Page 51 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"The Angel's Peak piece is your best work. Know why?" She doesn't wait for my response. "Because you actually gave a damn. You weren't just observing life—you were living it."

The truth in her assessment stings.

"The Simpson feature next week, then the magazine celebration at The Atrium. After that..." She scrutinizes me over sleek reading glasses. "Maybe we discuss some adjustments to your arrangement here."

Ice water floods my veins. "Are you firing me?"

Vivian's laugh is genuine, if short. "Quite the opposite. I'm trying to keep the best writer I've ever hired from sleepwalking through a career she's outgrown." She moves toward the door. "Wear something spectacular tomorrow night. The Atrium event is bringing every publishing heavyweight in the city."

She pauses at the threshold. "Oh, and Cloe? Whatever's holding your attention in Colorado? Might be worth examining why it's got such a grip."

The Atrium glitters with Manhattan opulence—a glass-domed sanctuary twenty floors above Columbus Circle, where crystal chandeliers refract light across white marble floors and verdant living walls. String quartet music weaves through the murmur of industry conversations. Champagne flows freely, paired with canapés crafted by some Michelin-starred chef whose name is highlighted in the invitation.

I adjust the neckline of my dress—midnight blue silk that cost more than I’m willing to admit—and plaster on my networking smile. Fashion editor Renata Marks approaches, trailing a cloud of exotic perfume.

"Darling, absolute triumph with the mountain piece." She air-kisses near both my cheeks. "Though honestly, who knew there was anything worth experiencing in some obscure Colorado town? Did you have to sleep in an actual cabin?"

My fingers tighten around the champagne flute. "Angel's Peak has unexpected depth."

"Well, it translated beautifully. Though I can't imagine spending more than the absolute required time there." She shivers theatrically. "No proper restaurants? No boutiques? What did you even do?"

Learn to navigate whiteout conditions.

Watch sunlight transform mountainsides into cathedrals.

Feel truly alive for perhaps the first time in my life.

"Research," I reply instead, taking another sip of champagne that no longer satisfies. The vintage Krug leaves nothing but bitterness on my tongue now.

Across the room, Vivian holds court with several publishing executives. She catches my eye, subtly tilting her head toward them—a clear invitation to join the career-advancing conversation.

Three months ago, I would have immediately gravitated to that circle, armed with carefully rehearsed insights and strategic questions. Now, I find myself moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows instead, seeking the comfort of the open sky.

The city sprawls below in all its electric glory—a constellation of human ambition and ingenuity stretched across the darkness. Beautiful in its way, yet utterly different from the star-strewn sky above Angel's Peak. Here, even the brightest stars are rendered invisible by the city's relentless illumination.

Just like pieces of myself have become invisible amid professional aspirations.

"Ms. Bennett?"

I turn toward the unfamiliar voice—a young attendant in crisp black attire.

"Someone’s asking for you at reception. Says it's important."

Curiosity pulls me from my window refuge. Perhaps a latecomer from the West Coast bureau? Or another editor hoping to poach me, as occasionally happens at these functions?

The elevator bank sits removed from the main celebration, soft lighting replacing the brilliant display of the main hall. I round the corner and stop dead.

Jackson Hart stands by the reception desk.

My heart performs a complex acrobatic sequence in my chest. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal button-down—clearly his version of formal attire—with his hair actually combed, though one rebellious wave falls across his forehead and curls above his brow. He looks simultaneously uncomfortable and determined, shifting his weight in shoes that appear suspiciously new.

"Jackson?" His name escapes in a whisper.

He turns, his expression transforming from uncertainty to something akin to relief.

"Cloe."

Just my name, in that low, slightly rough voice that's haunted my dreams for six weeks. He takes a half step forward, then stops, suddenly seeming aware of our surroundings—the sleek modern lobby with its abstract art and uniformed staff.

---