Hi y'all!

Well, those of you that have closely followed my fanfic adventures since the beginning, might find parts of this chapter to be a bit *familiar*. They have been referenced numerous times in pretty much every Mia Fic so far, so I figured I might as well expend the plot a bit. I promise, as weird as it may read now, it has its purpose. We'll get there in the next chapter already (this fic is gonna be short comparing to someother seasonal giants from the past.)

Either way, thanks for stopping by :)

January 24, 14:15, by the same secluded road in Italy. At least I think we're still in Italy. I have no way to tell. I think forests look the same whether you are in Italy or Vermont. (At least I can rule out being in Amazon rainforest. Yay.)

Sure Michael had a good reason for choosing a road that wasn't the highway. That happened to be high up there in the mountains, with a gorgeous view all around. I mean, it is totally romantic, whichever way you look at, but it also very secluded. So secluded that we have been stranded here, with a broken car, for THREE HOURS and not a SINGLE car has driven by.

Thank god for that slice of chocolate cake that is still in the car. I think we will survive today. Though, once the night falls, I am not so sure anymore, I think there are wolves here. I am pretty sure I can hear them. Or maybe Big Foot. I may be a TV personality – oh, and a princess -, but I doubt the forest creatures care that I still have three more episodes of this season contracted. I can't just drop out and leave producers with a difficult task of finding a host as good as me. And with such good chemistry with René that I possess.

I can't believe I will be eaten alive, now that I am finally happy.

Michael is of course not at all concerned. He is walking up and down the road holding his cell, hoping for the reception.

Yeah, have I mentioned? I am a princess and he a famous and rich inventor, and between us we have no phone that would work out here, in the middle of nothing and nowhere.

I can't believe people haven't thought of putting a satellite phone into the emergency kit.

"Don't worry," he keeps telling me. "Somebody will drive by."

Oh, they will. And you know who? A serial killer on his way to dump the latest bodies. AND HE WILL TAKE US WITH HIM. DEAD. Michael should realize this by now. After all, Godfathers are his favorite movies, beside the Star Wars.

"And if that doesn't happen by nighttime," he goes on, "I'm sure there are matches in the car someplace. We'll start a fire so that we won't freeze to death."

I made him check. There are two packs of matches.

But aside from that cake, there is no food.

"If we don't get 'rescued' by morning, I will walk to the nearest town and get help," he promised me, but because he was laughing so hard, I didn't believe him one bit.

As, of course, by morning he'll be so weak he won't make it to the nearest town. Besides, when in the wild, you should never separate. I watched all Bear Grylls shows. Yeah, he is alone in most of them. And yes, I mainly watch for the naked swimming in glacial lakes scenes, but I know that YOU SHOULD STICK TOGETHER.

Actually, I leant pretty much the same thing in horror movies, but whatever.

January 24, 14:20

Wait. He can't actually think I am watching Bear Grylls to learn anything, does he?

January 24, 14:22

Michael just started playing a game on his phone.

"Your writing into a diary isn't that much more productive either," he said.

Well what else does he want me to do? Freak out? He's a guy. He is supposed to know what to do in situations like this. Feminism has its limits, you know.

January 24, 14:27

Yes, Michael, the bears won't eat you because you got to the third level.

January 24, 14:43

You'd think compulsively watching Air Crash Investigation would be useful in cases like this. But sadly, the airplane's anatomy is not much alike that of the car. At least I don't think it has rudder anywhere.

January 24, 14:55

I can't believe I will die never knowing what happens in new Star Wars.

And in BBC Sherlock. Whenever the season will come.

January 24, 15:01

I just thought I heard a car. It turned out to be a bird.

That's how emaciated I am.

I am saving the cake for rainy hours.

Maybe it will turn out that bears prefer chocolate to human flesh.

January 24, 15:07

Maybe I could start writing another book. That will get my mind of my nearing demise. I could leave the world my greatest masterpiece. It would be my first published book since Ransom My Heart.

Not that I stopped writing, of course. I wrote a Young Adult series about a teenage popstar that runs a detective agency. I just didn't publish it anywhere. I mean, people who say they like my writing, like it because I am a princess. And those who criticize it, well, they hate it because I am a princess. So it is pretty much pointless. I write only for myself now.

Because I am totally awesome.

