden light, completely devoid of her usual sharp edges. "No," I say, keeping my voice low. "It's just past 3. The fire was dying. " She looks at me, crouching by the hearth in the dark. She pulls the blanket back up to her chin, shivering as the cold air of the room settles around her.
"I was dreaming," she says. She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to. I pull the heavy armchair closer to the fire and sit down, gesturing to the empty space on the couch where I just was. "Go back to sleep, Vivian.
I'll keep the fire going. " She shakes her head. I don't want to close my eyes. Every time I do, I see Richard's face when he signed that paper. I look back at the flames. That's the cost of doing business.
You know that better than anyone, do I? She asks. She throws the blanket off and stands up. The sudden movement surprises me. She walks over to the hearth, standing directly beside my chair, holding her hands out to the fire.
I used to think I did. I used to think the math justified the collateral damage. But sitting here, I just feel sick. You did what you came here to do, I tell her. You protected your father's legacy.