"Mack is going to skin me alive," Gert Holm muttered, his hands shaking as he adjusted his hard hat. He stood at the edge of the muddy construction site overlooking the Hvalfjörður coastline. "If that woman doesn't sign the easement by Friday, the Zartholm Sky Residence is dead in the water before the first crane even arrives."

Zonrik Zartholm didn't look at his foreman. He stood like a statue of polished granite, his tailored wool coat defying the biting Icelandic wind. "Mack Zartholm Sr. doesn't skin people, Gert. He liquidates them. And I didn't come here to fail my father’s first legacy directive."

"Then you haven't met Elín Demánsdóttir," Gert sighed, pointing toward a cluster of weathered wooden buildings nestled against the cliffside. "She’s a vet. Runs that Haven Sanctuary. She’s got a heart of gold and a spine made of reinforced rebar. She’s already blocked the survey teams twice."

Zonrik’s jaw tightened. "She’s a civilian with a bankrupt hobby. Offer her double the market value."

"We did," Gert replied grimly. "She threw the check in the muck and told the lawyers to go play in traffic. She says the land is for the animals, not for 'glass coffins for the elite.'"

Zonrik turned, his blue eyes cold and sharp. "Then I’ll handle her myself. No one says no to Zartholm Global Holdings."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

"Hold him steady, Ala! If he kicks, he’s going to open that suture right back up!" Elín shouted over the roar of the wind rattling the sanctuary’s corrugated metal roof.

"I’m trying, Elín! He’s a two-hundred-pound ram with a grudge against the world!" Ala Lind yelled back, leaning her full weight against the animal’s flank.

Elín’s hands were steady, despite the exhaustion deep in her bones. She finished the stitch on the ram’s leg, her fingers covered in a mixture of antiseptic and mud. This sanctuary was her life’s work, a refuge for the creatures the rest of the world deemed "useless." It was also the only thing she had left of her grandmother’s legacy.

"There," Elín breathed, stepping back and wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. "He’s patched up. Get him into the recovery stall."

As Ala led the ram away, she paused. "The black cars are back, Elín. At the gate."

Elín’s heart did a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. "Let them wait. I have a foal to bottle-feed."

"It’s not just the lawyers this time," Ala whispered, looking out the barn door. "There’s a man. He looks like he owns the atmosphere."

Elín felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck. She grabbed a rag, wiped the worst of the grime from her hands, and marched out into the cold afternoon light. Standing by the perimeter fence was a man who looked entirely out of place amidst the wild, rugged beauty of Hvalfjörður. He was tall, golden-haired, and radiated a level of power that made the air feel thin.

It was him. The man from the Aurora Table—the one she’d shared a reckless, whiskey-fueled night with three years ago. The man she’d fled from before the sun rose, pregnant and terrified of the coldness she’d seen in his eyes when he talked about his father’s "empire."

Zonrik Zartholm.

"You’re trespassing," Elín said, her voice cracking like a whip. She didn't let the tremor in her knees show. She was a mother now; she had more than just animals to protect.

Zonrik turned slowly. The recognition in his eyes was instantaneous and searing. He didn't look like a developer; he looked like a predator who had just found a long-lost trail. "Elín Demánsdóttir. I spent six months looking for you after you vanished from that hotel in Copenhagen."

"I was a 'pleasant distraction,' remember? Your words, Zonrik," Elín snapped, crossing her arms. "Now you’re here to take my land. I should have known you were Mack Zartholm’s son. You have the same soul as a bulldozer."

Zonrik stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "This land is a graveyard of debt, Elín. My father wants the Zartholm Sky Residence here. I’m here to make sure you get out with enough money to never work a day in your life again. Don't be a martyr for a few stray sheep."

"Those 'stray sheep' are worth more than your glass towers," Elín hissed. "Leave. Before I set the hounds on you."

