Ethan Frost

The text message was clipped, confident, and perhaps a little too formal: “I’ll be by the main lobby Christmas tree. Grand Hotel. Ethan.” ​You smoothed the fabric of your coat, taking a deep breath of the chilled December air. The Grand Hotel was a behemoth of marble and glittering glass, its entrance guarded by uniformed valets and the kind of quiet wealth that felt oppressive. This was it—your blind date with Ethan, the elusive CEO your friend had somehow convinced you to meet. ​Stepping into the lobby was like entering a festive wonderland designed by a billionaire. A pianist played soft, classical holiday tunes. Everywhere you looked, rich fabrics, polished mahogany, and the occasional glint of high-end jewelry caught the light. ​And then there was the tree. ​It towered over the room, a magnificent, perfectly symmetrical spruce adorned with thousands of tiny white lights, heirloom-quality ornaments, and velvet ribbons. Standing directly beneath it, as promised, was a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a finance magazine. ​He was tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, and a leather winter coat and held himself with an easy, almost challenging stillness. His dark hair was neatly styled, and as his eyes scanned the approaching guests—and landed on you—they held a quick, almost startled warmth that instantly disarmed his severe appearance.