Chapter 11
Schladming Collapse
Playlist:
The Killers: Runaways
Queen: I Want To Break Free
Salzburg, Austria, January 27
éLISE
The drive back from Kitzbühel should feel triumphant. It doesn’t. I hijacked the story at that party, tried to write over the tabloids with my own plot, but it feels like I came in two headlines too late.
My social media is still buzzing, every post swollen with comments I don’t dare open. The few I read over breakfast made even the glazed croissant taste bitter. I can get away with power -couple photos on a red carpet. Not with cheap pubs and off--key singing pressed against drunk fans.
The party worked. That's the worst part.
After, when we were finally alone, his hands were everywhere, and my head was nowhere.
He fucked me like we were still in that broom closet in Italy, all teeth and bruises and control, and for the first time I could feel every centimeter of the distance between us.
He was loud where I needed quiet, rough where I needed someone to notice I was shaking, kissing a version of me that only exists when the music is too loud and the lights are too soft.
I came, eventually, because my body always obeys him, because my body likes this. But the moment it was over, I was already back in my head, staring at the silk ceiling and wondering when we’d forgotten how to touch without performing.
Jacque keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady at ten and two, the way he always drives when he's pretending not to notice something. The A10 unrolls ahead of us, Monday morning traffic sparse, alpine sun too bright on snow that looks fake in its perfection.
I should feel safe after what I put Nico through at the party, my perfect plan executed with precision. Instead, I feel like I'm counting down to detonation.
Jacque's silence is different this morning.
Not the comfortable kind we've built over five years, the kind where he knows I need quiet and gives it to me without question.
This one hums with awareness. He saw the photos.
Everyone saw the photos. The red carpet, the Race Club, my hand on Nico's arm like I owned him, his mouth on my cheek in that selfie I posted from the suite.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I don't look.
Halfway to Salzburg, I break.
"I need to stop at a bank," I say.
His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, finds mine for half a second. "Which one?"
"Sparkasse. It should be in Altstadt."
He nods once. That's it. No questions, no raised eyebrow, no casual comment about whether this can wait until we get home. Jacque always argues when something smells wrong. The fact that he's staying silent means he already knows this isn't a normal situation.
He takes the exit toward the city center, navigates the morning traffic with the ease of someone who's driven these streets a thousand times.
We pass the Mirabell Gardens, the fortress looming above us on the hill, tourists already clustered near the Dom despite the cold.
He parks near Getreidegasse, engine still running.
“I’ll wait here,” he says.
I grab my purse and step out into the air that bites at my face.
The bank is tucked between a chocolate shop and a boutique selling dirndls to people who will never wear them twice, all old--world facade and discreet gold lettering.
Inside, it smells like leather and old money.
The woman at the desk greets me with the kind of smile that says she knows exactly who I am and is professionally committed to not caring. Good.
I hand her my ID.
“I need to set up a new account under my name. My name only. No secondary access,” I say.
She types. Nods. “Of course, Fr?ulein Moreau. Anything else?”
“I want to withdraw twenty thousand euros in cash and transfer the rest into a new personal account.”
Her fingers pause over the keyboard, but then she nods.
I see the frown and know this is not going to work.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” she says, voice apologetic but firm. “I can set up your account, but there is no way you can access the savings account.”
“Okay, my personal account then,” I say again. “Transfer the money to the new account.”
She looks at the screen, frowns again.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She looks up. “This particular savings account has a five-thousand-euro daily cap for transfers and card payments.”
“And what about cash?”
“Our daily cash withdrawal limit without prior arrangement is two thousand euros.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course there are limits. As if I would ever be allowed to access my money. It’s not mine. It has never been.
“Fine,” I say. “Do it.”
“Which one?” This time her eyebrow arches.
“Both.”
She types again, face smooth and professional. “I’ll need two forms of identification and a signature authorization.”
I slide my ID and driver’s license across the desk.
It takes fifteen minutes. She counts out twenty hundred -euro notes, slides them into an envelope that feels both too thin and impossibly heavy in my hands, and prints out the new account details on crisp white paper. My name at the top. Just mine.
