Victoria sat cross-legged on her dorm bed, textbooks stacked neatly to one side, but her mind refused to focus. The snow outside was dusting the campus rooftops, small, quiet flakes like memories settling in her chest. She closed her eyes for a moment, and the holidays came rushing back, the obligations, the mountains, the total lack of care from her parents.
Long flashback of her holidays
Christmas break had begun the way most of Victoria’s holidays did: with a private car waiting outside St. Andrew’s Academy and her luggage already packed for her by someone else. The drive to Washington was smooth and silent, snow dusting the city in a polite, postcard-perfect way. The driver asked if she’d like the heater turned up. Victoria smiled, thanked him, and stared out the window, watching strangers hurry past with shopping bags and flushed cheeks. There was something about how ordinary it all looked that she found comforting.
The Ainsworth-Montague townhouse in Washington was beautifully decorated when she arrived. Not in a cozy way, but in an impeccably curated way. A towering Christmas tree shimmered in white and gold ornaments. The fireplace crackled. A string quartet record played softly in the background.
Her mother kissed her cheek, already distracted. Her father hugged her briefly, checking his phone before the embrace had fully ended. “Darling, you’ve grown,” Lady Amelia said, as if noticing for the first time. Sir William smiled. “We’ve got a charity gala on Friday. You’ll attend, of course.” Victoria nodded automatically.
That first week was a blur of elegant dinners, charity events, and polite conversations with people who knew her family name better than they knew her. She wore silk dresses, smiled when she was meant to smile, laughed when it was expected. People told her she was “so graceful,” “so well-raised,” “so very Ainsworth-Montague.” She felt like she was playing a part she’d mastered years ago.
Later that evening, she video-called a few friends from school. They were sprawled on messy beds, wearing pajamas, complaining about family drama and bad Christmas sweaters. “You look like you’re in a royal museum,” one of them teased when Victoria angled her camera too wide. She laughed. “You have no idea.” For a moment, the room felt warmer. Realer.
Christmas Day itself was… perfect. Technically.
There were expensive gifts, jewelry she’d never wear to school, a designer coat, books chosen more for how they looked on a shelf than what they meant. The dining table was set with fine china. A professional chef prepared the meal. Everything was beautiful. But when the plates were cleared, her parents were already discussing meetings, investments, travel schedules.
Victoria excused herself early and stepped onto the balcony, the cold biting gently at her skin. Snowflakes drifted down, landing on her hair and coat. The city glowed below her, messy and alive and full of people who were probably laughing too loud and burning dinner and hugging each other too long.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and texted her volleyball team’s group chat a simple:
Miss you idiots. Can’t wait to be back on the court.
Her phone buzzed almost instantly with chaotic replies. She smiled to herself, softer this time. For all the grandeur, all the wealth, all the centuries of tradition resting on her surname, Christmas break reminded Victoria of one simple truth: The moments that felt most like home were never the ones money could arrange.
Between Christmas and New Year’s, Sir William decided the family needed “a change of scenery,” which, in Ainsworth-Montague terms, meant flying out to an exclusive ski resort in Aspen. Victoria had been informed, not asked.
The private jet was warm and hushed, all cream leather seats and soft lighting. Her mother flipped through a magazine. Her father worked on his tablet. Victoria watched the clouds slide past the window and tried not to think about her teammates sending videos of messy holiday hangouts and late-night hot chocolate runs.
The resort itself was stunning. Snow-dusted chalets nestled into the mountainside like something out of a luxury travel brochure. Fireplaces glowed behind wide glass windows. Staff greeted them by name. Someone took her coat the moment she stepped inside.
Her parents loved it. The exclusivity. The privacy. The networking opportunities disguised as “holiday relaxation.” Victoria loved the mountains. She had been skiing since she was six. Private lessons in the Alps. Perfect form drilled into her by instructors who addressed her parents more than they ever addressed her. Skiing, like everything else in her life, had once been about looking effortless. Aspen felt different.
She didn’t need lessons, but her parents insisted she take a few “to stay sharp,” mostly because it looked proper to be seen with a private instructor. That’s how she met him. His name was Theo. He wasn’t part of the resort’s elite clientele. He worked there, seasonal instructor, sunburned nose, laugh that came too easily. He treated her like a normal teenage girl who happened to be good at skiing, not like an Ainsworth-Montague heir.
“You don’t need me,” he told her on the first run, watching her carve clean turns down the slope. “I know,” she said lightly. “Then why am I here?” She smiled behind her goggles. “My parents like to feel thorough.” Something about that made him laugh.
Their lessons turned casual. Less instruction, more long runs down quiet slopes. He teased her for being too careful. She teased him for being too reckless. With goggles and helmets on, she didn’t feel like Victoria Juliette Catherine Ainsworth-Montague. She was just a girl flying down a mountain with someone who didn’t care about her name.
It stayed innocent at first. They talked on the ski lift. About where he was from. About how he worked three jobs in the off-season. About how she went to a school where people cared too much about appearances. He called her “V” because he said her full name sounded like it belonged in a museum. She didn’t correct him.
She’d come to Aspen composed, polished, every inch the girl her parents expected. But something about the mountains, vast and wild and indifferent to her name, made her feel reckless in a way she wasn’t used to.
Theo noticed it before she did. “You ski like you’re holding something back,” he told her one afternoon as they paused halfway down a run, breath fogging in the cold. She tilted her head. “And you ski like you’re running from something.” He smiled at that. A slow, knowing smile. From that day on, their time together shifted. The lessons ended faster. The silences on the ski lift grew heavier, charged with things neither of them said out loud. Their knees brushed when they sat side by side. His hand would linger at her elbow a second too long when helping her up after a sharp turn. It was the kind of tension that made her heart beat louder in her ears.
