"Mother." Atticus bends to kiss her cheek. "I see you've met Alistair."
"A fascinating man," Vivienne confirms. "He's been telling me about the lodge's history. Did you know this was originally a waystation for gold miners in the 1850s?"
The conversation flows surprisingly easily as we're shown to our table in the lodge's intimate dining room. Vivienne seems genuinely interested in Hope Peak, asking questions about the town's history and character that reveal a sharper intelligence than her socialite appearance might suggest.
"So, Sloane," she says as our appetizers arrive, "Atticus tells me you were instrumental in convincing him to participate in the local holiday festivities."
I glance at Atticus, who shrugs slightly. "I wouldn't say 'convincing,'" I reply carefully. "More like... reminding him that there's value in community connection."
"A lesson he's historically resisted," Vivienne observes, sipping her wine. "Yet here he is, attending town meetings and children's pageants. Remarkable."
"Hope Peak is remarkable," I say, genuine affection for my hometown coloring my voice. "It has a way of drawing people in."
"Some people more than others, it seems." Her shrewd eyes move between Atticus and me, missing nothing. "How long have you two been sleeping together?"
I choke on my wine, caught completely off guard by her directness. Beside me, Atticus stiffens.
"Mother," he says, voice edged with warning.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question." She waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not judging, darling. In fact, I think it's about time."
"Time for what, exactly?" I ask, finding my voice despite the blush heating my cheeks.
"For my son to recognize what's been right in front of him for years." She fixes me with a surprisingly warm smile. "I knew the moment I met you at that charity gala last year that you were special, Sloane. The way he lights up around you, it's quite something to see."
"We're not discussing this," Atticus interjects, though I notice he doesn't actually deny her assumption.
"Fine, fine." Vivienne turns her attention to her plate. "Though I hope you realize this means Charlotte Whittington is firmly off the table."
"A tragedy I'll somehow endure," Atticus replies dryly.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of excellent food, surprisingly easy conversation, and the occasional knowing glance from Vivienne. By the time dessert arrives, a decadent chocolate soufflé that even Atticus, with his typical restraint around sweets, enjoys, I find myself genuinely liking Vivienne Morgan beyond her connection to Atticus.
"You know," she says, setting down her spoon, "I was worried about this Winter Division project."
Atticus looks up sharply. "You never said anything."
"What would be the point? The board had approved it, you were determined to prove yourself, and my opinion wasn't solicited." She shrugs elegantly. "But I feared you were setting yourself up for failure, not because you lack ability, darling, but because community projects require a certain... touch."
"And you didn't think I had it," he concludes, voice neutral.
"I knew you didn't," she corrects gently. "You've always been brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with the ruthless efficiency that makes Blackwood Industries so successful. But people? Hearts and minds? That's never been your strong suit."
I wait for Atticus to bristle at the criticism, but he simply listens, his expression thoughtful.
"Then I arrived and discovered you'd somehow acquired exactly the partner you needed." Vivienne smiles at me. "Someone who understands both worlds and can help you navigate between them."
"Sloane's been invaluable," Atticus agrees, his hand finding mine beneath the table. "In more ways than I can count."
The warmth in his voice brings unexpected tears to my eyes, which I blink away quickly.
"Well," Vivienne says, raising her wine glass, "to successful partnerships, in all their forms."
We toast, the crystal glasses catching the firelight.
After dinner, Vivienne pleads fatigue from her travel day, retiring to her suite with a knowing smile and instructions for Atticus to ‘see Sloane home safely.’
The night air is crisp and cold when we step outside, snow still falling softly around us. Atticus wraps his suit jacket around my shoulders despite my protests that I'm fine.
