Double-Booked With My Rival in a One-Bed Cabin

The crunch of snow under the tires of her SUV was the only sound for miles, a satisfying counterpoint to the deep, humming silence of the mountains. Elara Vance killed the engine and took a moment, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. This was it. The perfect seclusion. The crisp, pine-scented air was already clearing her head, sharpening the edges of the designs that had been swimming in her mind for weeks. The Sterling Tower wasn't just another contract; it was the project that would solidify her name, that would finally, definitively, prove she was more than just a promising up-and-comer. She just needed this week. One week of uninterrupted focus.

The cabin was even better than the pictures. A modern A-frame of dark wood and vast panes of glass, it looked like it had been dropped into the snowy landscape by a discerning god. Her sanctuary.

She hauled her portfolio case and a duffel bag from the trunk, her boots sinking into the fresh powder on the path to the front door. The key was exactly where the rental site said it would be, under a faux rock by the porch steps. A small smile touched her lips. Everything was going according to plan.

The lock clicked open, and she pushed the heavy oak door inward, a wave of warm, cedar-scented air washing over her. The interior was stunning—a cavernous great room with a stone fireplace, sleek leather furniture, and a wall of windows looking out at a sea of snow-dusted firs. She dropped her bags, a sense of profound relief settling over her.

And then she saw it.

A man’s wool coat—a ridiculously expensive, tailored wool coat—was slung over the back of a chair. Beside it, on the polished concrete floor, sat a pair of scuffed leather boots that she recognized with a sickening lurch of her stomach.

“No,” she whispered to the empty room. “Absolutely not.”

As if summoned by her denial, a figure emerged from the hallway that led deeper into the cabin. He was holding a steaming mug, and he stopped dead when he saw her, a slow, infuriatingly handsome smirk spreading across his face.

Julian Thorne.

Of all the architects in all the cities in all the world, he had to be here. Her rival. The thorn in her side since their university days, the man whose traditionalist, crowd-pleasing designs were the antithesis of her own bold, structuralist vision. He leaned against the doorframe, all casual arrogance and infuriating ease, as if he owned the place.

“Vance,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that always set her teeth on edge. “I have to say, I’m surprised. I didn’t think rustic retreats were your style. I always pictured you recharging in some kind of sterile, white cube.”

Elara’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “What are you doing here, Thorne? This is my cabin.”

He took a slow sip from his mug, his eyes—a startling, clear blue—mocking her over the rim. “Funny,” he said, setting the mug down on a side table. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Because as far as I know, I booked this ‘sanctuary,’ as the website called it, for the entire week. I’ve got a big proposal to finish.” He let the words hang in the air, the smirk widening. “The Sterling Tower.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Sterling Tower. Of course. It was always him, shadowing her every move, competing for every significant project that came across her desk.

“You’re lying,” she stated, the words flat and cold. She strode forward, dropping her portfolio on the large wooden coffee table with a thud that echoed in the quiet room. She pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers flying across the screen to pull up the email confirmation. “I booked this cabin from the third to the tenth. See?” She thrust the phone toward him.

Julian didn’t even glance at it. He pulled his own phone out, mirroring her actions with an infuriating calmness. “And I booked it from the third to the tenth. ‘The Summit Haus.’ Paid in full.” He showed her his screen.

The same dates. The same photos. The same price. But Elara’s eyes snagged on the name. “Mine was called ‘The Pinnacle Retreat,’” she said, her voice tight. A cold dread began to seep into her bones, far more chilling than the mountain air. They looked closer, comparing the booking sites side-by-side. The logos were slightly different. The contact numbers, when she quickly dialed hers, led to a disconnected line.

“We’ve been scammed,” Julian said, the amusement finally draining from his face, replaced by a flicker of disbelief. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation she’d ever seen from him. “Both of us. Some bastard created two dummy sites.”

The frustration was a hot, sour taste in Elara’s mouth. Her perfect week, her sanctuary, her plan—all of it dissolving into a farce. “So you can leave,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was here second, I’ll admit that. Go find another sterile, white cube to stay in.”

