Chapter Three
NATALIA
Seattle greets me the way it always does. With gray skies, damp roads, and a cold that seeps into your bones in the dead of January.
The condo is warm, at least. Too warm, if I’m being honest. My mom keeps the heat cranked like she’s waging a personal war against winter, which I appreciate even as I shrug out of my coat and boots by the door.
"Your bedroom is all made up," she calls from somewhere deeper inside.
I smile because, of course, she made sure it was ready before I arrived. Though she didn’t need to go to the effort, I could have done it myself.
My old room is average size, the bed is already made with crisp white linens and a folded navy duvet blanket at the foot. A single abstract painting above the dresser. No ghosts of my past staring back at me.
I set my suitcase on the bed and unzip it.
The rhythm of unpacking into my old room grounds me in this space.
Work attire and blazers get hung up first. Sweaters I didn’t need in Scottsdale but suddenly feel wildly underprepared without get unpacked next.
A stack of notebooks and my laptop end up on my old homework desk.
It’s all temporary, I remind myself. At twenty-six years old, I’m back in my old bedroom. At least it feels more comforting than I thought it would.
I hang my heavy coat in the closet- the one I bought years ago and barely used, and shut the door like that’s enough to keep the cold contained.
From downstairs, a smell drifts up that stops me mid-motion.
When I head downstairs, the smell of marinara hits me the second I step into the kitchen. Garlic and basil and that warmth of my mom’s homemade cooking that pulls me straight back to being eight years old and safe.
Mom sets a plate in front of me as if she hasn’t been waiting all day to feed me.
"So," she says casually as she takes her seat across from me, "your new client plays for the Hawkeyes?"
"Yes," I say, forking a bite of pasta. Comfort food at its finest, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed this to prepare for what’s coming up next. "Luka Popovich. One of their left-wingers."
Mom's eyebrows lift slightly as she twirls linguine around her fork. "I know that name. He’s a big deal for the Hawkeyes. Everyone around town seems to love him."
"You’re keeping up on professional hockey all of a sudden?" I ask, pausing before taking my next bite because this was surprising.
"It’s very popular around here, and one of my friends from work has season tickets. He’s mentioned the team before, and he has a Popovich jersey he wears to work on game days." She doesn’t look up when she says it, a little pink forming on her cheeks.
"A friend from work?" I ask with a lifted brow.
"This isn’t about that. Back to your client," she argues. "So he’s in some kind of trouble?"
If I weren’t so stuck in my head about this new client, I would press her on her new work friend, but I selfishly need her ear to make me feel better about this whole situation.
"It’s enough that the Olympic Committee could strip him of his medals," I say.
"That bad?"
I set down my fork and reach for my water glass, buying myself a second. "Two PR agents have already failed with him. I'm the third."
Mom goes still. "Natalia."
"It's fine," I say quickly. "It's just… Carey assigned it to me personally."
Her mouth tightens at the name. She's heard it before. Plenty of times. "Your college rival, Carey? The one who—"
"—accused me of getting unfair special treatment?
Yep, that one." I push pasta around my plate, the motion automatic.
"She's a consultant now. Gabriella brought her in to assess operations and recommend cuts.
She has a lot of power. And she's been looking for a reason to use it on me since the day she walked into our office. "
Mom leans back in her chair, studying me with that particular expression mothers have perfected. The one that sees straight through deflection and professional bravado. "So she gave you an impossible client."
"She gave me a trap," I correct. "Luka Popovich doesn’t do interviews. He doesn’t cooperate with PR teams… or anyone, really." I take another bite, chewing slowly. "Carey knows if I fail, she has grounds to cut me during the next evaluation."
"Jesus, Natalia!" Mom sets down her fork entirely now. "And you're paying for this relocation yourself?"
"Out of pocket, yes."
"Why would you be doing that? Legacy PR can’t be hurting that bad, are they?"
