take care of me—that I’m relying on him for my survival.
No, I want to sit behind a desk and make my designs come to life. I want to win every architecture award there is to win and leave a legacy when I go.
Independence, in every sense of the word. That’s what I want. Not that I want to die alone or anything—but I don’t want to feel like I’m dead weight being dragged around by my future partner.
So when Grandma told me about the redesign of the Summer Palace in Nord, I applied. I didn’t tell Gerry, but why would I? It’s my company. My name on the wall. My initials on the company letterhead.
It wasn’t until I got the official contract of employment that I told him about the offer.
Gerry didn’t take it well. He gave me an ultimatum—told me it was the job, or him.
Didn’t think I’d choose the job. Did he ever really know me?
That was a year ago, and we struggled along for another six months before calling it quits. I still get the occasional drunk dial, just to remind me that I’m a terrible excuse for a woman.
As I glance around the deserted train station and hug my jacket closer to my body, I’m starting to miss the warmth of his arms. It was comfortable, at least. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Gerry was right, and it’s better to stay home and have a gaggle of children.
Steeling myself against the weather, I head for the lobby doors. Against a gust of wind, I push open the heavy, metal door and step outside.
It’s worse than I expected.
Cold air slaps me across the face. My eyes water. It hurts to breathe, like a million icy daggers stabbing my lungs. I duck my head against the wind, sucking in a breath as I flip my collar up to try to protect my face from the cold.
It doesn’t help. The wind is vicious.
My heart hammers. I take another step, dragging my suitcase out of the train station and finally lifting my eyes to look at the scene in front of me.
If it weren’t so cold, it would be beautiful.
A thick blanket of snow covers everything, from individual tree branches to tall, gothic-inspired streetlights. The roads have been cleared, but the harsh wind carries gusts of snow and ice across the black asphalt. They look like thin sheets of white crystals whipping across the pavement.
Straight ahead, at the end of a long, black road, is the Summer Palace.
Against the white backdrop, it looks huge, dark, and imposing. I’ve seen pictures of it, of course. I’ve studied the two tall towers that frame the castle on either side and seen details of the arched doors that lead to the entrance hall.
But even from this distance, I can tell the palace is bigger and gloomier than I’d anticipated. I shiver.
At least I don’t need directions.
Down a street to my right, a car turns a corner and moves out of view, the sound of the engine muffled by the wind and snow.
Then, a louder noise.
The lobby door shuts with a bang, carried by a particularly strong gust of wind. A latch clicks, and my panic cranks higher.
“No!” I stumble to the door, yanking. My fingers feel like wood. They’re not working properly. I claw at the door handle, my fingers sticking to the cold, frosty metal. I peel them away, wincing. If I grab that handle too hard, I’ll lose a layer of skin.
My heart jumps to my throat. Wrapping my hand in my scarf, I grab the door again. It won’t budge. I pull and pull and pull, trying to pull the door open as tears fall from my eyes and threaten to freeze on my cheeks.
I’m locked out.
No, no, no!
Leaning my forehead on the door, I stifle a sob.
I’m going to die here. I’ll freeze to death two miles from the castle.
Where the hell is Grandma?
This was supposed to be the greatest project in my architecture career. It was supposed to catapult me to international recognition. My crowning glory.
Now?
I might die before I make it to the front gate.
Unzipping my suitcase, I reach my stiff, cold fingers inside and dig around for my second hat and scarf. My fingers feel the knitted material of my warmest sweater, curling around it and yanking.
I pull the clothing out of my suitcase and huddle beside the building to use whatever shelter it’ll provide against the wind.
Which is not much, by the way. The wind feels like a claw that reaches through my jacket and scrapes sharp nails across my skin.
Then, with a deep breath, I strip my favorite (useless) red peacoat off, and throw my sweater on over my dress. The wind slaps my skin. I inhale sharply. It hurts to breathe. The air is too cold. It attacks every exposed inch of me, invading my lungs and showing me just how fragile my life really is.
My jacket goes back on, followed by the scarf and hat, then a second scarf and a pair of gloves.
It’s slightly better. Still cold, but better.
Sighing, I try the door one last time. Just in case.
Nope. Didn’t magically unlock itself.
This is a type of cold I’ve never felt before. It’s an attack. Like the weather is on the offensive, and I’m caught in a battle I wasn’t prepared to fight.
My gloves take the worst bite of the wind away as I drag my suitcase down the half-dozen steps and onto the snow-covered sidewalk. I shove my chin into my double scarves, keeping my eyes on the little patch of ground in front of me.
My brand-new, fancy, leather ankle boots slip on the hard-packed snow and ice. I pause, legs shaking like a baby deer, lifting my eyes to stare at the long, dark, bleak road in front of me.
I know how far it is. I’ve seen the topographical maps and studied the drawings of the area already.
Just over two miles. In Farcliff, it would take me, what, thirty minutes? I wouldn’t blink at having to walk that distance.
But now? With the wind finding every weakness in my jacket, with nothing but a pair of tights on my legs, with unlined boots on my feet?
Two miles seem like the end of the earth, and my destination doesn’t look very friendly.
Glancing down the road where the car disappeared, I shudder. The nearest town is twenty miles in the opposite direction. There’s a grocery store beside the train station that looks dark and definitely locked, and there are a handful of homesteads between here and the nearest town. There’s no guarantee I’ll meet someone along the way, so shouldn’t I choose the closest option?
My eyes follow the long, straight road that leads to the Summer Palace. It looks…cold.
The alternative to walking those two miles to the castle is standing still, which is a death sentence. I have no choice.
Tucking my chin in my chest, I start the long walk to the Summer Palace, hoping I won’t freeze to death before I get there.
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