"We aren't finished," Zonrik warned, his gaze lingering on her face with an intensity that made her skin burn. "I always get what I want, Elín. Eventually."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

"He’s here for the land, Charles. Just the land," Elín whispered, pulling her young son closer as they sat in the small, warm kitchen of their cottage.

Charles looked up at her, his eyes the exact same piercing blue as the man at the fence. "Is the mean man going to take the foxes, Mommy?"

"No one is taking anything," Elín promised, kissing his forehead. But inside, she was drowning. Zonrik didn't know about Charles yet. If he found out, if Mack Sr. found out, they would take him. The Zartholms didn't share. They conquered.

The next morning, the "war" truly began. Elín arrived at the local Land Trust office, where she worked part-time as a consultant to keep the sanctuary’s taxes down. Her supervisor, Gert Holm—who she now knew was moonlighting for Zonrik—looked like he wanted to crawl under his desk.

"Elín, Mr. Zartholm is in the conference room. He’s requested the environmental impact reports," Gert said, avoiding her eyes.

"He can request a trip to the sun for all I care," Elín muttered, grabbing her files. She marched into the room, ready for a fight.

Zonrik was sitting at the head of the table, looking through a set of blueprints. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable. "Sit down, Elín."

"I’ll stand. I don't plan on being here long," she said, dropping the files on the table with a loud thud. "These reports prove that your resort will destroy the nesting grounds of the local falcon population. It’s illegal to build here."

Zonrik didn't look at the files. He looked at her. "I’ve reviewed your sanctuary’s financials. You’re three months behind on your grain shipments. Your water main is leaking. You’re drowning, and you’re trying to pull a billionaire down with you."

"I’d rather drown in my own dirt than breathe your filtered air," Elín retorted.

The door opened suddenly, and a tall, older man with silver hair and a face like a hatchet walked in. Mack Zartholm Sr. The room seemed to shrink.

"Zonrik," the old man barked. "Why am I looking at a vet instead of a demolition permit?"

"We’re discussing the environmental hurdles, Father," Zonrik said, his voice tightening.

Mack Sr. turned his gaze on Elín. It was a cold, soul-stripping look. "You’re the girl holding up my legacy? My son tells me you have a 'sentimental' attachment to this muck. Sentiment is for the weak. Name your price and get out."

"My price is your absence," Elín said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You can't buy the Haven. And you can't buy me."

"We’ll see about that," Mack Sr. sneered. He turned to Zonrik. "Fix this. Or I’ll find someone who can."

Zonrik Zartholm’s POV

Zonrik sat in his Sky Residence penthouse, the lights of the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor shimmering below him like a sea of diamonds. But all he could see was Elín’s face—the fierce, beautiful defiance in her eyes.

"She’s a problem, sir," Kasper Nørgaard, his driver and confidant, said softly from the doorway. "The town is starting to side with her. They’re calling her the 'Guardian of the Hvalfjörður.'"

"She’s a fool," Zonrik snapped, though the words felt hollow. He remembered her from three years ago—the way she had laughed at the gala, the way she had looked at the animals in the charity photos with such pure, unshielded love. He had been drawn to that light, a light that didn't exist in his father’s world.

"Mack Sr. is losing patience," Kasper added. "He’s talking about 'forced relocation' through the city council."

Zonrik stood up, pacing the length of the glass-walled room. "No. If he does that, she’ll hate me forever. I need to get through to her. Find out what she really needs."

"Sir," Kasper hesitated. "I did some digging into her personal life, as you asked. To find leverage."

"And?"

"She lives alone with a son. Charles. He’s three years old."

Zonrik froze. Three years. The math hit him like a physical blow. The night in Copenhagen. The morning she disappeared.

"Show me the photo," Zonrik commanded, his voice barely a whisper.

Kasper handed him a tablet. It was a grainy shot taken from a distance—Elín walking near the shore, holding a small boy’s hand. The boy was laughing, his head tilted back, showing a smile that Zonrik saw every morning in the mirror.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He wasn't just fighting for a resort anymore. He wasn't just fighting his father’s cold expectations. He was looking at his son. A son his father would try to turn into a weapon. A son Elín had kept hidden to protect him from the Zartholm name.