I wave a hand. "No. But my boss, Gabriella, doesn’t exactly know that I took on this client. She didn’t want to touch him and his issues, but if I land this, it will be the redemption I need to stay."
The silence stretches between us. Mom reaches for her water glass, takes a long sip, then sets it down with the careful accuracy of someone choosing their words.
"That sounds like a lot of pressure on you," she says finally. "Are you sure this is worth it? Maybe it’s time to find another agency to work for."
"And give up the four years I put into this place? Besides, Legacy PR is one of the biggest names in PR in the country. I’d take a pay cut going anywhere else."
"And Carey wants you to fail?"
"She is either hoping that Luka blows me off like the other two agents, leaving me with nothing to show for my assessment review, or that I save the client and Carey gets a huge promotion.
If I pull this off, Legacy PR has a massive quarter, and she gets credit for handing me a high-commission client. "
Mom's jaw tightened. I recognize that look—it's the same one she wore when a teacher accused me of cheating in tenth grade, or when my college roommate tried to stick me with her half of the rent.
It's protective and furious and wholly ineffective against corporate politics, but I love her for it, anyway.
"What does Gabriella say about all this?" Mom asks. "She hired you. Surely she—"
"Gabriella trusts Carey's decision," I cut in. "Or at least, she trusts the optics of bringing in an outside consultant to make the tough calls. This way, if people get cut, it's not her fault. It's data-driven and strategic restructuring."
"That's bullshit."
I almost smile. "Yeah. It is."
Mom picks up her fork again but doesn't eat, just holds it like she needs something to grip. "Have you met him yet? Luka, I mean?"
"No. Not yet." I think about the file on my phone, the handful of photos I've studied until I could sketch his face from memory.
That imposing demeanor… those cold but intriguing eyes.
"I know his stats, his history, every scandal he's been attached to.
I know he's twenty-seven, Russian-born, an Olympic hero, and has a chip on his shoulder the size of Puget Sound. "
"Sounds delightful."
"He sounds like a nightmare," I correct. "But he's my nightmare now. And I don't have the luxury of walking away."
Mom reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. Her palm is warm, familiar, the same hand that braided my hair before school and held ice packs to bruised knees and signed permission slips for field trips I'd almost forgotten.
"You're going to figure this out," she says quietly. "You always do."
I want to believe her. I want to feel the certainty she's offering like it's a lifeline I can grab onto. But all I feel is the weight of what's ahead. Tomorrow night is the Hawkeyes’ last home game before the bye-week, and I have a ticket and a press badge that his agency sent me. Tomorrow night, I will meet the client and find out what kind of resistance I’m up against.
"I have to," I say simply.
Because there's no second chance if this goes sideways.
Just me and an impossible task and a ticking clock.
I go upstairs to my bedroom after dinner, letting the quiet of the condo settle around me. I kick off my shoes, change into an old T-shirt, and sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand.
The file is still open: Luka Popovich - Client Briefing.
I scroll through social media on my phone.
Looking for anything that might be helpful.
There’s a photo near the bottom from game day a few days ago, caught mid-play, all focus and controlled violence.
He's not looking at the camera. In fact, I notice that he never looks at the camera.
Odd for a guy who did a mostly nude centerfold shoot.
I zoom in slightly, studying his face like I can decode him through pixels and distance. Two agents couldn't crack him. Carey is betting I'll be the third failure.
I lock my phone and set it on the nightstand, then lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
The busy city buzzes faintly beyond the window.
It’s a different rhythm than Arizona. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe it’s the difference in being on the West Coast, or maybe the only difference is that it has me in it now.
I close my eyes, feeling the cold settle into the quiet spaces around me.
Seattle is already doing what Carey wanted. Stripping away everything comfortable, everything safe, putting me outside my usual zone.
What she doesn’t understand is that I don’t need what’s familiar, and I don’t need comfort
I just need a win.
And I'm going to get one.