January 24, 15:17

Update: Michael just got to level four.

I swear, when they find our bodies, me with a pen and him with his cell in the hand, no one will still wonder how come we haven't gotten engaged yet.

January 24, 15:23

Great. That bird that makes car noises is back.

January 24, 15:24

Michael just read that over my shoulder.

"If it's a bird, it's a really, really big one. And it doesn't just sound like a car, but actually even looks like one," he said, pointing up the road.

And oh, my god, he is right! It's a car! No, it's a VAN!

We are saved!

Well, unless we just ran into the family of serial killers.

January 24, 7 pm, Switzerland

I just got off the phone with Grandmere. I had to call her, now that it has turned out she is a psychic. That she has saved me from getting eaten alive by a boar today a way back, when I was sixteen. I have to give her something really nice for birthday this year (I used to think it was difficult to buy her presents. Now that she is basically a cowgirl, it is even trickier. There are just this many things a baby lamb can wear.)

Oh, no, it wasn't a mechanic that got out of the van. In fact, at first I didn't even recognize the guy. It was kind of hard to focus as his mustache was just so big. It pretty much looked like the mustache Lars is still trying to grow, but can't because he is naturally blond. This guy's stash could blow the Stalin's out of the water.

I think Michael thought of it too, as I heard him chuckling.

"Well, hello, Princess!" the guy exclaimed.

I put on that smile I always wear when I meet my fans.

"Hello, hi, how are you?" I smiled, totally thinking he recognized me from being on TV so much lately. For some reason, I completely missed his American accent.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he grinned.

That is totally the worst thing a princess can hear. Because a princess always remembers everyone (or, her ladies-in-waiting do).

I frowned, trying to remember where I might have seen the guy before. But I so couldn't focus on his face as the mustache was just so … HUGE. Just like Lars wishes his was … and then I realized. He didn't just have the mustache my bodyguard covets; he was THE guy who inspired him to wear mustache!

I almost fell over.

"Coach Tom?" I gasped and looked at the van again. Only then I noticed it had 'American Skiing' written all over.

"Who?" Michael asked, because of course he wasn't around when Grandmere decided that I needed to learn how to ski, thus she hired this guy who was coaching the best skiers in America (okay, it wasn't exactly like that. She didn't care whether or not I knew how to ski. She just wanted to outshine Monaco in skiing championships, but because Monaco's top skier was just so much better than Genovia's, she figured having a Genovian royal supporting our team would outshine Monaco by a mile. By the time the championships started, the Monaco ski star was out with concussion, so the whole Genovian Royal Family on the Slopes project was abandoned and I had sprained my ankle for basically no reason.).

"Yes, Princess," Tom nodded, all excited to see me. Well, he had every reason to be, as I saw the check Grandmere gave him. "Car trouble?"

He then offered to take a look under the hood, saying something about years on the road making him a car master. It gave me a chance to pull Michael aside and tell him how I knew Coach Tom. Though, he said, he pretty much guessed who he was, as during a certain dinner with Contessa Trevanni, Grandmere called me the greatest animal protector, as I chose to rather injure myself than ski over Rommel (of course she forgot to mention that she would ski over me if Rommel would sustain a scratch.)

"And how is that poodle doing these days?" Tom asked.

"Fine," I said.

I didn't feel the need to tell him how Rommel is now a 'lamb whisperer'. At least that's what Grandmere calls him. She insists he has the ability to determine which regnant sheep will have a baby lamb that could potentially win the world lamb pageant, simply by sniffing their bellies. And it does seem to work, as she has placed no worse than third in every event she entered (Frederik swears she hasn't harassed and/or bribed any of the judges).

"It's your radiator," Tom declared in a true car specialist manner. But it totally didn't make me feel like I was in Crossroads. Probably because I was so cold and I sing nowhere near as good as Britney (though I am past that phase when I thought she was the best thing that had ever blessed the music industry.).

He then offered to take us to the closest town to find a mechanic or whatever (I am beginning to realize I don't really know much about cars; probably because I am driven around in black limos ever since I was 14.), and Michael and I sat down among the skis, ski boots, and bags (Tom said he was driving the equipment from their previous race in Bulgaria to the next one in Switzerland. He sent the boys via plane, but driving the equipment was cheaper than paying for all the extra luggage (at this point I wanted to ask him how come they didn't just take the private jet, like football stars always do, but then I noticed that one of the patches on his jacket was sewed on upside down)).