“Your card will arrive by post within three business days,” she says. “You can access the account online immediately with these credentials.”
“Can I pick it up instead?” The words come out too fast. “At a branch?”
She blinks, polite confusion crossing her face. “You mean… this branch?”
“No.” I glance at the screen, at the little map icon in the corner of her browser. “Is there a branch near Schladming?”
She types, clicks. “We have a partner location in Haus im Ennstal, about fifteen kilometers from Schladming. They can issue the card on Wednesday if you call ahead to arrange it.”
“Perfect. I’ll do that.”
She writes down the address and phone number on a slip of paper and slides it across the desk with the account details.
“Thank you.”
I walk back to the car with two thousand euros in my purse, five thousand in an account my father doesn’t control. It’s hard to know if that’s enough, especially when I don’t even know why I did it exactly—just a vague, nauseating feeling that it might come in handy.
Jacque is leaning against the hood, arms crossed, face tilted toward the weak winter sun. When he sees me, he straightens and opens the driver’s door without a word.
I slide into the passenger seat this time, not looking at him, thoughts scattered. It’s even harder to do the math when I have no idea what things cost. Things like rent, food, gas…
As he starts the engine, I look at him.
“The tank is full?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He blinks for a second and glances at the panel.
“I’ll drive to the gas station after lunch,” he says. Because that’s what drivers do. Take care of our cars so that our rides don’t have to be interrupted, so that our aristocratic noses don’t have to pick up the smell at the gas station.
“How about we do it now?” I suggest. “You know, spare you some time.”
“Your father said drive straight home,” he answers carefully.
“All the more reason for me not to hurry, Jacque, please.”
He nods. Because he understands. Because he’s more family to me than my parents will ever be.
"Your father is home," he says quietly as the Hohensalzburg Fortress comes into view on the hill. "He wants to have a chat."
My stomach drops. "Of course he does."
"Do you want me to tell him you're not feeling well?"
I almost laugh at his meager attempt to save me. "No. I'll deal with it."
The underground garage smells of gas, and my stomach has hard time dealing with it.
Jacque reaches for the door handle. "I'll park the car and bring your bags up."
"No."
He stops. My left hand reaches for the car keys. I pull them out.
"I'm leaving for Schladming in a beat anyway," I say, slowly, the lie sharp on my tongue. "So why bother?"
He turns in his seat, looks at me full on now, and I see it. The quiet understanding. The resignation. He knows I'm lying. He knows something is breaking. And he's choosing not to name it out loud because once he does, he'll have to pick a side.
"You know I will always be on your side," he says. Quiet. Steady. True.
The words crack something open in my chest. I grip the keys harder.
"Yeah," I say. "But my father pays your bills. Go home, Jacque."
For a second, he just looks at me. Then he nods once, slow and sad, and climbs out of the car.
I watch him walk toward his own vehicle parked near the garage, shoulders square, head up, still protecting me even as I push him away. Then I grab my purse, the one with the cash, and all the reckless hope I have left, and walk through the front door to face my father.
***
My father waits for me in the small salon off the main entrance, the one with the marble floor and the walnut paneling that makes every word echo like you're in a courtroom.
No fire in the fireplace. No warmth anywhere.
Just two armchairs facing each other across a low table set with a silver coffee service that no one will touch.
He's already seated when I walk in, legs crossed, tablet resting on his knee. Impeccably dressed as always, charcoal suit, white shirt open at the collar, the kind of studied casual that takes more effort than black tie. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Sit down, élise."
I sit. Back straight, hands folded in my lap, the posture drilled into me since childhood. The air between us feels thick, compressed, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.
He slides the tablet across the table.
A tabloid site fills the screen. The headline screams in garish font: Austria's Golden Boy Goes Public with Moreau Heiress.
Below it, a carousel of photos. The red carpet at the Race Club.
My hand on Nico's arm. His mouth on my cheek in the suite photo I posted.
A screenshot of comments, hearts, and fire emojis, and speculation about engagement rings.
I laugh.
I don't mean to, but it bubbles up anyway, sharp and bright and utterly inappropriate. My father's jaw tightens.