The energy in the house on Friday morning was completely different. There was no pretense of separation; instead, there was synchronized motion. Martha was scurrying, securing the house for the few days they would be gone.
I was dressed in layers, thick leggings, a cashmere turtleneck, and finally, Alex's magnificent coat. It draped over me perfectly, enveloping me in warmth and his lingering scent. It felt protective, an acknowledgment of me even though the gesture had been delivered with characteristic detachment.
Alex was already in the foyer when I descended, looking immaculate even at this early hour. He was coordinating with a driver, his voice low and efficient as he handled the logistics.
His eyes, dark and sharp, flicked up as he heard me on the stairs. He paused for the slightest moment, taking me in, bundled in his clothes. A familiar, unreadable intensity crossed his features before he looked away, settling his own coat around his shoulders.
"Bags are loaded," he said, not asking, just stating. "Miguel booked the jet. We're meeting them at the hanger."
The private jet. Of course. For Alex, a vacation wasn't about relaxing; it was about transporting his entire, expensive life to a new, expensive location.
The drive to the airport was silent, punctuated only by the soft whoosh of the windshield wipers. We were sitting close, though not touching, in the back of the town car.
The cold morning air outside contrasted sharply with the warm, hermetic bubble of the vehicle. I found myself stealing glances at him. He wasn't working, his laptop remained closed in his briefcase, he was simply staring out the window, his profile etched against the gray dawn.
"Are you looking forward to it?" I asked, just to break the suffocating quiet.
His answer was slow in coming. "No."
I blinked, surprised by the blunt honesty. "Oh. Then… Why are we going?"
He shifted his weight, turning his head just enough that I could see the hard line of his jaw.
"Because Miguel is insistent, and when Miguel gets insistent, it's easier to comply than to fight. It's also… a necessary break for the company."
He paused, and then added, in a tone that sounded oddly like an afterthought, "And I told him we would."
It was the closest he'd come to acknowledging my existence as part of the decision. I settled back, deciding that if Alex Matteo was forced into a vacation, I was going to enjoy it immensely for both of us.
The plane was everything I expected: cream leather, rich wood, and the scent of money and exclusivity. Miguel and Sofia were already there, settled in the four facing seats grouped around a small table.
"Ava! You came!" Miguel was on his feet instantly, his smile blinding. He gave me a quick, warm hug that startled me, an action Alex never would have attempted.
Beside him, a woman with vibrant, dark red hair and eyes the color of warm honey stood up. Sofia. She was petite, elegant, and possessed an approachable warmth that immediately put me at ease. She wore an outfit that managed to be cozy yet impossibly chic.
"It is so wonderful to finally meet you," Sofia said, taking my hand in both of hers. Her grip was firm and genuine. "I told Miguel, Alex must be desperate if he finally married someone this lovely. I'm Sofia, I'm obsessed with your dress designs, and I apologize in advance for my husband's volume."
I laughed, feeling an unfamiliar lightness. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. And I appreciate the warning."
Alex, meanwhile, had exchanged a curt, masculine handshake with Miguel and was already placing his garment bag in the overhead compartment.
"You brought the snow, I see," Miguel commented, nodding at Alex's cold expression.
"I brought the bags. You brought the unnecessary detour," Alex corrected, his tone dry.
Sofia ignored them entirely, pulling me down onto the seat next to her. "Ignore the grumps. Tell me everything. Did you pack your sketchbook? St. Moritz will give you so much inspiration, darling. The lighting on the slopes alone is divine."
For the rest of the flight, the dynamic was established: Miguel and Sofia were the bright, warm center of the group, and Alex and I were pulled into their orbit.
I found myself talking easily with Sofia about design, travel, and the horrors of wedding planning, while Alex sat opposite us, contributing only terse, necessary comments to Miguel's ongoing business discussion. Yet, he was listening. I could feel his gaze on me when I laughed, or when I used my hands to emphasize a point.
The small airport in St. Moritz was a picturesque postcard of snow-dusted roofs and crisp, impossibly blue skies. From there, a short, winding drive took us up a secluded, private road.
The cabin wasn't a rustic lodge; it was an architectural masterpiece made of dark wood and glass, nestled perfectly into the mountain slope.
"Welcome to the chalet," Miguel announced, beaming as the driver unloaded the bags. "Cozy, yes?"
The inside was a symphony of warmth. A huge, double-sided stone fireplace dominated the main room, crackling softly. Windows that stretched two stories high offered a breathtaking view of the snowy peaks. The air smelled of pine and woodsmoke.
Sofia gave me a knowing look. "I made sure we secured the cabin with the most romantic lighting. You're welcome."
The bedrooms were down a short hall. Miguel pointed down the corridor. "We took the room with the sun deck. Alex, Ava, you take the master suite. It has the best view, and you'll need privacy to…"
"We'll take the master," Alex cut in smoothly, silencing Miguel's inevitable innuendo with a look. He simply lifted the garment bags and strode toward the largest door.
I followed him into the room, my heart suddenly hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
It was gorgeous. The centerpiece was a massive bed covered in thick, white furs, facing a panoramic window. There was a private, small fireplace tucked into the corner and a deep, two-person soaking tub in the opulent en suite bathroom.
Alex placed his bag on the luggage rack furthest from the bed.
"I'll take the right side," he said, his voice flat. He started to unpack a few essential items from his briefcase.
I stood by the window, watching the silent snowfall, trying to regulate my breathing. Two weeks of avoiding each other had been easy in our enormous house.
Two days of sharing a master suite, a romantic master suite, in a foreign cabin, would be impossible.
"Alex," I started, turning to face him. "I… about the rooms. Maybe I should take a guest room. I don't want to impose, and I'm sure Miguel wouldn't mind if…"
He looked up from his task, his expression guarded. "We are married, Ava. We are here together. The rooms are set." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It is better if we maintain appearances, for Miguel and Sofia. It's what they expect."
He used the word 'appearances' like a surgical tool, slicing away any possible romantic implication of the shared space. He wasn't suggesting intimacy; he was demanding discretion.
"Understood," I murmured, a faint sting of rejection sharp and immediate. I walked to the bed and deliberately placed my small suitcase on the rack near the left side.
"Dinner is at seven," he said, not looking at me again. "Don't be late. Sofia cooks well, but she won't wait."
He went into the bathroom, closing the door softly but firmly behind him.
I stared at the closed door, then at the vast, fur-covered bed, and finally out at the snow.