THE CRIMSON THREAD

Book Two - A sequel to The Green Chandelier.

THE ICE AND THE INK

Author's POV

NORDVÉR, a luxury intelligence and future-strategy firm in Tromsø, had become Amber’s nest over the past five years. The firm clients include fashion houses, beauty companies, hospitality groups, automotive brands, and luxury retailers. On the upper level of the Storgata corporate suite overlooked the quiet pulse of central Tromsø. Outside, Storgata was fully awake under the pale indigo light of a late November morning. Inside, the room smelled of dark roast espresso, polished timber, and fine cashmere.

“The five-year macro-projection for Northern European luxury houses is leaning toward raw, tactile minimalism,” Amber said, her voice dropping into the quiet, absolute silence of the room.

She stood at the head of the polished obsidian table, a stark figure clad in a tailored charcoal blazer and silk ivory trousers. Now, as the Creative Director of Fashion Intelligence & Consumer Futures, her word dictated color palettes, textile investments, and seasonal themes for sixteen international fashion houses.

She tapped the screen, displaying a stark data visualization. “No more romantic pastels, no muted golds. The global mood is shifting toward resilience, obsidian and bone white. Shift the records accordingly.”

Her senior analysts nodded briskly, scribbling notes.

When the briefing wrapped at ten sharp, Amber walked into her glass-walled corner office. Her assistant had already set her morning drink on the desk, a steaming cup of unsweetened black spruce tea.

As now her work sat between forecasting, strategy, brand identity and cultural research, she helped companies decide what they should become before the market knew it wanted them.

A long table covered with research books, fabric samples, market reports and mood boards. On one wall was an enormous seasonal intelligence board.

She stood in front of it with tea in one hand.

Her assistant walked in. “Morning, Miss Amber.”

“Morning to you Hennes.” The smile was slow and small.

“The London team sent the revised consumer report.” She started to brief her.

“Leave it on my desk.” She turned to see her.

“And Milan moved the presentation.”

“To?” Her eyes narrowed

“Four-thirty.” Amber nodded. “Fine.”

“There is also a call with the board at eleven.”

“Move it to eleven-thirty.” She added.

“They won’t like that.” She smiled mischievously. Amber looked at her smiling. “They’ll survive.”

Her assistant smiled. “And that’s what I told them.”

Amber turned back to the board with a smile.

Her phone hummed on the desk, a encrypted video channel linking Tromsø to Dubai.

She swiped the screen. Naysa’s face appeared, framed by the sun-drenched terrace of Shane and Ashley’s newly launched design firm in Dubai Downtown. Behind Naysa, Shane’s laughter echoed as he gestured wildly at a blueprinted layout.

“Look who decided to step out of her ice palace,” Naysa teased, leaning into the camera. “You look like you’re about to buy out a conglomerate, Amber.”

“I just finished the Q4 global forecast,” Amber replied, taking a slow sip of her bitter tea. A faint, rare smile touched her lips. “How is the firm?”

“Booming. Shane and Ashley just signed a major architectural contract with the emirates. They’re unstoppable,” Naysa said, her eyes softening as she scanned Amber’s face through the screen. Amber was shifting some of her documents while looking at a screen and then back to her family members, “Amber... you've grown up so much.”

“Stop bullying me, Naysa,” Amber said softly.

“I’m not,” Naysa murmured, her tone softening into something dangerously sincere. “I just… sometimes I wonder if the quiet inside you ever gets too dark to bear alone.”

The light teasing evaporated instantly. Looking at Naysa’s eyes properly, Amber realized she wasn’t joking at all.

Amber’s fingers instinctively strayed to her left cuff, where the heavy fabric hid the gold-threaded red bracelet wrapped around her wrist. “The insides of me doesn’t get lonely, Naysa. It just keeps its distance.” And Naysa nods, because she knew the meaning behind it.

After hanging up, Amber spent the afternoon reviewing international textile reports, holding meetings, and finalizing her department’s seasonal budget. She was precise, authoritative, and untouchable in what she does.

The night fell over Tromsø by six o’clock, painting the sky in deep indigo.

In the glasshouse workshop attached to the rear garden of her traditional wooden cottage, the high-powered executive faded away. Nestled among winter-hardy flora, glass pipettes, dark amber bottles, and dried arctic botanicals, Amber found her stillness. On weekends, the stone-floored garden atelier hosted small, private perfume-making workshops for local people and artisans, but tonight, beneath the quiet northern sky, the studio was hers alone.

Standing over the glass vials in her workshop, Amber ran a hand through her medium-length mocha-brown waves, letting the dark, natural curls fall across her shoulders. The warm overhead light caught the sharp angles of her rectangular-oval face, highlighting the delicate light brown moles dusting all over her warm olive skin.

As she lifted a pipette, her long, slender fingers - veiny, elegant, and capped with immaculate, rectangular nail beds glinted with gold bands. She caught her reflection in the glass, her deep brown almond eyes, her arched brows, her sharp jawline, yet, it was the proud, unmistakable mole on the right corner of her lower lip, a small detail that made people linger. It added an intoxicating charm to her quietest smile. Even without her bespoke perfumes, the natural, warm aroma of her skin gave her an effortless, captivating pull that no Arctic chill could ever mute.

She was formulating a new base note, a scent woven from cedarwood, crushed frosted pine needles, and crisp white amber.

The heavy oak door of the studio pushed open with a soft creak. Tiny, hasty footsteps padded across the heated hardwood floor. “Mama?”

Amber immediately set down her glass dropper. The sharp, focusing posture melted in a fraction of a second, replaced by something infinitely tender. She turned around and knelt on the floor.

