DIRTY ALPINE SECRET

The sun above the Matterhorn was sharp, almost violently bright, refracting off the glacier’s icy crust at such an angle that my eyes hurt even behind dark, oversized Tom Ford lenses. I drew the crystal-clear, thin Alpine air deep into my lungs, letting it freeze my nostrils and throat. It was a sharp, raw feeling. Real.

Eight thousand five hundred kilometers. That’s how far I had to fly, fleeing the concrete, glass, and suffocating neon of Seoul, so I could finally – breathe.

My phone, the business one made of cold titanium that pulses to the rhythm of Asian stock markets, lay dead at the bottom of a safe in the Alpine Crest Club. Seven days. I had fought for exactly seven days of absolute, uninterrupted, deafening silence. No board of directors waiting for my nod. No lawyers in gray suits. No hungry, calculating male stares that, while kissing my hand, are actually counting the zeros in my bank accounts in their heads.

Here, lounging in a chair draped in heavy, white sheepskin on the terrace of an exclusive VIP restaurant, I wasn’t Hana, the supreme heiress to a Korean tech empire worth over four and a half billion dollars. I was just another ghost in an impeccable, white ski suit blending in with the snow.

A murmur that smelled of money echoed through the air. The clinking of crystal champagne glasses, the dull thud of designer ski boots against the wooden floor, and the scent of overpriced, melted Gruyère cheese mixed with the heavy notes of men’s cologne.

“I still maintain that was the worst bluff I’ve ever seen, but, mon dieu, you Asian women are incredible,” a deep, slightly raspy voice sounded from my left.

With a lazy turn of my head, I looked toward him. Jean-Paul, a French banker in his early sixties, with whom I had reluctantly shared a conversation in the lobby the previous evening out of sheer politeness. He sat at the adjacent table, wrapped in cashmere, swirling cognac in his glass.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jean-Paul,” I replied in a voice as flat and smooth as ice, the exact same tone I used in Seoul to cut down shareholders’ arguments.

He laughed, leaning slightly toward me, his eyes sparkling with that classic, patronizing arrogance of older men.

“I’d bet my entire stock portfolio you aren’t a day over twenty-one,” he said, his lips stretching into a smile. “I saw you by the fireplace yesterday. You were reading, without those huge glasses. The eyes, the complexion... you look like a porcelain doll. A real little girl on vacation. How did your family even let you come to this mountain alone?”

I maintained a perfectly calm expression, though my jaw tightened slightly beneath the collar of my suit. Little girl. That was my lifelong curse and my strongest shield. A fragile build, barely a meter sixty in heels, a pale complexion, and that face that made everyone think I was a naive student in need of protection. None of them saw the thirty-one years of brutal drills, sleepless nights pouring over contracts, and the betrayals that had raised me. People saw porcelain. They didn’t know that porcelain, when broken, cuts deeper than glass.

“Genetics are a strange thing, Jean-Paul,” I answered curtly, my lips barely stretching into a polite, empty smile, letting him know the conversation was over.

Isabella, an elegant Italian widow sitting across from me listening to the whole exchange, quietly exhaled the smoke of her thin cigarette and leaned forward.

“Leave the girl alone, Jean-Paul. Not all women on this mountain are here to listen to your hunting stories,” Isabella said in fluent French, then shifted her gaze to me, winking. “That’s why you’re choosing off-piste today, aren’t you, darling? Up there, on the extreme trails, at least the avalanches don’t try to flirt. Just silence, snow, and survival.”

I laughed at that, genuinely. The sound was somewhat foreign to my own ears.

“Just silence,” I confirmed, adjusting my leather gloves. “That’s why I’m waiting for this famous guide everyone’s talking about. Club management guaranteed me the best.”

Isabella started to say something, to take another sip of coffee, but suddenly stopped. Her cup hovered halfway to her lips. Her eyes, framed with heavy mascara, widened slightly, and her gaze slid over my shoulder, focusing on a spot somewhere behind my back. Her lips stretched into a slow, almost predatory feminine smile of approval.

“Well...” she uttered in a voice that suddenly dropped an octave and grew a shade huskier. “It seems your silence is just arriving, beautiful. And, Mother of God, he looks like he could snap the Matterhorn in half with his bare hands.”

And before I could even turn my head, I felt the air around my table change.

The atmosphere grew thicker, heavier. The murmur around us seemed to quiet down for a moment. The footsteps approaching the terrace weren’t the usual, clumsy thuds of plastic against wood made by guests in ski boots. These were heavy, measured, rhythmic strikes. Someone was walking with absolute, undeniable authority, as if the wooden planks beneath his feet owed him money.

A huge, dark shadow loomed over my table. I stared at the white sheepskin on the chair next to me, which was suddenly swallowed by darkness. Suddenly, I caught a scent, a sharp, masculine scent of cold wind, pine forest, and something raw and dangerous that no amount of money could buy in glass bottles.

I slowly raised my chin, drawing my gaze up from my white gloves.