"Get the car," Zonrik ordered, his voice thick with a new kind of steel. "I’m going back to the sanctuary."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

The storm hit without warning, a true Icelandic gale that threatened to rip the roofs off the enclosures. Elín was out in the mud, trying to coax a frightened horse into the main barn, when the headlights of a car cut through the darkness.

A black Bentley swerved into the yard, and Zonrik leaped out, his expensive suit immediately soaked.

"What are you doing here?" Elín screamed over the wind. "Go away!"

"The river is rising, Elín! The lower enclosures are going to flood!" Zonrik shouted, running to her side. He didn't wait for her permission. He grabbed the horse’s lead rope, his muscles straining as he forced the animal toward safety.

For the next three hours, the billionaire and the veterinarian worked in the freezing rain. They moved sheep, crated injured birds, and hauled sandbags. Zonrik didn't complain about his clothes or the filth. He worked with a grim, focused intensity that Elín had never seen before.

When the last animal was secure, they collapsed into the warmth of the barn, drenched and shivering.

"Why did you come back?" Elín asked, her voice small.

Zonrik looked at her, the water dripping from his golden hair. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet, showing her the photo of Charles.

"Why didn't you tell me, Elín?"

The silence in the barn was heavier than the storm outside. Elín looked away, tears blurring her vision. "Because I saw how your father looked at you. Because I saw how you looked at the world—like it was something to be owned. I wouldn't let him be an 'asset' in your portfolio."

Zonrik reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek before he pulled back. "I’m not him, Elín. I’ve spent my life trying to prove I’m the best version of what he built, but I’m not him."

"Then prove it," she challenged. "Save this place. Not for me. For him."

Zonrik looked out at the dark, flooded fields. For the first time in his life, the "Wharton Peak" resort felt like a pile of rubble. "I’ll handle my father. But you have to trust me."

"Trust is expensive, Zonrik," Elín said, standing up and heading toward the cottage where Charles was sleeping. "And you’re currently bankrupt in that department."

Zonrik watched her go, the weight of his legacy pressing down on him. He knew what he had to do. He would have to go to war with Mack Zartholm Sr., and he would have to do it using the only thing the old man understood: power.

But as he looked at the rustic, mud-covered barn, he realized he finally had something worth fighting for that didn't have a price tag. He had a son. And he had the woman who was fierce enough to protect him from the world—even from the Zartholms.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

"Am I wrong? Isn't she a homewrecker, not a person worth an ounce of respect?" I stood up, the chair screeching against the floor of the Aurora Table, my finger trembling as I pointed it directly at Katrín Rúnarsdóttir.

It had been fifteen years since the day my childhood ended. For fifteen years, my father hadn’t provided a single króna of support for me or Freya. I remember being ten years old, standing in the rain outside his new office, begging for enough money to cover my school books. He hadn't just said no; he had looked at me with such disgust before pushing me away that I fell into the slush. But the daughter of the woman who destroyed our family, Embla Rúnarsdóttir, had lived a life of gold-plated luxury ever since.

From that day on, I swore I would never take a penny from him again. Ragnar Demánsdóttir ceased to be my father the moment he traded his family for a mistress.

"Ragnar, look at how she humiliates me! I won't stand for this!" Katrín shouted, her voice shrill enough to turn the heads of every wealthy patron in the restaurant.

"Enough!" Ragnar roared.

Slap!

The sound of his hand hitting my cheek echoed through the silent dining room. For a heartbeat, the world went gray. A sickening, sharp heat radiated from my skin, and the salt of blood bloomed in my mouth. I stumbled, my vision swimming as the floor rushed up to meet me.

Before I could even catch my breath, a new, agonizing pain lanced through the back of my hand. I looked down, gasping, to see Embla’s thin stiletto heel grinding into my knuckles. She wasn't just stepping on me; she was leaning her weight into it, a cruel, plastic smile fixed on her face.

