Page 33 of Vacation with the Ice Queen
Yet here she was, unable to work, unable to sleep, unable even to sit still. The restlessness had become a living thing inside her, demanding attention, demanding... something she couldn't name.
A wild, uncharacteristic impulse seized her. Without allowing herself to analyze the decision, Serena moved to the door and stepped outside. The night air hit her skin like a physical caress. It was warm, humid, and alive with the scent of tropical flowers.
For once, she didn't retreat from the sensation. Instead, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air that tasted nothing like Manhattan's filtered efficiency.
She wasn't dressed for a walk—silk pajamas and bare feet were hardly appropriate attire—but the impropriety only underscored how far she'd already drifted from her normal self. The Serena who ran Frost Innovations would never be caught in public without perfect makeup and a power suit. The woman standing on the terrace in the darkness barely resembled that carefully constructed persona.
Her bare feet carried her down the stone steps from her villa, and for the first time since arriving, Serena didsomething without a plan, without a purpose, without weighing consequences against potential benefits.
She simply walked into the night, following nothing but instinct and the strange, compelling restlessness that wouldn't let her be still.
Serena ventured further from her villa, moving deeper into the resort grounds. The stone path felt smooth beneath her bare feet, still warm from the day's heat. With each step away from the familiar, the bizarre sense of liberation grew stronger within her.
She had no destination in mind, a concept so foreign to her that it should have triggered immediate anxiety. Serena Frost did not wander. She moved with purpose, always. Yet tonight, purpose seemed like a constraint rather than a virtue.
The resort's garden paths glowed with subtle lighting—small solar lamps embedded in the ground that created pools of gentle illumination without overwhelming the night. She followed them instinctively, bare feet adjusting to the smooth stone, surprisingly warm from the day's heat.
A sound stopped her—the low, melodic call of some night bird she couldn't identify. The island's symphony was nothing like the white noise she'd grown accustomed to ignoring. Here, each sound stood alone, demanding attention—the rustle of leaves, the chirp of unseen creatures, the distant rhythm of waves.
She paused beneath the sprawling branches of what had to be the banyan tree Lila had mentioned as a landmark. Its enormous trunk split into multiple columns, aerial roots hanging like natural curtains in the darkness. During daylight, she would have registered it as merely decorative landscaping. In the night, it took on an almost sentient presence, as if the centuries-old tree held wisdom in its twisted bark.
"Ridiculous," she murmured to herself, yet she reached out to touch the rough surface anyway, surprised by the texture beneath her fingertips.
When was the last time she'd touched a tree? Had she ever? Central Park existed as a backdrop for her occasional power walks, never a place for sensory exploration.
A warm breeze stirred the leaves above, creating shifting patterns of moonlight at her feet. Serena looked up through the canopy to find stars scattered across the dark sky like diamonds on black velvet. So many more than were visible in New York, where light pollution reduced night to a dull orange glow.
She knew the science behind stellar visibility—atmospheric conditions, light refraction, the absence of competing illumination—yet the cold facts did nothing to diminish the unexpected tightness in her chest as she stared upward.
Something brushed her arm, and she startled, heart racing. A pale flower drifted downward, displaced by the breeze. Serena caught it reflexively, its petals impossibly soft against her palm.
The scent hit her a moment later: sweet, exotic, entirely unfamiliar. She lifted the blossom to her face, breathing in deeply before she could think better of it.
The fragrance triggered something…a memory buried so deeply she'd forgotten it existed. Her grandmother's garden behind the Boston house, where she'd played as a small child before academic achievement became her only acceptable pursuit. The freedom of those summer afternoons, before her parents' expectations had narrowed her world to measurable outcomes.
Serena dropped the flower as if it had burned her, disturbed by the unexpected intrusion of sentiment into what should have been a simple evening walk.
She continued along the path, trying to reclaim her analytical mindset. The garden's design was impressive from anengineering standpoint. The way it incorporated native species for sustainability while maintaining aesthetic appeal and how the irrigation system maximized water conservation.
Yet even these practical observations failed to override her heightened awareness of sensory input—the way crushed flowers released their perfume beneath her bare feet, how moonlight silvered the edges of broad tropical leaves, the subtle changes in temperature as she moved between open spaces and sheltered groves.
The path curved around a small reflection pool, its surface perfectly still except where night insects skimmed across it, creating tiny ripples that spread outward and disappeared. Serena paused, catching sight of her own reflection in the dark water.
She barely recognized herself. Without the armor of perfect makeup and tailored clothing, without the rigid posture she maintained even when alone, she looked... different. Softer somehow, less daunting. Her silvered hair hung in a loose braid over one shoulder, and her silk pajamas caught the moonlight with each breath.
Was this what Rachel had wanted? This softer version of Serena, this woman without the constant vigilance and control?
She hadn't allowed herself to consider Rachel's perspective since the divorce papers were filed. What was the point? The marriage had failed. Analysis wouldn't change the outcome.
Yet here, in this strange bubble outside normal time, the question felt less threatening.
"I need a partner, Serena. Not a CEO."Rachel's words during their final argument echoed across the years. At the time, Serena had dismissed them as emotional hyperbole. Now, staring at her unfamiliar reflection, she wondered if there had been more truth in them than she'd allowed herself to recognize.
A sudden noise—leaves rustling too heavily for wind alone—broke her reverie. She straightened, instantly alert to potential threats.
"Just a night heron, returning to the garden pond," came a voice from the shadows. "They feed along the shoreline after sunset."
Serena turned sharply to find an older man emerging from a side path, a woven basket over one arm. His weathered face and work clothes marked him as staff rather than guest.
