Page 193 of The Heart of Winter

"Did my father send you?" I asked at one point, feeling like I was about to burst.

He dodged the question, saying something vague about how the details of his contract were classified and just… not relevant at the moment. He told me we still had a few things to discuss and that I should try to focus.

It felt endless.

Nodding absently, I sat there, my eyes drifting across the cabin toward Winter, who was clearly going through a version of the same interrogation. A few times, our eyes met. His expression had changed, he looked more distant now, like he’d withdrawn behind some kind of quiet, detached wall.

Was he feeling the same way I was? Or had he been presented with a different angle in his conversation—one more directly shaped by my father, who, I could easily imagine, wouldn’t be thrilled about the idea of us being together.

There was even a moment when I kind of tuned out the psychologist’s voice and tuned in to the voice of the other person talking to Winter. And indeed, I was able to hear pieces, something like, "The responsibility for your employee could influence that…" and: "If it were another employee, it would take a similar course…"

Soon I was more and more convinced that my father had planted these people, to control the narrative, to have the psychologist downplay whatever had happened between us.

Eventually, I told them I wanted a break.

But the psychologist said we still needed to go over a few more things.

Feeling my patience thinning, I listened as he started asking about my job, what my work situation had been like before the crash, how I thought it might change afterward. He already knew I didn’t want to work there! How interesting. He also brought up my professional relationship with Winter, how much contact we had as director and employee.

Then came the questions about the press.

Was I afraid of the media? Worried they’d dig into my personal life? Was I planning on giving interviews?

At one point, he even asked, "Are you prepared for the possibility that the media might romanticize this situation? That they might try to turn it into a love story shaped by tragedy? Something that sells?"

When I didn’t respond, he added,

"You know… ‘Boss and Employee—Stranded on an Island’ kind of sounds like the setup for a romance."

He raised his eyebrows slightly, seemingly amused, watching me carefully, like he was testing my reaction. Another good way to downplay what we had, to ridicule it as just potential media clickbait, nothing to be taken seriously, a silly thing.

I was stunned by how carefully worded everything was, how perfectly it poked at all the areas that would naturally cause worry. It was all so… intentional.

Eventually, I gave up and just let him talk.

He went on for what felt like hours. At one point, he even told me about other crashes where people had been stranded in the wild, how those situations had unfolded. He just kept going, filling the air with more and more examples, more and more explanations, until I was too mentally exhausted to care.

Finally, he let me rest.

There was still no chance to speak to Winter. Two staff members kept us firmly separated, like it was their full-time job.

So I lay down on a row of seats in the corner of the cabin and drifted off—not because I was comfortable, but because my brain just… shut down. Drowned in everything.

I had this overwhelming need to be alone with Winter. Just for a moment. Somewhere quiet, where we could talk. Where I could hold him, and share my suspicions about the whole situation.

But with all these people around, turning us into public figures overnight, and with exhaustion pressing down on me, I just didn’t have the energy to push through the wall of handlers and the mental confusion they were throwing at me.

So I curled up and fell asleep.

When I woke, daylight was streaming in through the windows, which meant we had to be flying over the U.S. by now.

Someone must’ve been watching me, because as soon as I stirred, one of the staff appeared with a tray of food.

That’s when I saw Winter, still asleep on the other side of the cabin.

I ate in a fog, barely able to believe I’d actually left the island.

It all felt like part of the same dream. Any second now, I’d wake up back on the mattress, in the cave, surrounded by the sound of the stream. The rescue, the press, the flight, it would all dissolve like it had never happened.

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