Anger, cold and violent, snapped the haze in my brain. "Get off me!" I screamed.

I didn't think; I reacted. I reached up and grabbed the tureen of scalding Arctic char soup from the center of the table and heaved it upward. The liquid splashed across Ragnar’s expensive suit, making him howl in shock. Without stopping, I grabbed the plates of braised lamb and beet salad, hurling them at Katrín and Embla.

Grease and sauce splattered over their designer dresses. "How dare you!" Ragnar bellowed, raising his fist to strike me again. But as Uncle John and Aunt Carter rushed to my side, shielding me, his arm faltered.

"What kind of monster attacks her own father?" Katrín shrieked, clutching her stained chest.

Aunt Carter didn't give them the satisfaction of an answer. She just pulled me against her side, her arm a firm barrier. "I won't have a daughter like this!" Ragnar roared, his face purple with rage.

"Good," I spat, wiping the blood from my lip with my sleeve, my eyes burning with a defiance that felt like victory. "I haven't had a father in fifteen years anyway."

As I turned to leave, I caught sight of Zonrik Zartholm. He was still sitting perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on me with an expression of chilling indifference. That look—that cold, billionaire detachment—stung more than the slap. I raised my chin, stared him down until his jaw tightened, and then walked out into the biting Icelandic wind.

The spring air was freezing, and my thin blazer offered no protection. I walked for what felt like miles, my feet throbbing in my heels, my face burning. I was twenty-eight years old, a professional veterinarian, and I had just been assaulted by the man who was supposed to protect me. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, but I didn't regret the soup. Not for a second.

Suddenly, a sleek black Bentley pulled to the curb beside me. The window slid down, revealing Zonrik’s handsome, impassive face.

"Get in," he ordered.

I hated that tone. The corporate command, the assumption of obedience. "It’s not working hours, Mr. Zartholm. I don't take orders from you in the middle of the night."

"It’s nearly midnight, it’s freezing, and this area isn't safe for a woman alone," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "There have been reports of attacks near the Hvalfjörður trail recently. The police haven't caught the suspect. Don't be a martyr for your ego."

The wind gusted then, chilling me to the bone. I looked at the dark, empty road ahead and the looming shadows of the mountains. My pride was strong, but my survival instinct was stronger. I yanked the door open and sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead as I buckled the belt.

The silence in the car was suffocating. I kept my hand over my bruised cheek, feeling smaller than I had in years.

"Thank you, Mr. Zartholm," I said quietly as we reached the gravel turnoff to my cottage.

"You're an employee of Zartholm Global," he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. "If you're incapacitated, the Land Trust loses its most knowledgeable consultant on the sanctuary borders. I'm protecting an asset, nothing more."

I felt the anger flare up again. "Don't worry, Mr. Zartholm. I’m a 'sentimental relic,' remember? We relics are surprisingly hard to break. Keep your concern for your blueprints."

I slammed the door and watched the Bentley roar away, its taillights disappearing into the mist. He was a machine in a suit, a man who saw humans as line items on a balance sheet.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

The next morning, the Haven Sanctuary felt like a battlefield. I arrived at the Land Trust office with a swollen jaw and a coffee in hand, only to find Gert Holm looking like he was facing an execution.

"A major parameter error was found in the development proposal, Elín," he whispered. "The coastal erosion data—it was calculated wrong. The Zartholm legal team is on the warpath."

My heart stopped. I was the one who had verified those numbers. I had spent weeks staying up late, distracted by the rising costs of animal feed and the looming threat of the resort. I must have missed the decimal shift.

"How bad is it?"

"Zonrik is in his office. He wants blood."

I walked into the Zartholm Sky Residence office, my heart hammering. Zonrik was standing by the window, a thick file folder in his hand. When he turned, he didn't look angry; he looked lethal. He threw the folder onto the desk with a crash that made me jump.

