Chapter Twenty-Five
NATALIA
The café smells like a cinnamon-sugar bomb went off in a croissant, and I’m instantly hungry now as I find a place to sit.
Setting up my laptop, I can’t miss the reflection in the screen of me smiling like an idiot, because of him.
I keep replaying last night. The way he said I want to try. With you. The way it didn’t feel impulsive or reckless. It felt… chosen.
And then this morning.
He left before sunrise. I barely remember stirring until I felt him press a slow kiss to my forehead.
"Don’t try to save the world while I’m gone," he says, voice groggy with sleep.
"No promises," I whisper back.
I watch a couple walk past the window, snow crunching beneath their boots, and I catch myself wondering what offseason in Scottsdale looks like with Luka Popovich.
Him in the Arizona heat.
Him in my condo kitchen, complaining that there’s no fireplace.
Him taking up too much space in my bed.
Him meeting my mom in Seattle.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
It’s all terrifying, but it’s also thrilling.
The bell above the café door rings, and I glance up automatically.
Zack.
Hand in hand with Sophia.
I bite back a grin. I knew once Zack opened his eyes, he’d figure it out. He just needed a nudge in the right direction.
Sophia is pretending she doesn’t notice the way he keeps glancing at her. Zack is pretending he doesn’t look proud of himself. They ordered together, their shoulders brushing, new and uncertain but very real.
I feel a strange little spark of satisfaction. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not the woman chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.
I’m the one being chosen.
My laptop pings.
I look down, heart jumping when I see the subject line.
Re: Compliance Discussion–Popovich Matter
I opened it immediately. My eyes scan fast.
They are open to mediation. Joint discussion with Luka’s legal counsel and Legacy PR representation. My breath leaves me in a rush.
This is how we fix this.
I immediately opened a new email.
To: Molly Subject: URGENT–Popovich
Please get in contact with Luka’s lawyer immediately. The Olympic Committee is open to mediation. We need aligned representation before they schedule. This is movement.
I hit send before I could overthink it.
This is good, and it means that we don’t need the VELVT email to get him out of this.
My phone vibrates. Carey is calling…
I step outside into the cold so that the café noise doesn’t bleed into the call.
"Good morning," I say, forcing calm into my voice.
"There are pictures," Carey says without greeting.
My stomach drops.
"What pictures?"
"Of you and Popovich. Holding hands in the village."
My brain flashes to yesterday morning. Our first breakfast date, the autograph. The way he never let go of my hand. Someone in the courtyard must have taken one when we weren't looking.
"I told you not to sleep with the client," Carey says evenly.
"It’s not what it looks like," I say.
"It looks exactly like what it is," Carey replies. "I think you’d better forget whatever fantasy you’ve built in your head and come home. Maybe Gabriella will give you an extension and assign you a safer client, because this isn’t working.
And the longer you’re out there smooching a client, the more you make Legacy look like we provide after-hours personal care. "
I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose as if that will keep my temper in check.
"Just give me more time. Stall for me? Luka just admitted to me that VELVT lied about the medals being cleared by the Olympics. They made it up to get Luka to pose."
"Wait…hold on. You’re telling me that VELVT lied to Luka about prior consent and you haven’t told me about this? That’s a slam dunk. We’re done. You just won the game."
"No, you don't understand. We can’t use it, I promised Luka, and now he’s cooperating," I say evenly. "And the Olympic Committee is open to mediation."
That wasn’t the response she expected.
"You’re being serious? He won’t let us use the email to help save his career? You must be joking."
"I’m not and I swore to him that I wouldn’t use it. I just need you to buy me time. I can get this done."
"So you’d rather wait for the Olympics to decide your client’s fate?"
"I’d rather bring them to the table."
"And what if they don’t move fast enough?"
"They’re moving."
"They’re offering a meeting," she corrects. "That’s not a win."
"It’s the first step."
Her tone cools further.
"You’re getting emotionally involved."
"I’m getting results."
"You need something now," she says. "The timeline is closing in. Gabriella is watching this file closely."
I steady myself.
"Just stall Gabriella," I say. "Give me forty-eight hours. I can fix this."
"And what do you think you get if you do?"
"My job," I say. "And your promotion."
Silence again.
Then, quietly: "I shouldn’t have trusted you with this account."
The words sting more than I expected.
"You have forty-eight hours," she says finally.
The line goes dead.
I stand there in the snow for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear.
She won’t use the information about VELVT’s email. No PR firm would weaponize something that risks destroying its client. That’s not how this works.
I head back toward the chalet.
Snow falls softly now, almost gently.
The door opened and Luka stepped inside, shaking snow from his hair. His cheeks are red from the cold, eyes bright.
"You saved the world yet?" he asks.
"Not yet," I say, smiling. "But they’re willing to talk."
He pauses.
"Who is?"
"The Olympic Committee."
He goes still.
"They want mediation. With your lawyer and Legacy."
His brows lift slightly.
"You did that."
"We did that."
He studies me like he’s recalibrating something.
"What do they want?"
I talk him through it.
"Youth clinics," I say. "Integrity panels. Winter Olympic promotional appearances."
He stiffens at that.
"Promotional appearances?"
"Visibility," I say carefully. "They’ll want visibility."
"So I become their talking puppet?"
"It’s leverage," I counter gently. "They get accountability optics. You get redemption without litigation."
He rubs a hand over his jaw.
"I don’t like attention."
"You’ll get a lot more of it with a lawsuit," I say. "We can negotiate. We don’t hand them everything. But we need them to come to the table."
He studies me for a long moment and then finally nods. "Let’s see what they require, and then we’ll go from there."
"I think that’s a good idea."
"Good, now can we talk about something else?" he asks, walking over and taking my hands into his," because I don’t want to spend the next forty-eight hours negotiating my soul."
I laugh.
"It’s not your soul."
He steps closer.
"Close enough."
Before I can react, he lifts me over his shoulder.
"Luka!" I squeal, laughing as he carries me toward the bedroom.
"We’ll fix the situation," he says. "But not right now."
He drops me gently onto the bed and follows, warm and solid and very real.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
Inside, he chooses me over the headlines.
And for the first time since this mess started—
I believe we’re going to be okay.