Chapter 8 #3
“You heard me.” He steps closer, not enough to touch, enough that I have to tilt my chin up. “You’d rather stab me with words than admit you’re scared. You fuck me in a broom closet, but God forbid you actually want anything.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I spit. “You’re nothing but nerves and ego and a pair of fast legs. You want a princess you can parade around when it suits you.”
He laughs once, harshly. “If all I wanted was a body, I could’ve had a dozen by now who don’t come with a security detail.”
“Then by all means,” I say, spreading my hands, “go find one. I won’t stop you.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” he fires back. “You never stop anyone. You never stay. You just run.”
The words land because they’re true. Because they sound like my father when he’s tired of pretending I’m not a disappointment.
For a second, I almost do what I always do, turn, walk out, slam a door on the mess.
My hand even finds the handle.
But my fingers don’t close around it.
Something in me is bone-deep tired of this loop. Of pretending sex like this is enough. Of pretending I don’t care for him.
The silence stretches, humming. He’s still watching me, chest rising and falling, waiting for the usual exit.
“Get me out of here,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I expected. Not a demand. Not quite a plea.
His brows jump, just a fraction. “What, you want a round two already?”
I roll my eyes, the motion weak. “I want to breathe something that doesn’t smell like bleach and bad decisions. That’s all.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide if this is another game.
Then he nods once, sharp. “Fine. Come on.”
He opens the door, checks the corridor, then steps aside to let me pass first. For the first time since I texted him from the foyer, the solution isn’t more sex or more drama.
He’s taking me outside.
***
NICO
The sun is lower when we sneak out of the hotel, that thin winter light already bleeding out of the sky above the ridgeline. I shove my hoodie up over my head, jam my hands into my pockets, and keep just enough distance between us that no one can say we are walking together.
We cross the street. The air bites harder out here than in the finish area, and it's cleaner, too. No exhaust, no fried food, just snow and wood smoke. The slope of the village road kicks up fast. My legs do not mind; hers do. I can hear her breath go shallow as we climb.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, voice careful, like she is not sure if this is still a fight.
“I have an idea,” I say, pulling my phone out. My thumb is already finding Claus’ name.
“The woods again?” she says, one eyebrow arched, mouth curved just enough to make it a joke and a warning.
“Something better.” I snort and hit call.
“Hi, champ,” Claus says as soon as he picks up, background noise full of clanking and a radio. “Congrats!”
“Thanks,” I answer. “I am just around the corner. Mind if I stop by with a friend?”
In my head, it is perfect, a simple alpine family, coffee in a warm kitchen, my turf, not hers, somewhere that does not belong to sponsors or her father.
“Well…” he drawls. “I am actually working in the barn.”
I glance sideways at élise’s pristine camel coat and glittering earrings. Snow squeaks under her designer boots. A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
“Perfect,” I grin. “Even better. See you.”
I hang up as we cross a small bridge, packed snow creaking under our feet. On the other side, the road narrows, and houses give way to more fields dusted white.
I take her hand without thinking about it.
Her fingers tense in surprise, then curl around mine, cool and small and absurdly soft.
“You are going to like this,” I say. “Something you have never seen before.”
She gives me a sideways look that says she doubts that very much, but she does not let go.
The barn is a low, long building right next to the main street, steam ghosting out of the open doors into the cold air. The smell hits first: hay, manure, animals, metal, something warm and alive and absolutely nothing like polished marble floors.
élise stops a half-step behind me at the threshold.
“This is… rustic,” she says carefully.
“Don’t worry, princess,” I say. “You’re safe from the big bad cows.”
Inside, the light is yellow and soft. Hay dust floats in the air. Cows shuffle in their stalls, massive heads turning to inspect us. A radio murmurs in the corner. Claus steps out from behind one of the animals, wiping his hands on his work pants.
“Nico,” he says, grinning, reaching out. “You made it.”
We clap each other on the shoulder, quick, instinctive. I nod toward élise.
“This is élise,” I say. “Friend of mine.”
Claus wipes his hand again, then offers it to her without a hint of recognition beyond basic politeness. No double-take at the name, no flash of knowing. Just a guy greeting a woman his buddy brought home.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
She hesitates half a second, Moreau's instincts searching for cues, then takes his hand. “You too,” she says. Her voice is fractionally softer than usual.