I didn’t see his face right away. In fact, I saw nothing but an impenetrable, black surface. Wide, professional ski goggles with a layer of dark iridium reflected only my own petite figure nestled in the fur. The lower half of his face and his neck were completely swallowed by a thick, black neck warmer pulled high over his nose. On his head, he wore a matte black helmet, from beneath which escaped only a few dark, sharp strands of hair.

But what I couldn’t see on his face, his body screamed.

His shoulders were unrealistically, terrifyingly broad, blocking my entire view of the Alps. A top-tier ski jacket stretched tight across his massive chest, tapering down to a narrow, solid waist and long, powerful legs. His whole appearance radiated a raw, brutal physical strength that didn’t belong on these polished, perfumed terraces.

“Miss Hana?” he spoke.

His voice hit me before I could process it. It was deep, dark, and incredibly calm. It wasn’t that forced, subservient tone hotel staff used when addressing billionaires. He sounded like a man who served no one. It resonated in my chest, making me completely unconsciously straighten my spine.

“I am,” I replied, maintaining that same cold and perfectly controlled tone.

“I am your guide for today.” He didn’t offer his hand. He just stood there, motionless as a rock, looking somewhere right through me with his hidden eyes. “If you’re ready, we can head out right now. But before you put your skis on the snow, I have to ask you something.”

I tilted my head slightly to the side. “I’m listening.”

“You registered for route number nine. Alone.” His tone grew a shade sharper, scanning my petite build from head to toe with undisguised doubt that I felt even through his dark lenses. “That’s heavy off-piste. No groomed trails, no patrols. Up there, it’s just rocks, ice, and avalanches. For someone of your... build, and obvious inexperience with this kind of terrain, it’s extremely dangerous. I can recommend an easier route.”

Jean-Paul, that French banker at the next table, chuckled quietly into his glass of cognac, as if he couldn’t wait to hear the “little girl” give up.

I leaned forward slightly, taking off my Chanel sunglasses with one hand, just enough to look at him with my bare eyes for the first time. I knew exactly what kind of impression I made. Long, black hair, pale complexion, petite face.

“I like challenges,” I said, letting that short, dangerous sentence hang in the icy air between us.

I didn’t wait for his permission. I stood up, grabbed my skis from the nearby rack, and stood before him. I barely reached his chest.

He didn’t say anything. He just gave a short, barely perceptible nod, turned around, and set off.

I followed him toward the cable car terminal. Watching him walk was fascinating. The crowd of wealthy tourists in overpriced gear literally moved out of his way. He didn’t push them; his sheer size and aura of raw, wild dominance forced people to step back. As we walked, his deep voice tossed instructions over his massive shoulder.

“Up there, there is no arguing. You follow my track exclusively. If I say stop, you stop. If I say turn around, you turn around. Your money means nothing up there, only my rules apply. Clear?”

“Crystal,” I answered, not missing a step.

We entered the terminal and got in line for the fast, six-seater chairlift heading toward the highest, isolated peak. When the massive bench arrived, we sat down. Alone. The metal bar slammed down over us, enclosing us in a transparent plastic dome that shielded us from the wind but simultaneously trapped us in a terrifyingly cramped space.

Only then, when we detached from the ground and Zermatt began to disappear beneath us, did I realize just how enormous he actually was. We sat next to each other. His thigh, hard as concrete beneath thick, black ski pants, pressed roughly against mine. The space was designed for six people, but with his width and the way he sat, legs spread, absolutely relaxed, he devoured all the air around us.

He smelled of snow. Of sharp, icy freshness and that deep, pure masculine scent that quickened the pulse.

He slowly raised a thick-gloved hand and pulled that black neck warmer down to just below his chin, allowing me to finally see the lower half of his face. A sharp, brutal jawline, covered in a dark, messy shadow of stubble, and lips that were hard, pressed into a straight line. He kept the goggles on his eyes.

“Kilian,” he said suddenly, looking straight ahead at the white peaks. “My name is Kilian.”

“Hana,” I replied, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his shoulder, pressed against mine.

“I know who you are.” His tone was flat. “I am twenty-eight years old, and I will bring you back down alive today.”

My gaze swept over that sharp, insolent profile. Twenty-eight. He was three years younger than me, but in his presence, in that raw weight with which he commanded the space, there was nothing boyish.

“Twenty-eight?” I raised an eyebrow, letting that arrogant, business-like note I reserved for boardrooms slip into my voice. “Aren’t you a bit young to be a lead instructor at these altitudes, Kilian? Your job requires decades of experience.”

He finally turned his head toward me. Even though his eyes were still hidden behind the dark iridium, I felt the sharpness of his gaze directly on my skin. His rough lips stretched into a slow, dangerous half-smile that melted all the ice in the air and replaced it with pure tension.

“I was born in this snow, Hana,” he replied, and the way he said my name, without a title, raw and deep, sent an unfamiliar shiver down my spine. “Don’t worry. You are in very good hands.”