"Explain this," he demanded. "Do you have any idea what an error like this does to a multi-billion dollar bidding process? We could lose the corridor rights by Monday."

"I... I was working under extreme pressure," I started, but his eyes cut me off.

"Everyone works under pressure, Elín. But not everyone lets their 'sentimental' distractions cost a company millions. Find out who else touched these files. I want them fired by noon."

I thought of Ala Lind. She had helped me with the data entry while her mother was at St. Ólafur Medical Center. If Ala lost her job, she’d lose the insurance that was keeping her mother alive.

"It was me," I said, stepping forward. "Only me. Don't blame the staff."

Zonrik walked toward me, his presence filling the room. "You're shielding them. I see it in your eyes."

"I'm offering a remedy," I countered. "There are six days until Monday. I will stay here, in this office, and recalculate every single parameter from scratch. I’ll fix it."

Zonrik’s lip curled in a sneer. "You think you can do in six days what a team of analysts did in a month? You think you’re faster than a Zartholm mainframe?"

"The mainframe clearly failed," I whispered.

The room went silent. Zonrik’s eyes searched mine, his expression a mix of fury and something I couldn't name. "Fine," he said finally. "If the corrected plan isn't on my desk by 8:00 AM Monday, you and your sanctuary are finished. I will personally sign the eviction notice."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

I lived on caffeine and adrenaline for the next forty-eight hours. On Saturday afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was Magnús Einarsson, the local biology teacher who had been helping me at the sanctuary.

"Elín, I know you're buried, but you have to eat," he said. "I'm outside the Zartholm building with the seafood stew from Aurora Table. Come down for ten minutes."

I went down to the plaza, my eyes burning from the glow of the computer screen. Magnús was waiting on a bench, a warm container in his hand. He looked at my face, his eyes softening. "He hit you again, didn't he? Your father?"

"It doesn't matter, Magnús. I’m fixing it."

"You're killing yourself for a man who wants to destroy your home," he said, handing me a spoon.

I began to eat, the warm broth the first real thing I’d tasted in days. I was so focused on the food that I didn't see the black SUV pull into the VIP lane.

"Is the work so easy that you have time for a picnic?"

I looked up. Zonrik was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his gaze raking over me and Magnús. He looked at the seafood stew, then at Magnús’s hand resting on my shoulder.

"Mr. Zartholm," I said, standing up. "I'm on my break."

"The Zartholm Group doesn't pay for breaks during a crisis," he said, his voice like ice. "No wonder the parameters were wrong. It seems the 'Guardian of the Hvalfjörður' is more interested in local romance than her responsibilities."

"Magnús is a friend," I snapped.

Zonrik stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "I don't care what he is. I care about Monday morning. Get back upstairs, Elín. Unless you want to spend your Sunday packing up your animals."

I turned back to the building, my jaw tight. "He’s just a capitalist with a god complex, Magnús," I whispered as I walked away. "Don't let him get to you."

But as I stood in the elevator, I saw my reflection in the chrome door. My face was pale, my jaw was bruised, and I was fighting for the very man who treated me like a broken tool.

"Why do I keep running into you?" I muttered to the empty elevator.

"Because you're in my world now, Elín," a voice said. I jumped. I hadn't realized Zonrik had stepped into the elevator behind me.

The doors closed, trapping us in the small, silent space. He looked at my cheek, his hand twitching at his side. For a second, I thought he might touch me. Instead, he just looked away.

"Monday, Elín," he said softly. "Don't make me do something we both regret."

"You've never regretted anything in your life, Zonrik," I said, stepping out as the doors opened. "That's your superpower."

I walked to my desk, the weight of the sanctuary, Charles, and my own pride resting on my shoulders. I had to win. Because if I didn't, the Zartholm empire would swallow everything I loved.

"Don’t take it to heart, Elín. Your father must have had a reason. Embla said you were being difficult again," Sigríður said, her voice trembling as she pressed a damp cloth to my face.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: I flinched, pulling back as the cold water stung the split in my lip. "A reason? Mom, he stood in the middle of the Aurora Table and hit me. He didn't just hit me; he humiliated me in front of the man who holds the fate of Haven Sanctuary in his hands. And you’re defending him?"