Her four-year-old boy stood in the doorway, wearing oversized polar-bear pajamas, his wavy chestnut-black hair tumbling messy over his forehead. He possessed the delicate oval face and high cheekbones of his Mediterranean heritage and his cool - olive complexion stood out loud and beautifully against the Norwegians kids, but it was his eyes that caught the room always - large, almond-shaped, and a breathtaking natural shade of a moody blend of slate grey and pale green framed by impossibly long, dark lashes.

In his small hands, he held a dark blue drawing paper covered in wild streaks of emerald and silver crayon.

“You’re supposed to be asleep, little tiger,” Amber whispered, opening her arms.

The boy rushed into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Amber closed her eyes, folding him tightly against her heart.

“I painted the sky for you,” he murmured, pulling back to show her the paper. He pointed his little finger at the center of the drawing, where a crude, golden crescent moon hovered over green streaks of light. “See? So you don’t have to look outside the window when it’s dark.”

Amber’s breath hitched slightly. She looked at the golden moon on the paper, then down at her own wrist, where the red thread with its intricate gold embellishment peeked out from her sleeve.

She kissed his forehead, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of baby lotion and clean linen, the only scent in the universe that truly belonged to her.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with quiet emotion. “The prettiest sky I’ve ever seen.”

Outside the glasshouse, darkness had settled over Tromsø. High above the snow-dusted roof, faint ribbons of violet drifted across the Arctic sky, casting a soft, ethereal glow.

Amber picked up her son, holding him close to her chest as she walked toward the glass. Five years had altered her career, her tastes, her strength, and her daily life. She was a mother now, a leader and a fortress.

Yet, as she stared up at the cosmic light display with her son sleepy on her shoulder, the gold moon on her wrist caught the pale light, a silent, glowing promise that no matter how deep the snow or how long the years were, some bonds you decide to keep for yourself, in the absence too.

Amber woke at 6:12 on a Monday morning. Because of three soft knocks on her bedroom door. She opened one eye. “Come in.”

The door opened just enough for a small face to appear. “Mama?”

Amber pulled the blanket over her face. “No.” There was a pause.

“I said you could wake me at seven.” She speaks from tucked inside the comforter.

“It is seven.”

Amber reached blindly for her phone. 6:13. She stared at it. Then at the door. The little boy smiled. Amber sighed. “You’re very bad at telling time.”

He giggled and disappeared.

“Five minutes,” she called after him.

“Mama!”

“Fine... two.” She wiggle little inside her comforter and huffed a breathe.

She listens his footsteps ran away down the corridor. First the mornings had belonged to her. Now they belonged to someone else too. And with a smile on her face, she got up.

Her apartment no longer looked anything like the woman who had once lived in Dubai. There were no dramatic colors, no deep jewel tones, no unnecessary pens and papers.

To anyone standing out on the snow-dusted, frost-nipped path in front of her cottage, It would look like a classic Nordic dream - a grand, storybook timber chalet with dramatic black-trimmed arched windows, steep slate gables built for Arctic winters, and an attached, glowing glasshouse atelier.

But the moment you stepped past the heavy oak door, the frigid arctic air dissolved into an intoxicating, soul-warming sanctuary of rich Arabian heritage.

Stepping inside felt like crossing a portal across continents. The floor was laid with heated travertine stone, softened by layered, hand-knotted Persian and Moroccan rugs in deep crimson, saffron, and terracotta. Instead of stiff Scandinavian sofas, the living space was arranged in a contemporary Majlis style low-slung, ultra-plush seating in muted olive, velvet charcoal, and warm cream, overflowing with embroidered silk throw pillows. Brass floor lanterns with intricate geometric cutouts cast dancing, starlight-like patterns across the high ceiling beams.

The house breathed a living memory of her roots. The gentle hum of a crackling stone fireplace blended with the rich aroma of bakhoor, freshly ground cardamom coffee, and brewing mint tea. Her home's every nook held a story, a carved wooden chest delivered from Damascus holding Eren’s toys, brass tea trays polished to a mirror shine, and quiet alcoves with built-in reading nooks lined with Arabic poetry and global strategy volumes side-by-side.

The heart of the home was an expansive kitchen featuring an arched stone hearth. Here, modern marble countertops met hand-painted Zellige mosaic tiles in soft indigo and cream. Her colleagues loved staying back on Friday nights because the kitchen island was never empty - always laden with warm flatbreads, bowls of spiced dips, and dried figs. It was a space designed intuitively for hospitality, guests rarely stayed in the living room alone, naturally drawn to the kitchen counter.

At the rear, arched double doors opened into the glasshouse studio. While the main cottage housed her personal life and heritage, the attached glasshouse merged her Arab botanicals with the Arctic flora - holding dried rosebuds, frankincense resins, and cold-hardy greenery under the snow-covered glass canopy.

Amber never adapted her home to fit the cold, minimalist sterile trends of the executive world. She brought her heritage with her completely. The contrast of the freezing Norwegian polar night outside against the rich, scented, cushion-heavy warmth inside made her home feel like an oasis. It wasn’t just a house, it was a sanctuary where her family live now, surrounded by color and where anyone who entered felt immediately loved, fed, and held in unconditional comfort.

Yet underneath that vibrant, tea-scented, music-filled haven, that unfinished yearning remains quietly preserved. It lingers like a faint base note in her bespoke perfumes - unspoken, invisible to her guests, but quietly echoic every time the polar night settles over her glasshouse.

She has everything she had desired to create, but the missing piece of her story still pulls at her from across the world.