“And go where, Vance?” he shot back, his voice rising. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town is an hour away, and…” He trailed off, his eyes fixed on his phone screen, which had just lit up with an alert.

Elara’s phone buzzed in her hand with the same notification. A severe weather warning. A blizzard advisory was now a full-blown warning, effective in the next hour. All roads in and out of the mountain passes were closing.

The silence that fell between them was heavier than before, charged with a new and unwelcome reality. The scam was bad enough. Being stranded was one thing. But being stranded with him… it was a nightmare.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, her jaw set. “I have a generator, enough food for a week, and a deadline to meet.”

“Neither am I,” Julian countered, his gaze locking with hers. There was no trace of his earlier smirk. He looked as trapped as she felt. “My proposal is just as important as yours.”

A bitter truce hung in the air, the only viable option. “Fine,” Elara clipped out, the word feeling like a surrender. “Stay. But stay out of my way. We can divide the space.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, his voice a low grumble. “But don’t think for a second this means I’m going to let you win the Sterling contract.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Thorne,” she replied, the sarcasm a thin shield against the sheer awfulness of the situation. “Your derivative, neoclassical monstrosities are no match for my work, storm or no storm.”

He grunted in what might have been agreement and went to retrieve his own bags from where he’d left them near the door. Elara did the same, hauling her duffel and a heavy box of supplies into the kitchen, claiming one side of the granite island as her own. She began to unpack with brisk, efficient movements: a bag of single-origin Ethiopian coffee beans, a French press, a canister of organic steel-cut oats.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Julian setting up his own provisions on the opposite side of the island. He placed a tin of dark, oily espresso beans next to a sleek, chrome Moka pot. “I see you brought… coffee,” he commented, his voice laced with a faint, patronizing tone as he glanced at her light-roast beans.

“I brought coffee for people with a discerning palate,” she retorted, not looking at him. “Not for those who prefer their beans to taste like burnt charcoal.”

“There’s a difference between ‘discerning’ and ‘weak,’ Vance.”

She ignored him, turning her attention back to her primary reason for being there. In the main room, she carefully unboxed the scale model for her Sterling Tower proposal. It was her masterpiece: a twisting helix of glass and steel, asymmetrical and audacious, designed to catch the light in a thousand different ways. She set it on one end of the massive coffee table, a silent declaration of her territory and her talent.

A few minutes later, Julian placed his own model on the other end of the table. It was exactly what she would have expected. Symmetrical, powerful, with strong, clean lines that paid homage to the city’s art deco history. It was undeniably beautiful, expertly crafted, and utterly safe. They stood there for a moment, on opposite sides of the table, their respective creations between them like chess pieces in a game that had just become terrifyingly real. The air crackled with the force of their ambition.

“Well,” Elara said finally, needing to break the silence. “I’m going to find my room.” She refused to cede the entire cabin to him. If they were dividing the space, she would claim the better bedroom.

She turned and stalked down the hallway she’d seen him emerge from earlier. The first door was a bathroom, beautifully appointed with slate tile and a rainfall shower. The second was a linen closet. The third and final door opened into the master bedroom.

And her heart sank.

The room was enormous, dominated by a wall of glass that looked out onto the snow-covered pines. In the center of the room, like an altar, sat a single, colossal king-sized bed, piled high with plush pillows and a thick duvet. There were no other beds. No cozy guest room. No pull-out sofa in the den. This was it.

She heard his footsteps behind her and she froze in the doorway, her back rigid. Julian appeared at her shoulder, his warmth seeping through the sleeve of her sweater. He peered past her into the room, his gaze falling on the one bed. She watched his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The unspoken reality of their situation filled the space between them, more intimidating than the coming storm. This wasn’t just about sharing a cabin. It was about sharing this.

Without a word, Elara turned on her heel and walked back into the great room. Julian followed a second later. They returned to their respective sides of the coffee table, their eyes fixed on their models, pointedly ignoring the one-bed problem that now hung over them like a guillotine.