But as we were driving around the little Italian town (yes, we were still in Italy, as I discovered. Apparently my orientation skills are not as bad as the survival ones), I suddenly got a very good idea.

I mean, when it comes to Switzerland and Italy, there is just no competition. Italy, Venice in particular, just wants as many tourists as possible, thus earning as much money as they can, all with complete disregard of just how much the environment and infrastructure can take.

Switzerland, on the other hand, has chosen a different path. They don't focus on mass tourism, but on attracting richer tourists. Yeah, they charge more, but the nature is much, much more intact. In a way, wintry Switzerland is exactly what I am trying to achieve with Genovia. Mass tourists, those who just want to bask on the beaches, risking skin cancer before forty, can go to Spanish beaches where there are hotels where palm trees should grow, and people who appreciate the beauty of nature and the importance of its proper care, can visit Genovia. Because we have just so much more to offer than sandy beaches and umbrellas for ten euros per hour.

And so I asked Tom if he minded us coming with him to St. Moritz. And I choose to believe that he didn't say yes just because of the check Grandmere had given him all those years ago.

(Michael too agreed. I mean, when it comes to his vacation place, I think he's happy with any, as long as there's me and my lingerie.)

So this is how I ended up in Switzerland!

Okay, it wasn't THAT smooth. As soon as we got the hotel, a bunch of people in the lobby totally recognized me. But, wait for it, not as a princess, but as a TV personality (even though my show is broadcast everywhere because the hosts are royals, but whatever)! I took an hour for the autographs and pictures, as, I never forget, because people watch, I get to donate my weekly salary to baby seals my lungs have so cruelly betrayed.

Then I went to the hotel room (Michael paid for the luxury suite) and took a LONG shower to get rid of all the bugs crawling all over me - though Michael said it is impossible for any bugs to actually be on me, as there is snow everywhere and bugs are not around during winter, but, hey, if Michael knew EVERYTHING, he wouldn't have taken me to Venice! But, okay, I forgive him, he joined me in the shower 'to help me get the bugs off', and … yeah. I hope we didn't use the hotel's entire supply of hot water.

January 24, 8 pm, Michael's arms.

Just got off the phone; I had to let Lars know about the change of plans. I told him we were in Switzerland, but didn't say why. He doesn't need to know that we bumped into his mustache idol. I can't have my bodyguard turn into a fanboy. I just can't.

January 24, 10 pm, bed.

I know Michael is running his own company and I am sure it very exhausting.

But we are on VACATION! How dare he be asleep at 10 in the evening already?

What am I supposed to do? I obviously cannot be online. Sebastiano has learnt that I left for a few days, and is waiting on me to be available on any of the social media, so that he can tell me for the hundredth time that he is not happy with me, as now he will have to make the next week's dress WITHOUT me as a living model.

I told him he has my measurements anyway, and that he should just follow them.

He said it's not the same. Which probably means he misses me.

January 24, 11 pm, bed.

"He took you on vacation?" mom yelled in my ear. Well, into the phone, but into my ear indirectly. "To Switzerland?"

"Yeah, mom," I said.

"Well, why couldn't he take you to New York? You do realize I haven't seen you since Christmas, right?"

"Mom, Christmas was a month ago."

"It doesn't matter. Do you know how awkward it is, showing Ringo your picture, so that he will know his big sister when she arrives, and not go into the crying fit like the last time you came to visit?"

I swear my mom is incapable of naming her sons in any modern fashion. I know Mr. G loves the Beatles, but come on, you can't burden your kid like that. What if he happens to be a rapper? How credible will he be in the eyes of music producers, if he raps about golden necklaces and cars and, well, you know, if he is named after, well, Ringo?

Best Baby Boy Names That Are Completely Rad Right Now, by Mia Thermopolis

Benedict (it's completely rational to name baby that rather than Sherlock, I tell you)

Avery (you can't fail if you name your kid after a doctor.)

Ryan (Ryan Gosling is always rad)

Mumford (bound to get a Grammy for best album one day)

Anthony (classy. And thanks to DiNozzo sexy.)

To Be Continued.

Broughttoyouby:::winter.