I snatched the cloth from her hand and threw it into the sink. The anger was a living thing in my chest, hot and jagged. Ragnar Demánsdóttir hadn't been my father for fifteen years. He had been a ghost who occasionally appeared to remind me how much he preferred his new life with Katrín Rúnarsdóttir and her plastic-perfect daughter, Embla.

"He is still your father, Elín. Life is complicated," she whispered, looking at her shoes.

"Life isn't complicated, Mom. It's cruel. He’s spent a decade funding Embla’s influencer lifestyle while I’ve had to beg the city council for enough grants to keep our foxes from starving. We are nothing to him. We are just the mess he left behind."

I walked into my small bedroom and slammed the door. My cheek was pulsing, a dull, rhythmic throb that reminded me of Ragnar’s heavy hand. I needed to sleep, but the image of Zonrik Zartholm’s face kept flashing behind my eyelids—that look of total, aristocratic boredom as my family imploded in front of him. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't helped. He had just watched, like a man watching a minor traffic delay.

Knock. Knock.

"Elín? I forgot to mention... Sigrun called. She’s set up a meeting for you with a biology professor from Nordhavn University. He’s very stable. You need stability, Elín. You can't keep living like this, fighting the whole world."

I groaned into my pillow. "I'm not going on a blind date, Mom!"

"It’s next week at the Aurora Table. If you don't go, I'll stop taking my heart medication. I mean it."

I sat up, defeated by the familiar, suffocating weight of her emotional blackmail. "Fine. One dinner. That’s it."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: One week later, I found myself back at the Aurora Table, though I had requested a table as far from the VIP section as possible. At exactly seven o’clock, a man in a crisp white shirt and sensible glasses sat across from me.

"Hello. I’m Magnús Einarsson. I teach environmental science and veterinary ethics," he said. He had a kind, open face and a smile that actually reached his eyes.

I decided to skip the pleasantries. If I was going to be here, I was going to be the version of myself that usually scared men away. "I’m Elín. I run a wildlife sanctuary that is currently being sued by a billionaire. I haven't slept more than four hours a night in three years, I smell like antiseptic and horse hay most of the time, and I have a three-year-old son who is my entire world. Still want to order an appetizer?"

Magnús didn't blink. He actually chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I grew up on a dairy farm in Aarhus, Elín. I’ve smelled worse than hay. And I think what you’re doing for the Hvalfjörður ecosystem is the most important work in this corridor. Why would that scare me?"

I blinked, my internal defenses faltering. For the next hour, we didn't talk about marriage or "stability." We talked about the migration patterns of arctic foxes and the corruption in the city’s land development office. Magnús was intelligent, respectful, and—most shockingly—he didn't look at me like a project to be fixed.

"I have a Land Rover," he said as we finished our coffee. "It’s perfect for hauling supplies up to the sanctuary. If you’ll let me, I’d like to come by this weekend and help you mend that fence you mentioned."

"I... I’d like that, Magnús," I said, feeling a genuine smile touch my lips for the first time in weeks.

We walked out of the restaurant together. The night air was crisp, but I felt a strange sense of peace. That peace lasted exactly three seconds—until I saw a familiar black Bentley idling at the curb.

Zonrik Zartholm was standing beside it, speaking to a group of men in suits. His gaze drifted toward the restaurant entrance and locked onto mine. His eyes dropped to Magnús’s hand, which was resting lightly on the small of my back to guide me through the crowd.

"Elín?" Gert Holm, Zonrik’s foreman, stepped forward. "Manager, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Gert," I nodded, keeping my voice professional. I felt Zonrik’s eyes burning into me, cold and judgmental.

"Is this the 'friend' who keeps you so distracted from your paperwork?" Zonrik’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a razor. He didn't look at Magnús. He looked at me like I was a faulty blueprint.

