Harper Ellison froze mid-step, one gloved hand bracing her lower back, the other resting protectively on her seven-month belly. The mountain air burned her lungs in thin, icy pulls. She hadn’t wanted this trip. Her doctor had warned her to avoid stress and altitude. But her husband, Nolan Kessler—tech CEO, keynote darling, the man who could charm investors into writing checks—had insisted a “babymoon” would look good after the company’s rough quarter.
“Just a photo,” Nolan had said. “One clean shot. You’ll thank me.”
Harper’s boots sank into powder as the wind shifted. The slope gave a low, hollow whump beneath them—like the mountain exhaled. The guide’s face tightened. “Back up. Now.”
The world moved faster than Harper’s body could. A slab of snow cracked above them, the fracture line zipping across the face like a tearing seam. Then the mountain broke loose.
White thunder swallowed everything.
Harper felt herself pulled sideways, weightless, then slammed hard. Snow packed into her collar, her mouth, her nose. She fought for air, for orientation, for the baby’s safety. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted her name—maybe Nolan, maybe the guide—then it vanished under roaring snow.When the avalanche finally settled, silence crashed down heavier than the snow. Harper’s fingers found a small pocket of space near her face. She forced a breath. Her ribs screamed. Her belly tightened with panic, then relief when she felt the faintest movement—one stubborn kick.