“Come on,” I say, tugging her gently farther in. “You’ve seen cows on TV, right? Time for the real experience.”
She makes a quiet, disbelieving noise, but she follows.
We stop by one of the stalls. A big brown-and-white head turns toward us, eyes dark and calm, breath steaming in short huffs.
“Go on,” I murmur. “Say hi.”
I catch her wrist and guide her hand forward until her palm meets coarse hair and warm, damp skin. The cow snorts once and leans into her like she’s a scratching post.
Her fingers twitch, then start to stroke, awkward at first.
“You’ll never look at your steak the same way,” I say. “First time seeing real animals outside the zoo?”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. I ride horses. And we have sheep near my grandfather’s vineyard.”
“Expensive polished horses, and sheep with fur trimmed to perfection,” I shoot back. “Let me guess, they spray them with perfume when the princess comes to visit?”
Her mouth curves despite herself. “Only on special occasions.”
Claus chuckles, shaking his head, and nods toward the far stall. “If you think the cows are cute, wait till you see our donkey.”
We walk over. The donkey sticks his head over the half-door, ears flicking, muzzle twitching curiously toward élise’s earrings.
“He’s cute,” she says, surprised.
“Careful,” Claus warns. “He bites.”
“So does she,” I say.
She elbows me lightly in the ribs, but there’s no real force behind it.
“This is Seppi,” I tell her, scratching the donkey between the ears. “Local celebrity. Better hair than me.”
Seppi snorts, lips tickling élise’s palm when she offers it. She actually laughs, short and real, when his whiskers brush her skin. The sound does something disorienting to my chest.
The barn is noisy in a quiet way, hooves shifting, metal creaking, the radio humming some Schlager song. Claus gets called away by his father and disappears deeper into the barn with a pitchfork over his shoulder.
The space between us fills with the sound of animals chewing, wood creaking, and our breath.
I feel the itch to say something stupid, deflect, turn it back into banter. For once, I do not. I lean against the stall door and watch her instead.
She stands between two stalls, grinning like a little girl as she offers a handful of hay to the greedy donkey. Stray bits of hay have caught on her hem. One is tangled in the hair at her shoulder, glittering in the stable light. She does not notice.
She lifts a hand to stroke Seppi’s nose again. The donkey leans into it, eyes half closed, as if being petted by a posh princess is the most normal thing in the world.
Something in her shoulders loosens.
All day, I have watched those shoulders tense as she looked over them. Here, no one knows her name. Here, she is just a woman in a fancy coat trying not to get mud on her shoes. She relaxes when she is nobody.
“Do they all have names?” she asks, voice softer, eyes still on the donkey.
“Most of them,” I say. “My mom would kill Claus if she heard he forgot any.”
She smiles faintly at that. The smile fades. Something flickers across her face, doubt, maybe, or memory.
“But you are from Salzburg, how do you know Claus?” she asks.
“No idea,” I say with a shrug. “His family knows my family. We go a long way back.”
She nods once. Her hand drops from Seppi’s nose.
Silence settles, thicker this time. The good kind and the dangerous kind, both at once.
Her throat works. She keeps her gaze on the straw at her feet when she speaks.
“I never told you why I ran away the day we met last year.”
I stay quiet.
“The Olympics,” she adds, as if I might have forgotten that detail. “We were at a party. Father was desperate to make contacts. He said our family might soon outgrow Austria. We needed friends in Italy.”
She shifts her weight, boot heel crunching straw. The words come haltingly at first, then faster.
“That night, my mother felt unwell. She said she wanted to retire. He caught her wrist. I saw her wince with pain and paste a smile on her face. I told her to go, told Father that a daughter would do to entertain his contacts.”
Her fingers curl at her sides.
“Father had big plans, you know. We were to meet the Italian president. Big opportunity. I am a good daughter; I played my role. Laughed at the old man’s jokes like a schoolgirl, moved my head so my earrings would jingle, leaned close so he could ogle my breasts at the exact moment Father wanted to lure him into some vague promise. ”
Her hand strokes Seppi’s head absentmindedly, as if his smooth forehead might erase the memory.
“When the president left, Father just looked at me, pleased.” She shivers. “He said, ‘élise, one day you will own everything I have. Remember that in the business world, being a woman might be your advantage. If you are clever.’”
She looks at me, her eyes a little hollow.