One evening, after her parents left for another glittering dinner she hadn’t bothered to attend, Victoria slipped back down to the nearly empty lodge. The fire was low. Snow pressed against the windows. Theo was there, jacket slung over a chair, looking like he didn’t quite belong in the soft golden light of the place.
They locked eyes across the room. No small talk. No pretending this was accidental. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice rough with something he wasn’t naming. “I know,” Victoria replied. Her heart was loud in her chest. “But I didn’t want to be anywhere else.” Neither of them moved. The space between them felt charged, electric with all the things they hadn’t said during long rides up the lift, with every look that lingered a second too long.
He lifted his hand, hesitating just inches from her waist, giving her time to pull back. She didn’t. When he leaned in, it was slow, like he was waiting for her to change her mind. Their lips met in a soft, tentative brush at first, the kind that felt more like a question than an answer.
Then she breathed out, her fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, and the kiss deepened, still careful, still restrained, but unmistakably real. Her pulse raced, the warmth of him grounding her in a way nothing else had all week. This time, the kiss wasn’t hesitant.
They both knew they were playing with something fragile. His hands settled at her waist. Hers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. The world outside the lodge felt distant, like it had been muted. When they pulled back, her breath was uneven. “So this is a bad idea,” she said. “Absolutely,” he agreed, still close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. She didn’t move away. She never did.
New Year’s Eve came wrapped in velvet and obligation. There was a formal dinner planned at the resort, black tie, champagne flutes, a pianist playing something soft and forgettable. Her parents were radiant in that setting, already drifting toward people who mattered to them more than the idea of spending midnight with their daughter.
Victoria stayed long enough to be seen. Long enough to be polite. Then she slipped away. The hallway outside her room was quiet, the music from the ballroom muffled by distance. Theo was waiting where they’d agreed he would be, uncertainty flickering across his face until he saw her. “You sure?” he asked. She nodded. “I don’t want to spend tonight pretending.”
Inside, the room was dim and warm, the window fogged faintly from the cold outside. Fireworks were being set up on the slopes below, tiny sparks of light testing the sky. Victoria reached for the clasp at the back of her dress, hesitated only a moment, then let the elegant fabric fall away onto the chair. The girl the ballroom expected slipped off with it.
They lay side by side on the bed, shoes kicked off, still half-laughing at the quiet absurdity of it, of where they were, of who she was supposed to be tonight. The world outside felt far away. Time softened around them, stretching into something unmeasured and private. Somewhere in the distance, voices began to count down. Ten. Nine. Theo glanced toward the window. “You’re going to miss it.” She shook her head, settling closer to him and pressing her lips briefly against his before speaking softly, “I think I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
The numbers faded into cheers. Fireworks burst against the dark sky, scattering gold and white across the ceiling in brief flashes. The new year arrived without ceremony for them, no countdown, no clinking glasses. Just warmth, quiet, and the shared understanding that this night belonged to the two of them. Down in the ballroom, her parents toasted with people who barely noticed her absence. Up in her room, Victoria welcomed the new year in a way that felt honest for once.
The morning after New Year’s, Victoria was curled under a thick blanket in her room, the snow still falling softly outside. Her phone buzzed insistently, a group video call from her friends back at school. She hesitated a moment, then swiped to join. “V!” one of them shouted the instant they saw her, voices overlapping. “Aspen! New Year’s! Tell us everything! Did you meet anyone? Spill!”
Victoria grinned, tucking the blanket closer. “Everything?” she teased. “I don’t think you’re ready for everything.” “Oh, come on,” another demanded, leaning closer to the camera. “You can’t just disappear for two weeks and not give us something! Come on, spill!” She let a slow, mischievous smile spread across her face. “Alright,” she said, voice dropping just a little, “there was… someone.” She glanced toward the door out of habit, just in case.. “A ski instructor. Don’t roll your eyes, he was… normal. He was the single person in the resort who didn’t care who I am. It was kind of… nice.”
“Oh my god,” one of them squealed. “You didn’t—”. “I didn’t say anything,” Victoria interrupted, laughing. “But let’s just say New Year’s Eve was… memorable. Most of it, I was exactly where I wanted to be. No fancy dinners, no parents hovering, no obligations. Just… time that belonged to me.” Her friends practically vibrated on screen, desperate for details, but Victoria only shook her head, letting her grin linger. “Some things,” she said softly, “you just have to imagine. And trust me, you’d probably be jealous anyway.”
There was a beat of silence, then another friend whispered, “You’re definitely glowing. Spill more later. I need to know.” Victoria laughed again, the warmth spreading through her. “Maybe someday. For now… just know that Aspen wasn’t about snow or skiing. It was about… freedom. And someone who made it unforgettable.” And for the first time in weeks, Victoria felt that quiet thrill, the kind that had nothing to do with curated holidays or anyone else’s expectations. It was hers.
On their last night, they stood outside the lodge beneath a sky scattered with stars. The cold bit at her cheeks. The music and laughter from inside felt like another universe. “You’ll forget this,” he said, not unkindly. She shook her head. “I won’t forget how it felt.” He stepped closer, resting his forehead briefly against hers. The moment was quiet. Intimate in a way that didn’t need anything more. When they finally parted, it wasn’t dramatic. No promises. No declarations. Just two people letting go of something that had burned bright because it was never meant to last.
Later that day, as she was back in her room at St. Andrew’s, Victoria’s seating position had shifted into a laying on. Staring at the ceiling, Aspen felt far away, but the memory wasn’t gone. Theo wasn’t here, but the feeling lingered, tucked under her ribs like a heartbeat she could still call her own. It wasn’t love. But it was real. And that, somehow, changed her.
Lucas
