At noon, in the conference restaurant, Julian forced himself to finish a serving of dry chicken breast.

He looked up to find Samuel standing at the entrance, accompanied by the woman Julian had seen in photographs twice before.

"Julian".

Samuel stepped toward him, his presence immediate and heavy. Before the older man could speak, Julian stood, tray in hand. "I have something to do. I'm leaving".

He moved too fast, cutting Samuel off before the rest of his sentence could surface.

Catherine watched Julian's retreating back, her eyes thoughtful. "That's the one you like?".

"Yes," Samuel replied, his gaze not wavering from the doorway.

"Young, and apparently capable," Catherine noted, recalling Julian's sharp focus. "But from where I'm standing, he doesn't seem to care for you at all".

"You're wrong".

Catherine didn't push. "If you say so. Anyway, the date for my wedding with Ethan Reed is set for next month. Can you make it?".

Samuel nodded. "I'll be there".

After lunch, Julian attended a forum on poverty alleviation. By the time the second session ended, dusk had settled over Davos, but the sun was invisible. The snow had returned with a vengeance, the flakes so large and dense that walking home was no longer an option.

Julian checked his phone. A message from Samuel provided a pickup location. When he arrived, he saw Samuel embracing a white man in a formal European farewell.

Julian thought of the man Samuel had supposedly come out for. Is this him?.

The man looked older, but Samuel was already in his thirties. An older partner would be more established, perhaps even wealthy enough to offset Samuel's "falling out" with the Frost family. Julian told himself he was merely curious as a colleague; he had no right to pry into Samuel's private life.

As the train doors hissed shut and the man vanished, Samuel finally noticed Julian. "I wanted to introduce you, but the timing was off. They had to leave before the roads were blocked. That was my—".

"Let's just go back," Julian interrupted, his voice clipped and cold.

Samuel sensed the wall Julian had thrown up. This wasn't the moment to introduce his parents. He nodded and steered the car toward the mountain chalet.

The blizzard intensified. Within hours, the snowbanks along the road were taller than a man. Even with the snowplows working overtime, the drive felt like navigating a white canyon. The four-kilometer trip took a grueling half-hour.

Inside the chalet, the heating hummed, but Julian felt a persistent chill. Fearing a cold, he skipped his shower, only washing his face and feet before crawling into bed.

He dreamed of his childhood—the boarding school in the south where winter meant a single, thin cotton quilt. He would fold it in half, lying on one side and covering himself with the other, yet the cold always found his marrow.

"Julian, wake up".

A light tap on his cheek pulled him from the dream. He blinked, disoriented. "What? Is it morning?".

"The power is out," Samuel said.

"Oh..." Julian huddled deeper into his quilt. No wonder his hands felt like ice. He'd spent a lifetime being cold; he could survive one night without electricity. He closed his eyes to drift off again.

"Julian, get up. Don't sleep".

Julian's temper flared. "What now?".

"The heat is off," Samuel explained. "The snow took out a cable. Repairs won't be finished until tomorrow. If you stay in this bed without a heat source, you'll get sick".

Julian sat up, shivering. In his southern upbringing, he had no experience with the lethality of a subzero mountain night.

"I checked the stove. It works," Samuel said. "I'm going out for wood".

Julian felt the guilt of letting his boss do the heavy lifting. He scrambled out of bed. "I'll help".

"Just find the matches," Samuel commanded.

By the time Julian found them, Samuel had returned, a blast of freezing wind and snow following him into the chalet. Within ten minutes, the fire was crackling. Outside, the blizzard roared, creating a scene of isolated, gothic beauty.

At 4:00 AM, Julian warmed his limbs by the fire, planning to return to bed. He turned to find Samuel holding Julian's quilt.

"The temperature near the stove is unstable," Samuel said, his voice a low, dominant vibration. "We're sleeping together".

"No." Julian snatched his quilt back. He moved his pillow to the side of the bed closest to the fire, layered on a cashmere sweater and a down jacket, and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

When he woke again, he felt as though he hadn't slept at all.

"Julian, wake up".

Julian's head throbbed. He had finally reached a pocket of warmth; he refused to move. "No," he mumbled, pulling the quilt over his head.

A hand reached in, dragging him into the cold air. Julian opened his eyes to find Samuel watching him with a dark, heavy intensity. "Julian, you have a fever".

Julian touched his own forehead. It was burning. He couldn't be sick. He had an interview outline to finish. He had a career to build.

He tried to stand, reaching for the first aid kit. Outside, the windows were half-buried in snow, giant icicles hanging from the eaves like glass daggers.

"The medicine is gone," Samuel said. "You lent it to the neighbors on the first day. The roads are closed, and the lines are down. We're isolated".

The reality of their situation finally hit Julian. He stumbled toward the bathroom, intending to use a cold compress.

"Lay down. I'll do it," Samuel said.

Julian was too dizzy to argue. Samuel wrapped him in his quilt like a silkworm cocoon, but the shivers wouldn't stop. Samuel placed a damp towel on his forehead and commanded, "Open up".

He poked a hard stick into Julian's mouth—an oral thermometer. "Keep it there until it beeps".

Julian felt a flicker of nausea. "Is it... is it new?".

"I licked it," Samuel said flatly.

Julian's eyes went wide. He tried to spit it out, but Samuel's hand clamped over his jaw.

"It's new," Samuel corrected, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "Developing a temper just because you're sick?".

"You lied," Julian whispered through the thermometer, feeling a surge of childish grievance.

The device beeped. Samuel pulled it out and read the display: 39.5°C. High enough to cause delirium.

Julian felt his muscles turn to liquid. He didn't even have the strength to ask for the number. When the towel on his head grew warm, he tried to reach for it, but Samuel was gone.

A moment later, Samuel returned. He was wearing gloves and carrying a syringe. Against his cold, clinical expression, he looked like a character from a psychological thriller.

Julian blinked slowly. "What are you doing?"

"Giving you an injection," Samuel said, his voice a deep, unshakable baritone.

Julian thought it was another joke. "What?"

"An intramuscular one," Samuel replied. "In the hip."