The Billionaire Heir Called It a Romantic Mountain Trip Until My Psychic Grandmother Told Me to Ask Why His Cabin Was Booked for Three

The SUV bounced down the rutted dirt road before turning sharply onto a private gravel driveway marked by a rotting wooden sign: Timberline Lodge – Private Property.

Ahead of us sat Cabin Number Four.

It was a massive, isolated structure built of dark stained logs and fieldstone, nestled deep in a clearing surrounded by dense evergreens. A wraparound wooden porch loomed in the gathering darkness, illuminated by a single harsh overhead bulb.

What caught my breath, however, wasn't the cabin itself.

It was the sleek, silver BMW sedan parked neatly beside the front steps.

Julian killed the engine. The sudden silence inside the car was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal hood and the steady hiss of sleet beginning to strike the windshield.

“Looks like our host is already here,” Julian said smoothly, though his jaw muscles twitched.

I turned slowly to look at him, keeping my face a mask of calculated ignorance. “Host? Julian, I thought you said you rented this place through a private app. Who owns a silver BMW out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Julian unbuckled his seatbelt, offering a casual, practiced shrug. “Must be the property manager. Or maybe one of my business associates who happened to be in the region. Come on, let’s go inside. It’s freezing.”

He hopped out of the car, grabbing our duffel bags from the trunk, playing the attentive, loving husband to absolute perfection.

I sat in the passenger seat for three seconds longer, clutching the burner phone in my pocket. My thumb hovered over Grandma Eleanor’s pre-saved number. But I didn't press call yet. I needed to see who was waiting inside.

I opened my door and stepped out into the biting mountain air. Sleet stung my cheeks.

Julian unlocked the heavy oak front door of the cabin and pushed it open. Warm air spilled out into the porch, smelling faintly of cedar, wood smoke, and expensive perfume.

I followed him into the vaulted timber-frame living room. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, unlit. Leather couches faced panoramic windows looking out over the pitch-black expanse of the lake.

And standing by the kitchen counter, pouring a glass of amber scotch from a crystal decanter, was a woman.

She turned as we walked in.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was Victoria Vance.

Victoria was the senior vice president of marketing at Sterling Freight—Julian’s company. She was sharp-featured, impeccably dressed in a cream cashmere turtleneck, with dark hair pulled back into a severe, elegant knot. She was also rumored in the Philadelphia financial pages to be the primary corporate heir to the Sterling empire through a distant familial merger.

Victoria looked at Julian, then her dark eyes shifted slowly to me.

There was no shock on her face. No confusion.