"This is Magnús Einarsson. And my personal life is none of your business, Mr. Zartholm," I said, my face flushing.

"Your personal life becomes my business when your lack of focus results in a fifty-million-króna error in the environmental impact survey," Zonrik said, stepping closer. The men behind him went silent. "I assume you haven't forgotten that your sanctuary’s grace period is ticking down? Or is the professor here helping you pack?"

"I'll have the corrected data on your desk by Monday morning," I hissed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Now, if you’ll excuse us."

I practically threw myself into Magnús’s car. As we drove away, I looked in the side mirror. Zonrik was still standing there, a solitary, dark figure against the golden lights of the restaurant, watching us disappear into the dark.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: The next forty-eight hours were a blur of spreadsheets and topographical maps. I moved a cot into the back office of the sanctuary. Ala Lind came in early on Saturday, her face pale and drawn.

"Elín, I heard about the error," Ala whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "It was my fault. I was at the hospital with my mother, and I shifted the columns on the land-drainage report. I'm so sorry. If you lose the sanctuary because of me..."

"Hush," I said, grabbing her hands. "It’s not your fault. We were both exhausted. I’m the lead vet; it’s my job to catch the mistakes. I’ve already told Zonrik it was my error. Your job is safe, Ala. Go home to your mother."

"But he'll fire you!"

"Let him try," I said, though my stomach did a nervous flip.

By Sunday evening, the sanctuary was silent. The only sound was the scratching of my pen and the hum of the old computer. My eyes were bloodshot, and my head felt like it was filled with wool. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the numbers swimming in the dark.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the office creaked open. I didn't look up. "Magnús, I told you I don't need more coffee. Just let me finish the Hvalfjörður sector."

"I'm not the professor."

The deep, resonant voice made me bolt upright. Zonrik Zartholm was standing in the doorway of my cramped, dusty office. He looked absurdly out of place in his charcoal-grey suit, surrounded by stacks of animal feed samples and medical journals.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice raspy. "It’s ten o'clock on a Sunday."

"I came to see if you were actually working, or if you were just waiting for the clock to run out so you could play the victim when the bulldozers arrive," he said, walking into the room. He picked up a page of my handwritten notes, his eyes scanning the complex veterinary-environmental calculations.

I stood up, my legs shaking from fatigue. "I don't play the victim, Zonrik. I never have. You can stay and watch if you want, but you’re in my world now. Mind the mud."

He didn't leave. He pulled a wooden chair over—a chair that cost less than his silk tie—and sat down. "The bidding meeting is at nine tomorrow morning. If these numbers aren't verified by the city board, I lose the resort project, and you lose your land. I have no intention of losing."

"Then sit down and shut up," I snapped, turning back to the screen.

We worked in a strange, tense silence for hours. He didn't help with the biology, but he caught three mathematical errors in the first hour just by glancing over my shoulder. He was a machine.

Around 3:00 AM, my head hit the desk. I didn't mean to sleep; my body just gave out. I felt a soft weight settle over my shoulders—a jacket that smelled of expensive sandalwood and cold winter air.

"Five more minutes," I murmured into the wood.

"Keep working, Elín," Zonrik’s voice was surprisingly soft, right next to my ear. "The sun is coming up. And I want to see you win this."

I sat up, the Zartholm wool jacket sliding down my arms. I looked at him, really looked at him, in the dim light of the desk lamp. For the first time, he didn't look like a developer. He just looked like a man who was as tired of the war as I was.

"I'm done," I whispered, clicking the final save button. "The Haven is safe."

"We'll see," he said, taking the USB drive from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, and for a second, the air in the room felt electric, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with land or money.

He stood up, towering over me. "Get some sleep, Elín. I’ll see you at the hearing."

He disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the quiet office. I looked down at the jacket he’d left behind. He was a capitalist, a destroyer of habitats, and the man who wanted to pave over my dreams.

So why did I feel like he was the only person who had ever truly seen me?