Chapter 7 - THE AVALANCHE AT THE GATE
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The medical crisis had passed, leaving us exhausted and emotionally drained, but the outside world refused to grant us a moment of peace.
By evening, the snowstorm outside had escalated into a full-scale blizzard, howling against the reinforced glass of the chalet like an angry beast. Inside, the roaring stone fireplace in the main living room cast a warm, flickering glow over the oversized leather sofas where Chloe and the sleeping triplets—now all tucked safely into temporary travel cribs—rested in deep, dreamless slumber.
Sebastian stood by the secure communications console in his study, staring at a flashing red alert light on the main security monitor.
I walked into the study, holding a cup of black coffee, and stopped in the doorway. "What is it now? Did your grandfather find another loophole?"
"Worse," Sebastian muttered without turning around. He pointed a finger at the exterior security feed. "The avalanche didn't just block the mountain pass road, Alyssa. It triggered a regional power grid failure. The chalet is currently running on auxiliary backup generators, and the local perimeter motion sensors just tripped at the southern gate."
My blood ran cold. "Motion sensors? In the middle of a blizzard?"
"Nobody climbs a four-thousand-meter alpine pass in a whiteout storm unless they're paid an obscene amount of money to do it," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a heavy, matte-black Glock 19 pistol, and checked the magazine with a sharp, practiced click.
"Arthur's clean-up crew," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "He didn't wait for the Swiss court to sign the injunction. He sent mercenaries."
"They're not mercenaries; they're corporate security enforcement agents operating under a black-ops retrieval directive," Sebastian corrected, sliding the firearm into a concealed shoulder holster beneath his cashmere sweater. He turned to face me, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned right through my fear. "Lock the West Wing doors. Do not open them for anyone—not even if you think you hear my voice. If anyone breaches the perimeter, the panic room protocol will engage automatically."
"And you?" I demanded, stepping forward and grabbing the lapel of his sweater. "Where are you going?"
"To greet my grandfather's welcoming committee," Sebastian said, a cold, dangerous smile touching his lips. "It's time I taught my family that you don't hunt a Vale in his own den."
Before I could argue, he turned on his heel and strode out of the study, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with an ominous, echoing finality.
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I didn't waste a second. I rushed back down the hallway to the West Wing nursery, waking Chloe and quickly moving the sleeping children into the reinforced panic room hidden behind the master walk-in closet. The heavy steel door slid into place with a pneumatic hiss, sealing us off from the rest of the chalet in a secure, well-ventilated bunker equipped with its own independent communications and air filtration systems.
Sitting on the carpeted floor of the bunker with Noah, Ivy, and Owen safely nestled in my arms, I stared at the closed steel door, listening to the muffled, terrifying sounds of war echoing faintly from the world above.
